My Wednesday reading at Valanni's Restaurant was scheduled to begin at 10.00pm so I drove to Jenkintown and took the train into center city. I arrived twenty minutes early and, as I mounted the steps to the restaurant, a woman hollered my name and I spun around to see her approach.
"Are you Damian?" she asked.
I nodded my affirmation.
"Thought I recognized you from the photo on the festival's site." She held out her hand and shook mine enthusiastically.
Janet is a poet--an exceptional one it transpires because we exchanged books (as authors are wont to do in these circumstances) and I read her work on the train journey home. Quite frankly, I was transported to another world, a world of magnificent femininity and promise.
Here's a couple of excerpts from A Woman Alone which she told me was inspired by a trip to Greece.
a woman alone
is her own possession;
she is a street
dark with devout faces;
she is her own high priest
swinging the incense
of her own scent;
a woman alone
is the flame;
she is the wax that burns
a woman alone is time
turned back
on itself;
she is a swell
of sea;
foam born
from its own breaker;
a woman alone
rises
on the crest,
her own wave
a woman alone
is her own body
ripening;
she is the cold embrace
of sea and her own
nakedness
that swims in it;
she is the heat
of the sun
and the smooth
hot rocks that contain her,
a woman alone......
Should you wish to find out how to acquire Janet's work, just email her at janetmason3@msn.com and I'm sure she'll be delighted to help you.
---------------------------
Janet and I sat at a table--her with a soda water and me with a diet coke, which we though were on the house because no-one gave us a bill...initially--and slipped into easy camaradie, the two of us jabbering ten to a dozen as if we'd known each other for years. I so enjoy it when I meet people with whom I feel immediately comfortable. So engrossed did we become, we scarcely noticed how quickly the place filled up, and next thing the manager approached and introduced us to our festival host, John Lessard. Soon there was a band of gregarious writers milling about the narrow room, including Jim Gladstone whom I'd also never met. I loved this opportunity to mingle with fellow writers, an opportunity which many city writers enjoy regularly, and even indulged the thought that it would be wonderful to live in Philly because of it.
The event began late and, as Janet had to leave early due to an early morning meeting, she, aided by a green keychain light due to a snafu concerning adequate light for the authors to read their work, was first up. I was to swiftly follow second owing to the fact I had to catch the last train home or I'd have been stranded until five o'clock the following morning. Despite a healthy din from some diners also in attendance, I was immediately struck by Janet's words and only regretted her reading was so short. In a flash, she was gone and the DJ recommenced playing, his performance accompanied by a partner who kept fiddling with some peculiar gadget that caused images flashed against an opposite wall to move and contort in all sorts of odd ways.
Ten minutes later, it was clear the DJ was on a roll and would brook no interruption from the plebian authors. Consulting my watch, I saw it was 11:25 and I had about half an hour to read my excerpt and bolt to the train station about ten minutes away. The chap was in full view but no amount of glaring and finger drumming on the table would guilt him to relinquish the floor. Simply put, we were plebs. Two minutes later, a jag of pure panic compelled me to mutiny and I went up to the restaurant manager, seized his arm, explained my dilemma, and the reading commenced. Still very noisy, I read my piece and left, very disappointed not to be able to stay and hear the others read from their work.
Hurtling along 13th street, I spied a tall, well built African American lady shouting something indiscernible as she started along the next block. As I drew closer, I saw she was wearing high cork-heeled shoes and a lightweight, dangerously short black dress that displayed the nether regions of her very full bottom. It appeared as if she wasn't wearing knickers, and the sleeves of her dress had long, silky fringes which swayed back and forth as she raised and moved her arms in the balmy October evening air.
I crossed the street as she called aloud like a Victorian street vendor, "Some sweet black ass here."
Given it was 13th and Chestnut, I was positive I'd misheard, until I saw other pedestrians turn their heads to look back at her. Chuckles emanated from a posse of young men and women on the other side of the street. Despite a need to maintain momentum, my feet began to slow.
"Hi Sugar," she said, as I swung out to pass her by.
Her accent was Southern and, given the recent catastrophe down there, it flashed in my mind that she might be a New Orleans ex-pat adrift in the wrong end of town. Certain her pickings would be slim, I wondered if I should redirect, though had no idea exactly where to redirect her.
"Good evening," I said,instead.
"Aaw Sugar, don' be in such a hurry," she called after me. "Nobody got time. Don' you want some o' this sweet black ass?"
I focused on the pink neon guitar at the Hard Rock Cafe on the corner of Market St. and began to increase speed again. But the incongruity of location and this woman's mission proved far too intriguing and, like a hick, I turned my head to stare and marvel at how dextrously she spun around on those high-arched cork heels at the street corner and began to retrace her beat, her call and fringes rising above the low din of the late evening traffic.
[technorati: 215Festival, Janet Mason, Philadelphia, Jim Gladstone]
Wednesday
Monday
Spice update
Spice is now on oral steroids for two weeks after which the vet--a lovely, warm and kind lady--will evaluate. Here's hoping!! Thanks to all who emailed or posted well wishes. It is appreciated.
Sunday
Philadelphia Story Part One and a Presidential interruption
Recently National Geographic did a feature on the rise of Philadelphia as a great city again entitled Next Great City: Philly, Really, The premise of its re-ascension is based on two undeniable facts: Philadelphia is an open city, namely it accepts and actually courts all kinds of people--artists, singles, gays, etc.--to live here and it is installing WiFi (wireless access to the internet) for all city residents to exploit and enjoy. The latter service will be made available at a low cost (free to its poorer residents) by the end of next year. This will result in Philadelphia being one of the most sophisticated cities in the US from a digital perspective, as well as enable its residents to find high-tech jobs. Of course, the cable and phone companies are displeased, but Philadelphia is a blue-collar city with sound blue-collar values, and is not in the business of making corporations millions of dollars in profit at the expense of its residents.
Don't misunderstand me: Philadelphia currently has problems. Mayor John Street's administration is mired in corruption and the subject of FBI investigation--he vociferously denies any personal wrongdoing and so far there is no evidence of any on his part--accused of rank cronyism in dealing with lucrative City contracts, some of which was used to fund the mayor's campaign for office. But despite this, the city is bustling with energy and excitement.
Last week I had an opportunity to experience this vibrancy firsthand when I participated in a reading and panel as part of Philadelphia's literary festival, 215Festival. As a warm-up to the festival, my publicist, Joan Schweighardt, arranged for me to appear on Marty Moss Coane's Radio Times show on NPR (WHYY) with authors Chris Bauman and Kevin Smokler. To my dismay, when I arrived at the station across the road from the magnificent Constitution center, they informed me that President Bush had decided to call a news conference which would devour part of the hour during which we were to appear.
Together, in the studio, poised to don our earphones at a moment's notice, Chris and I watched (Kevin was on the phone from San Francisco) with Marty as the President waxed on yet again like a broken record about Iraq, New Orleans, and his latest choice of Supreme Court justice. I keep this blog free of American politics, feeling that my objective is to entertain with stories and slices of life, but I was incensed by his pointless intrusion.
Why incensed? Well frankly, I am tired of seeing President Bush's face on the telly. The White House stated it was a rare news conference, but his presence is uniquitous these days. He's on the telly and radio as often as some advertisements I abhor. He's relentless. And the message is always the same. It's insulting to me that he continues to deliver the same meatless tripe on every occasion. Does the White House really believe that, if I am forced to endure the same message over and over, I will believe the banal spin to be true? Enough, Mr. President! I have teeth, I am intelligent, I want meat. Do not insult me with repetitive asininity.
Anyway, after half an hour, said interruption came to an end and we came on the air and there was plenty of meat for all. In the space of thirty-five minutes, Kevin, Chris and I talked about writing and the different formats that some contemporary writers are experimenting with, such as me with my blog for writing nonfiction and slices of life, and the essays that Chris and Kevin do for radio. Moreover, we talked about how some writers are even adapting their books for the screen and the theater, of which I am one now too because I've started work on a play of A Son Called Gabriel.. You can listen to the show by calling up the second hour of the Oct 4th show. If you'd rather not hear 'the interruption', just move the controls forward until you hear Marty introduce us.
In the next post, I'll talk about the 215festival event at Valanni's Restaurant and whom I met there, my brief encounter with a buxom lady in Center City, the Forum next day with Kevin and Chris at Voices and Visions, and my jaunt to the pub with Rita-Anne.
[technorati: 215Festival, NPR, White House, President Bush]
Don't misunderstand me: Philadelphia currently has problems. Mayor John Street's administration is mired in corruption and the subject of FBI investigation--he vociferously denies any personal wrongdoing and so far there is no evidence of any on his part--accused of rank cronyism in dealing with lucrative City contracts, some of which was used to fund the mayor's campaign for office. But despite this, the city is bustling with energy and excitement.
Last week I had an opportunity to experience this vibrancy firsthand when I participated in a reading and panel as part of Philadelphia's literary festival, 215Festival. As a warm-up to the festival, my publicist, Joan Schweighardt, arranged for me to appear on Marty Moss Coane's Radio Times show on NPR (WHYY) with authors Chris Bauman and Kevin Smokler. To my dismay, when I arrived at the station across the road from the magnificent Constitution center, they informed me that President Bush had decided to call a news conference which would devour part of the hour during which we were to appear.
Together, in the studio, poised to don our earphones at a moment's notice, Chris and I watched (Kevin was on the phone from San Francisco) with Marty as the President waxed on yet again like a broken record about Iraq, New Orleans, and his latest choice of Supreme Court justice. I keep this blog free of American politics, feeling that my objective is to entertain with stories and slices of life, but I was incensed by his pointless intrusion.
Why incensed? Well frankly, I am tired of seeing President Bush's face on the telly. The White House stated it was a rare news conference, but his presence is uniquitous these days. He's on the telly and radio as often as some advertisements I abhor. He's relentless. And the message is always the same. It's insulting to me that he continues to deliver the same meatless tripe on every occasion. Does the White House really believe that, if I am forced to endure the same message over and over, I will believe the banal spin to be true? Enough, Mr. President! I have teeth, I am intelligent, I want meat. Do not insult me with repetitive asininity.
Anyway, after half an hour, said interruption came to an end and we came on the air and there was plenty of meat for all. In the space of thirty-five minutes, Kevin, Chris and I talked about writing and the different formats that some contemporary writers are experimenting with, such as me with my blog for writing nonfiction and slices of life, and the essays that Chris and Kevin do for radio. Moreover, we talked about how some writers are even adapting their books for the screen and the theater, of which I am one now too because I've started work on a play of A Son Called Gabriel.. You can listen to the show by calling up the second hour of the Oct 4th show. If you'd rather not hear 'the interruption', just move the controls forward until you hear Marty introduce us.
In the next post, I'll talk about the 215festival event at Valanni's Restaurant and whom I met there, my brief encounter with a buxom lady in Center City, the Forum next day with Kevin and Chris at Voices and Visions, and my jaunt to the pub with Rita-Anne.
[technorati: 215Festival, NPR, White House, President Bush]
Saturday
Interviews
It's been a difficult week because my doggie, Spice, is getting on and is now unable to stand up. His back legs are shot currently. I feel very sad. There's nothing beautiful about getting really old, either for dogs or humans. So I'm taking him to the vet today to see if steroids will help.
And I was running about like a lunatic to and fro 215Festival. I'll post my doings there very soon.
Philadelphia Stories interviewed me for their Fall issue...as did the literary ezine VOID Magazine. If you'd like to read the interviews, just click on their URLs' on my blog's sidebar on the righthandside.
And I was running about like a lunatic to and fro 215Festival. I'll post my doings there very soon.
Philadelphia Stories interviewed me for their Fall issue...as did the literary ezine VOID Magazine. If you'd like to read the interviews, just click on their URLs' on my blog's sidebar on the righthandside.
Monday
A festival, a play and turkey vultures
Last week was very busy and this week will be too because I'm reading at the 215Festival in Philadelphia on Wednesday night (starting 10 pm) at Valanni's Restaurant (13th and Spruce) with a number of other authors and then on Thursday evening (starting at 7:00 pm) will be taking part in a forum with Christian Bauman and Kevin Smokler at Voices and Visions Books in The Bourse, 111 Independence Mall.
Tomorrow between 11 and noon, I'm back on NPR with those same authors to talk to one of my favorite hosts, WHYY's Marty Moss Coane, about books and how authors are also using other forums--theatre, music, film, blogs, etc.--to reach their audiences.
In this regard, it's quite possible you'll be able to see a stage production of A Son Called Gabriel in the future because I'm currently talking to a playwright with a view to collaborating on writing a play based on Gabriel's life. Very exciting, and I'll report more on the blog as things develop.
We've had some friends staying with us for the past five weeks from New Orleans and they leave tomorrow for that great city. As you can imagine, they're excited to go back to their home in the French Quarter, though they're also apprehensive as they don't quite know what to expect vis-a-vis the infrastructure, etc. Luckily, their home emerged unscathed from Hurricane Katrina though, as I'm sure you can imagine, they're devastated by what has happened to other New Orleans residents.
Larry and I had some friends around yesterday to say goodbye to them and, at one point, we took a walk though the fields to the site of the new French Country home we're building. It was a beautiful day because the dogwoods have now turned crimson and the sky was cloudless and cerulean. At one point, I looked up to see a hundred turkey vultures floating like black rags in the sky. It was breathtaking. Immediately, I alerted the others and all of us stood in the silence watching the drifting silhouettes. The birds were stacked at various heights like aircraft at a busy airport, some I'm convinced were more than a mile high, and it was truly spectacular. As I continued to watch the drifting birds, images of Hurricane Katrina popped into my mind, and I thought how hideous and gorgeous can be the face of Mother Nature.
[technorati: 215Festival, Kevin Smokler, Christian Bauman, NPR, WHYY,Hurricane Katrina]
Tomorrow between 11 and noon, I'm back on NPR with those same authors to talk to one of my favorite hosts, WHYY's Marty Moss Coane, about books and how authors are also using other forums--theatre, music, film, blogs, etc.--to reach their audiences.
In this regard, it's quite possible you'll be able to see a stage production of A Son Called Gabriel in the future because I'm currently talking to a playwright with a view to collaborating on writing a play based on Gabriel's life. Very exciting, and I'll report more on the blog as things develop.
We've had some friends staying with us for the past five weeks from New Orleans and they leave tomorrow for that great city. As you can imagine, they're excited to go back to their home in the French Quarter, though they're also apprehensive as they don't quite know what to expect vis-a-vis the infrastructure, etc. Luckily, their home emerged unscathed from Hurricane Katrina though, as I'm sure you can imagine, they're devastated by what has happened to other New Orleans residents.
Larry and I had some friends around yesterday to say goodbye to them and, at one point, we took a walk though the fields to the site of the new French Country home we're building. It was a beautiful day because the dogwoods have now turned crimson and the sky was cloudless and cerulean. At one point, I looked up to see a hundred turkey vultures floating like black rags in the sky. It was breathtaking. Immediately, I alerted the others and all of us stood in the silence watching the drifting silhouettes. The birds were stacked at various heights like aircraft at a busy airport, some I'm convinced were more than a mile high, and it was truly spectacular. As I continued to watch the drifting birds, images of Hurricane Katrina popped into my mind, and I thought how hideous and gorgeous can be the face of Mother Nature.
[technorati: 215Festival, Kevin Smokler, Christian Bauman, NPR, WHYY,Hurricane Katrina]
Tuesday
Morning in the young Autumn
One by one, silently they drift or spin lazily in the motionless early morning air toward the browning grass, and I watch spellbound from the window. A leaf from the young nearby oak, another from an elm on the crabgrass strewn fringes of the lawn, yet another from the clefted ash encircled at its feet by ornamental grasses. Back and forth, one by one, the wake of silent plummeting. Such impeccable manners these beautifully dying leaves possess. All summer long they've formed the sprawling canopy, weathered the rough winds, have sipped constantly on the mother tree's life-sustaining waters, but now it's time. Today, for these thousand or so leaves, it's time. There is no choice, no other way.
And as they languidly comply, they float by the embroynic buds of next year's siblings on their mother's lower extremities. Do they protest or scream their inevitability? I have no answer. I hear no sound but an unexpected bout of tapping and turn and peer out of the farthermost window where, almost out of sight, a pair of large, crimson-headed woodpeckers begin punching their sharp beaks into the heart of a soaring sassafrass. All summer long I'd seen the hole grow larger, the mound of golden wood dust at its base rise, but have hitherto not seen these elusive carpenters. Yet here they are in all their piebald and crimson magnificence. Have they guessed at my curiosity and show themselves now to say farewell?
The hollow drumming continues as I turn my attention back to the canopy and watch the leaves depart in their blazing prime, so mannerly, so final, each intrinsic part of the whole permitted a glorious moment in the rays of autumnal sun piercing the wood's dimness.
[technorati: autumn, fall, foliage, bucks county]
And as they languidly comply, they float by the embroynic buds of next year's siblings on their mother's lower extremities. Do they protest or scream their inevitability? I have no answer. I hear no sound but an unexpected bout of tapping and turn and peer out of the farthermost window where, almost out of sight, a pair of large, crimson-headed woodpeckers begin punching their sharp beaks into the heart of a soaring sassafrass. All summer long I'd seen the hole grow larger, the mound of golden wood dust at its base rise, but have hitherto not seen these elusive carpenters. Yet here they are in all their piebald and crimson magnificence. Have they guessed at my curiosity and show themselves now to say farewell?
The hollow drumming continues as I turn my attention back to the canopy and watch the leaves depart in their blazing prime, so mannerly, so final, each intrinsic part of the whole permitted a glorious moment in the rays of autumnal sun piercing the wood's dimness.
[technorati: autumn, fall, foliage, bucks county]
Thursday
Two Irish women
I'm very friendly with someone who lives in the depths of Northern Irish rurality. We go way back. She's in her early eighties, in terrific health, and one of the most interesting characters whom I've ever befriended. She's known me since I was a schoolboy, a very cunning schoolboy who knocked on her door on my way home from school one afternoon to ask for 'a glass of water because I'm thirsty...but with some orange squash (orange concentrate in the US) or lemon barley juice in it, if you just happen to have any.' (Years later, she told me that initial request almost killed her because she laughed for hours.) I got orange 'pop' that day and everyday thereafter when I knocked on her door to ask for a glass of water. Sometimes, I even got Fanta (fizzy orange) and Pepsi Cola, the 'Rolls Royce' of juices.
She came to the States in her early teens and entered service. She cooked for a bunch of WASP families, apparently cooked very well, and shared with me countless yarns about her life in Boston. Her stories riveted me. (Another friend, Anne, an elderly Irish lady who moved to London and started a business with her sister who subsequently died of a broken heart, also shares stories about her girlhood in the countryside where my father was a boy, and then I. In fact, a few years ago, I spent time with her and recorded some of them with a view to writing something in the future, perhaps a story or two, a novel, we'll see. As a university student, I stayed with her a few times as well, and she played tricks on me (and I on her) which I'll divulge on another occasion.)
My friend left the States and returned to Ireland to look after her sister and brother who've since died. They lived in a version of the Irish whitewashed cottage cliche with its manicured thatched roof and rosebushes with pink blooms as big as men's fists by the door. They owned cows (tan and black Herefords) and sheep, in fact she still raises cows--sometimes sitting for hours in the barn during calving time--which she sends off to the market with the aid of a friendly neighbor. Despite having lived in America, she remains highly suspicious of automobiles.
"Learned to be wary of them back in Americay," she says.
I'm not exaggerating when I write she's suspicious. She walks everywhere; five miles to the nearest town, two miles to mass on Sundays. I believe she despises cars, actually. When they approach, she clutches her handbag in front of her tummy and mounts the ditch and waits like a statue till they pass her by. Everyone in the area is used to the 'Yank's' (that's what her nickname is) eccentricity and give her wide berth when they drive past. Some horrid adolescents sometimes swerve toward her as a joke.
Anne and she are the same kind of women as my late paternal grandmother whom I adored. They're very strong, have character and backbone, take no bullshit, none. They have no truck with insincerity. The three used to confab non-stop at the chapel gate after Sunday mass when I was an impatient youngster chaperoning my grandmother to the early service (my appointment no accident), impatient for her to stop her bloody yacking and bundle into my uncle's car so they could drive me to the shop for my 'Sunday after-mass treat' of ice-cream with a chocolate flake. (Oh yes, I was a most cunning child, streets ahead of my siblings.)
I also like my friend back in Northern Ireland because she doesn't give a shit about what people say or think about her. (It took guts to clear off to the States at age sixteen without knowing anyone, as I did years later, albeit I knew two people.) Some in the area where I grew-up--uncreative, conservative people, people obsessed with the church and a ticket into heaven--regard her as a loose canon; some guilt-ridden souls (perhaps the nervous too), if she's on route to pay a visit to her siblings graves, will literally whisk behind tombstones or stop and begin to pray rabidly over a non-family grave rather than converse with her. She sees this, of course. She does, because my friend knows everything that's going on in my old townland, knows exactly who's 'stepping out' with whom (the stealthy married ones as well as the legitimately single), knows when the pope and church are just plain wrong, knows what's going on in the youth club, knows exactly the value of her herd and land, knows if someone's trying to shortchange or pull the wool over her eyes, and tells them.
I owe a debt to these women because I had them in mind when I decided to try my hand at writing. They are talented and form part of a great Irish tradition of oral storytelling, a tradition rapidly vanishing due to the homogenization of the media and the decline of the ceili (an Irish word for visiting neighbors at home in rural communities for evenings of storytelling and/or dancing).
[technorati: ireland, northern ireland, ulster, women]
She came to the States in her early teens and entered service. She cooked for a bunch of WASP families, apparently cooked very well, and shared with me countless yarns about her life in Boston. Her stories riveted me. (Another friend, Anne, an elderly Irish lady who moved to London and started a business with her sister who subsequently died of a broken heart, also shares stories about her girlhood in the countryside where my father was a boy, and then I. In fact, a few years ago, I spent time with her and recorded some of them with a view to writing something in the future, perhaps a story or two, a novel, we'll see. As a university student, I stayed with her a few times as well, and she played tricks on me (and I on her) which I'll divulge on another occasion.)
My friend left the States and returned to Ireland to look after her sister and brother who've since died. They lived in a version of the Irish whitewashed cottage cliche with its manicured thatched roof and rosebushes with pink blooms as big as men's fists by the door. They owned cows (tan and black Herefords) and sheep, in fact she still raises cows--sometimes sitting for hours in the barn during calving time--which she sends off to the market with the aid of a friendly neighbor. Despite having lived in America, she remains highly suspicious of automobiles.
"Learned to be wary of them back in Americay," she says.
I'm not exaggerating when I write she's suspicious. She walks everywhere; five miles to the nearest town, two miles to mass on Sundays. I believe she despises cars, actually. When they approach, she clutches her handbag in front of her tummy and mounts the ditch and waits like a statue till they pass her by. Everyone in the area is used to the 'Yank's' (that's what her nickname is) eccentricity and give her wide berth when they drive past. Some horrid adolescents sometimes swerve toward her as a joke.
Anne and she are the same kind of women as my late paternal grandmother whom I adored. They're very strong, have character and backbone, take no bullshit, none. They have no truck with insincerity. The three used to confab non-stop at the chapel gate after Sunday mass when I was an impatient youngster chaperoning my grandmother to the early service (my appointment no accident), impatient for her to stop her bloody yacking and bundle into my uncle's car so they could drive me to the shop for my 'Sunday after-mass treat' of ice-cream with a chocolate flake. (Oh yes, I was a most cunning child, streets ahead of my siblings.)
I also like my friend back in Northern Ireland because she doesn't give a shit about what people say or think about her. (It took guts to clear off to the States at age sixteen without knowing anyone, as I did years later, albeit I knew two people.) Some in the area where I grew-up--uncreative, conservative people, people obsessed with the church and a ticket into heaven--regard her as a loose canon; some guilt-ridden souls (perhaps the nervous too), if she's on route to pay a visit to her siblings graves, will literally whisk behind tombstones or stop and begin to pray rabidly over a non-family grave rather than converse with her. She sees this, of course. She does, because my friend knows everything that's going on in my old townland, knows exactly who's 'stepping out' with whom (the stealthy married ones as well as the legitimately single), knows when the pope and church are just plain wrong, knows what's going on in the youth club, knows exactly the value of her herd and land, knows if someone's trying to shortchange or pull the wool over her eyes, and tells them.
I owe a debt to these women because I had them in mind when I decided to try my hand at writing. They are talented and form part of a great Irish tradition of oral storytelling, a tradition rapidly vanishing due to the homogenization of the media and the decline of the ceili (an Irish word for visiting neighbors at home in rural communities for evenings of storytelling and/or dancing).
[technorati: ireland, northern ireland, ulster, women]
Tuesday
At Agnetha's altar
When I was a teenager, like my protagonist in A Son Called Gabriel, I worshipped everything ABBA. What I really mean is, I worshipped blonde Agnetha. Every time I saw her on Top of the Pops (a British Pop program the BBC ran on Thursday evenings), I would sit mesmerised and watch this gorgeous Swedish goddess dance and sway her golden tresses in the amber, blue, crimson and green glow of the lights.
ABBA came to prominence throughout Europe by winning the Eurovision Song Contest in the mid-seventies--a contest that all the European countries participate in today still. They won with the song "Waterloo", which oddly I didn't care for when I first heard it, though after it won the competition, I thought it the best thing since the boxy Volvo. At one point they became so successful, they became Sweden's principal export.
Everything Swedish seemed so much more alluring and exciting in comparison to the grey humdrum of my Northern Irish life where the local news was but a litany of the bombings, murders and mayhem that had broken out in the larger towns and cities. Stockholm rolled off the tongue so much more exotically than Belfast or Derry, and its river was dotted with islands which one could purchase and live on. (Ironically, I lived in a rural area of Northern Ireland that seldom encountered violence, though the media slanted their broadcasts to suggest that murder was endemic throughout the province.) Sweden represented beautiful people with golden hair, pristine lakes and a country that was very rich and looked after all its citizens. In a way, it represented nirvana to this self-conscious teenager.
And I used to dream of meeting Agnetha and how, when I did, she'd be so taken by my good looks and crooning that she'd instantly offer me a spot in her band. I visualized myself beside her on the stage, both of us aglow in the warm, multi-colored lights, the presence of Benny and the other band members narrated as an occasional flickering on the dark wings of the stage. It was she and I the fans adored, and we'd sashay or lean out heads together--glistening black against spun gold--as we sang "The Winner Takes It All", "S.O.S" and "Chiquitita". Little did my parents or siblings know the crazy plots about Agnetha and my newfound fame flooding my mind as I sat at the breakfast table clad in my school uniform eating porridge. Naturally, my family did not feature in these dreams, though I do recall I would always arrive periodically back in Ireland in a black limo to shower them with the spoils of my success. Such is the innocent fantasies of adolescents.
Recently, I was interviewed by the Princeton Packet group of community newspapers for their TimeOff arts section and the subject of ABBA and Gabriel's and my attitude to them came up. While I can't speak for Gabriel anymore, I can speak for myself, and I did.
[technorati: ABBA, Princeton Packet, Sweden, Agnetha Fältskog]
ABBA came to prominence throughout Europe by winning the Eurovision Song Contest in the mid-seventies--a contest that all the European countries participate in today still. They won with the song "Waterloo", which oddly I didn't care for when I first heard it, though after it won the competition, I thought it the best thing since the boxy Volvo. At one point they became so successful, they became Sweden's principal export.
Everything Swedish seemed so much more alluring and exciting in comparison to the grey humdrum of my Northern Irish life where the local news was but a litany of the bombings, murders and mayhem that had broken out in the larger towns and cities. Stockholm rolled off the tongue so much more exotically than Belfast or Derry, and its river was dotted with islands which one could purchase and live on. (Ironically, I lived in a rural area of Northern Ireland that seldom encountered violence, though the media slanted their broadcasts to suggest that murder was endemic throughout the province.) Sweden represented beautiful people with golden hair, pristine lakes and a country that was very rich and looked after all its citizens. In a way, it represented nirvana to this self-conscious teenager.
And I used to dream of meeting Agnetha and how, when I did, she'd be so taken by my good looks and crooning that she'd instantly offer me a spot in her band. I visualized myself beside her on the stage, both of us aglow in the warm, multi-colored lights, the presence of Benny and the other band members narrated as an occasional flickering on the dark wings of the stage. It was she and I the fans adored, and we'd sashay or lean out heads together--glistening black against spun gold--as we sang "The Winner Takes It All", "S.O.S" and "Chiquitita". Little did my parents or siblings know the crazy plots about Agnetha and my newfound fame flooding my mind as I sat at the breakfast table clad in my school uniform eating porridge. Naturally, my family did not feature in these dreams, though I do recall I would always arrive periodically back in Ireland in a black limo to shower them with the spoils of my success. Such is the innocent fantasies of adolescents.
Recently, I was interviewed by the Princeton Packet group of community newspapers for their TimeOff arts section and the subject of ABBA and Gabriel's and my attitude to them came up. While I can't speak for Gabriel anymore, I can speak for myself, and I did.
[technorati: ABBA, Princeton Packet, Sweden, Agnetha Fältskog]
Monday
Mainlining in Philly tonight
I'll be reading on the Philadelphia mainline tonight.
It's at Barnes &Noble, 720 Lancaster Avenue, Bryn Mawr at 7:30 pm.
Also, I'll be on a panel at the Philadelphia's 215Festival on Thurs, October 6th, 7-9 pm.
Here's the details:
FORMATS ARE FOR LOSERS. Hosted by KEVIN SMOKLER, with CHRISTIAN BAUMAN and DAMIAN McNICHOLL. Three contemporary writers explore working in several different medium (books, radio, the web) and why being multi-disciplined is better than having a whole lot of it in one place. At Voices & Visions Bookstore. Free.
It'll take place at Philadelphia's newest independent bookstore called Voices & Visions in The Bourse on Independence Mall. Afterwards, people can adjourn to McGlinchey's pub to schmooze with some crime writers...as well as down some good old Irish booze, of course.
Click on the 215Festival website to see the other great scheduled events and authors in attendance.
[technorati: 215Festival, Philadelphia, Kevin Smokler, Christian Bauman]
It's at Barnes &Noble, 720 Lancaster Avenue, Bryn Mawr at 7:30 pm.
Also, I'll be on a panel at the Philadelphia's 215Festival on Thurs, October 6th, 7-9 pm.
Here's the details:
FORMATS ARE FOR LOSERS. Hosted by KEVIN SMOKLER, with CHRISTIAN BAUMAN and DAMIAN McNICHOLL. Three contemporary writers explore working in several different medium (books, radio, the web) and why being multi-disciplined is better than having a whole lot of it in one place. At Voices & Visions Bookstore. Free.
It'll take place at Philadelphia's newest independent bookstore called Voices & Visions in The Bourse on Independence Mall. Afterwards, people can adjourn to McGlinchey's pub to schmooze with some crime writers...as well as down some good old Irish booze, of course.
Click on the 215Festival website to see the other great scheduled events and authors in attendance.
[technorati: 215Festival, Philadelphia, Kevin Smokler, Christian Bauman]
Thursday
A woman of courage
Recently I watched a program on the telly that profiled a woman from Colombia whose work and dedication to her country I had not known much about until the documentary's airing.
Maria Cristina Chirolla is undoubtedly an admirable and brave woman. Fully 80% of the world's cocaine is produced or trafficked through Colombia. A kilo of cocaine that can be bought in the Colombian jungle for approximately $1,100 will sell on the streets in the United States for $25-30,000 and for $60,000 in Europe. Little wonder then that the $5 billion a year drug trade has financed a civil war involving leftist guerrillas such as FARC and right-wing paramilitaries, a war in which 3000 people are kidnapped and where over 3,500 people lose their lives annually. And worse, much worse, corruption is found at every level of the central and local government.
Despite such realities, the modest Ms. Chirolla, who describes herself as only an 'honest citizen', works relentlessly to oust this marauding, ravenous beast from her beloved Colombia's borders. She served first as the head of her country's Attorney General's anti-money laundering office but, when corruption in the Attorney General's office was discovered which led to two high ranking firings, she was created the chief of anti-drug and anti-crime operations. Diminutive only in height, since her rise to power, Ms. Chirello has fearlessly executed operations targeted at the drug lords, operations in which she has destroyed their drug-making laboratories and seized their riches, the luxurious homes and furnishings, boats and yachts, the expensive European cars, and has succeeded in curbing drug trafficking to a noticeable degree.
In doing so, she risks the loss of her own life daily. Attempts have been made by paramilitaries controlled by the drug lords to assassinate her, one 2004 attempt being organized from a government army base in Bogota that she'd used as a safe house. In one particularly poignant scene, I watched Ms. Chirolla run on a treadmill with tears coursing down her cheeks because she felt that someday the drug lords will successfully assassinate her--just as they have murdered other valiant politicians before her--because the government cannot fully protect her; and yet she cannot resign her position because she cannot leave her work unfinished. Such is her love for Colombia and the average citizen.
Women like this I have encountered in Northern Ireland, women who have marched and demanded justice and equality without fear...or perhaps, now that I've reflected, they were awash in the same fear dogging Ms. Chirolla, yet were equally driven to do what had to be done and their determination won out.
[technorati: Colombia, Maria Cristina Chirolla, Bogota, cocaine]
Maria Cristina Chirolla is undoubtedly an admirable and brave woman. Fully 80% of the world's cocaine is produced or trafficked through Colombia. A kilo of cocaine that can be bought in the Colombian jungle for approximately $1,100 will sell on the streets in the United States for $25-30,000 and for $60,000 in Europe. Little wonder then that the $5 billion a year drug trade has financed a civil war involving leftist guerrillas such as FARC and right-wing paramilitaries, a war in which 3000 people are kidnapped and where over 3,500 people lose their lives annually. And worse, much worse, corruption is found at every level of the central and local government.
Despite such realities, the modest Ms. Chirolla, who describes herself as only an 'honest citizen', works relentlessly to oust this marauding, ravenous beast from her beloved Colombia's borders. She served first as the head of her country's Attorney General's anti-money laundering office but, when corruption in the Attorney General's office was discovered which led to two high ranking firings, she was created the chief of anti-drug and anti-crime operations. Diminutive only in height, since her rise to power, Ms. Chirello has fearlessly executed operations targeted at the drug lords, operations in which she has destroyed their drug-making laboratories and seized their riches, the luxurious homes and furnishings, boats and yachts, the expensive European cars, and has succeeded in curbing drug trafficking to a noticeable degree.
In doing so, she risks the loss of her own life daily. Attempts have been made by paramilitaries controlled by the drug lords to assassinate her, one 2004 attempt being organized from a government army base in Bogota that she'd used as a safe house. In one particularly poignant scene, I watched Ms. Chirolla run on a treadmill with tears coursing down her cheeks because she felt that someday the drug lords will successfully assassinate her--just as they have murdered other valiant politicians before her--because the government cannot fully protect her; and yet she cannot resign her position because she cannot leave her work unfinished. Such is her love for Colombia and the average citizen.
Women like this I have encountered in Northern Ireland, women who have marched and demanded justice and equality without fear...or perhaps, now that I've reflected, they were awash in the same fear dogging Ms. Chirolla, yet were equally driven to do what had to be done and their determination won out.
[technorati: Colombia, Maria Cristina Chirolla, Bogota, cocaine]
Monday
Coming again soon:Buy a Friend a Book Week
Author and reviewer, Debra Hamel, informs me that Buy a Friend a Book (BAFAB) week is almost upon us again. It's October 1 through 7 and you may remember I was the guest author for the last round. This time it's Gayle Brandais, author of The Book of Dead Birds who's made the selections.
I think buying a friend a book for no good reason is is a jolly good idea, so here's a link to check out the choices, both mine and Gayle's:
Buy a Friend a Book
[technorati: Debra Hamel, Gayle Brandeis, Buy a Friend a Book, BAFAB]
I think buying a friend a book for no good reason is is a jolly good idea, so here's a link to check out the choices, both mine and Gayle's:
Buy a Friend a Book
[technorati: Debra Hamel, Gayle Brandeis, Buy a Friend a Book, BAFAB]
Sunday
Couple of PA and NJ readings
Just to let Pennsylvania and NJ readers know I'll be reading at Barnes and Noble, 102 Park Ave, Willow Grove, PA on Tues, Sept, 13th at 6pm, and at Barnes and Noble, 419 Menlo Park, Edison NJ on Thurs, Sept 15th at 7.30 pm.
Friday
Those heady freshmen days
Watching clusters of happy American students go off to college for the first time on the telly recently put me in mind of the time I left home for University College, Cardiff in Wales. Flying away from the parental nest really is a rite of passage, a painful rite from some, but nevertheless a necessary one. As the parent(s) help their child carry the brightly colored plastic containers filled with books, plants, clothing, chips, candies, sodas, etc. into the dormitories, they're really in one way saying good-bye to the child they've reared. What returns to their Thanksgiving table will be an adult, a girl or boy who's now tasted the freedom of making decisions, and the status quo has shifted forever.
My parents took my cousin Adrian (who was already studying at Liverpool polytechnic) and me to the Belfast docks where we caught the overnight ferry to Liverpool. I was to spend a few days with him adjusting to life "across the water" before I left by train for Cardiff where I was to attend law school. Adrian was fun and we'd been extremely close since childhood--now, sadly, we've drifted apart and hardly talk at all, but such is the serpentine road of life--and they'd deemed it prudent that he act as my guide. After the tears and copious promises at the dockside, we boarded the ship and proceeded straight to the bar where we loaded up on gin-and-tonics and chatted with other Irish students making their way to various universities and colleges throughout the United Kingdom. My gregarious cousin, the gin, and merriment added piquancy to the excitement I felt about the shining, new life I was sailing toward, and, even before we'd navigated the estuary that becomes the broody Irish sea, I'd forgotten the tearful dockside farewell and my parent's melancholy as they made their way home in the car, each silently locked up in their own thoughts about their eldest boy who'd now permanently left their protection.
Liverpool was fun, a swirl of introductions, pub hops and dining at trendy restaurants that served colossal hamburgers (not by American standards) and salads in deep bowls made of bread. I loved his flatmates and close friends: quiet Ian from Derby whose girlfriend once asked an air stewardess in mid-flight to Greece how to open the jet's window because she was very hot; suave Miles, his other flatmate, who was Irish though born in England and educated at a top Roman Catholic public school called Ampleforth; and four girls who were student teachers and lived in an upstairs flat with bright purple curtains in nearby Lark Lane. It was in Liverpool where I stopped using sugar, an accident really, because Adrian didn't care for it, had none in the flat, and we kept forgetting to buy some, so every morning I'd have my tea without and then decided to do the same when I arrived in Cardiff.
Cardiff was different to Liverpool, so very elegant because of its keep and castle and gorgeous civic centre housing, among other buildings, the university's administrative offices and the art museum. I will never forget the melody of accents surging through the halls and refectory of the law school: Malaysian, Canadian, Australian, Irish, British public school, British regional and Welsh, of course. Here, I experienced my first sharp feeling of public shame since arrival on the mainland, when I talked to some public school chap and he said he couldn't understand a word of my Irish accent. My accent was strong then, but I knew I could be understood. He had wanted to diminish me in front of his friends, and had been victorious though I would not allow him to see it. To my horror, I found he was also in my tutorial group--there were eight of us--and he was such an ass. He adored the sound of his plummy voice and always boasted about his 'barrister' father. He was a bigot too, very anti-Irish (as many of these types of English people are) and constantly interrupted me when I was answering the tutor's questions...though I got the last laugh because he was kicked out of the law school after he failed the end of year exams and ended up at some second-rate college studying English lit.
The university allocated me a room in a self-catering village called Llys Talybont (Although South Wales was fully anglicized, the street signs were in both English and Welsh, and the University had Welsh names for some of its accommodations.) There, I found myself sharing with Richard and Gary, two Englishmen, a tall, broody Welshman called David, and John, someone whom I knew from my grammar school who was studying medicine. Our mothers had stipulated to the university authorities that we should room together--a final act of parental authority, if you will--as we'd be wonderful company for one another. Mother chose to ignore the reality that I couldn't stand John at school; he behaved in a precious manner and was an intellectual snob, loved only the company of chess players and straight 'A' students.
I quickly learned John was obsessed with hygiene, disease and sickness to the extent he used to think he had developed symptoms of one disease or other he'd just learned about the previous week in a lecture. This would have been relatively tolerable except for his need to recite the litany of gory symptoms accompanying these infectious illnesses. Of course I talked him back toward sanity each time, but I also learned then that the practice of medicine's as much an art as a science. We never became close friends and grew to tolerate one another during that freshman year, especially since Richard proved to be an absolute prick (Gary settled into the role of faithful lackey) and constantly poked fun at us because we were, in his eyes, only 'stupid Irishmen.' This, notwithstanding, I was always at pains to remind Richard everytime he broached the subject that it took much higher grades to get into law school at University College than it did to get into the Civil Engineering faculty. After the second year, John went off to live with a bunch of medical students, I wangled a room in a house with some postgrad students, and we've never seen each other since.
As today's students at American campuses will find, the first weeks of college are spent making new friends and attending parties, dances and concerts. I deliberately don't mention pub crawls here because they're not permitted to go to bars or imbibe alcohol until twenty-one, unlike British and Irish students who can do so on their eighteenth birthday. (As an aside, I've always though this American prohibition very stupid; if an American kid comes of age and can vote at eighteen, they should be allowed to decide if they want to drink alcohol at that age, too. I guess, the law's a remnant of America's puritan roots.) Like it were yesterday, I can recall the hilarious times spent with my friends Patsy, Lindsey, the Simons (one of whom announced he was a Jew as he tucked into a ham sandwich), Peter and Hilary, the vicar's daughter who towered above us, danced abominably and kept us all in stitches with her accent imitations. But after those initial weeks, partying was relegated to weekends in the main (at least it was for law and medical students in Cardiff) because the tutorial work began to pile up and we had to stay in the law library until ten at night just to keep up, and even then I felt I was still behind.
[technorati: freshmen, colleges, cardiff, liverpool]
My parents took my cousin Adrian (who was already studying at Liverpool polytechnic) and me to the Belfast docks where we caught the overnight ferry to Liverpool. I was to spend a few days with him adjusting to life "across the water" before I left by train for Cardiff where I was to attend law school. Adrian was fun and we'd been extremely close since childhood--now, sadly, we've drifted apart and hardly talk at all, but such is the serpentine road of life--and they'd deemed it prudent that he act as my guide. After the tears and copious promises at the dockside, we boarded the ship and proceeded straight to the bar where we loaded up on gin-and-tonics and chatted with other Irish students making their way to various universities and colleges throughout the United Kingdom. My gregarious cousin, the gin, and merriment added piquancy to the excitement I felt about the shining, new life I was sailing toward, and, even before we'd navigated the estuary that becomes the broody Irish sea, I'd forgotten the tearful dockside farewell and my parent's melancholy as they made their way home in the car, each silently locked up in their own thoughts about their eldest boy who'd now permanently left their protection.
Liverpool was fun, a swirl of introductions, pub hops and dining at trendy restaurants that served colossal hamburgers (not by American standards) and salads in deep bowls made of bread. I loved his flatmates and close friends: quiet Ian from Derby whose girlfriend once asked an air stewardess in mid-flight to Greece how to open the jet's window because she was very hot; suave Miles, his other flatmate, who was Irish though born in England and educated at a top Roman Catholic public school called Ampleforth; and four girls who were student teachers and lived in an upstairs flat with bright purple curtains in nearby Lark Lane. It was in Liverpool where I stopped using sugar, an accident really, because Adrian didn't care for it, had none in the flat, and we kept forgetting to buy some, so every morning I'd have my tea without and then decided to do the same when I arrived in Cardiff.
Cardiff was different to Liverpool, so very elegant because of its keep and castle and gorgeous civic centre housing, among other buildings, the university's administrative offices and the art museum. I will never forget the melody of accents surging through the halls and refectory of the law school: Malaysian, Canadian, Australian, Irish, British public school, British regional and Welsh, of course. Here, I experienced my first sharp feeling of public shame since arrival on the mainland, when I talked to some public school chap and he said he couldn't understand a word of my Irish accent. My accent was strong then, but I knew I could be understood. He had wanted to diminish me in front of his friends, and had been victorious though I would not allow him to see it. To my horror, I found he was also in my tutorial group--there were eight of us--and he was such an ass. He adored the sound of his plummy voice and always boasted about his 'barrister' father. He was a bigot too, very anti-Irish (as many of these types of English people are) and constantly interrupted me when I was answering the tutor's questions...though I got the last laugh because he was kicked out of the law school after he failed the end of year exams and ended up at some second-rate college studying English lit.
The university allocated me a room in a self-catering village called Llys Talybont (Although South Wales was fully anglicized, the street signs were in both English and Welsh, and the University had Welsh names for some of its accommodations.) There, I found myself sharing with Richard and Gary, two Englishmen, a tall, broody Welshman called David, and John, someone whom I knew from my grammar school who was studying medicine. Our mothers had stipulated to the university authorities that we should room together--a final act of parental authority, if you will--as we'd be wonderful company for one another. Mother chose to ignore the reality that I couldn't stand John at school; he behaved in a precious manner and was an intellectual snob, loved only the company of chess players and straight 'A' students.
I quickly learned John was obsessed with hygiene, disease and sickness to the extent he used to think he had developed symptoms of one disease or other he'd just learned about the previous week in a lecture. This would have been relatively tolerable except for his need to recite the litany of gory symptoms accompanying these infectious illnesses. Of course I talked him back toward sanity each time, but I also learned then that the practice of medicine's as much an art as a science. We never became close friends and grew to tolerate one another during that freshman year, especially since Richard proved to be an absolute prick (Gary settled into the role of faithful lackey) and constantly poked fun at us because we were, in his eyes, only 'stupid Irishmen.' This, notwithstanding, I was always at pains to remind Richard everytime he broached the subject that it took much higher grades to get into law school at University College than it did to get into the Civil Engineering faculty. After the second year, John went off to live with a bunch of medical students, I wangled a room in a house with some postgrad students, and we've never seen each other since.
As today's students at American campuses will find, the first weeks of college are spent making new friends and attending parties, dances and concerts. I deliberately don't mention pub crawls here because they're not permitted to go to bars or imbibe alcohol until twenty-one, unlike British and Irish students who can do so on their eighteenth birthday. (As an aside, I've always though this American prohibition very stupid; if an American kid comes of age and can vote at eighteen, they should be allowed to decide if they want to drink alcohol at that age, too. I guess, the law's a remnant of America's puritan roots.) Like it were yesterday, I can recall the hilarious times spent with my friends Patsy, Lindsey, the Simons (one of whom announced he was a Jew as he tucked into a ham sandwich), Peter and Hilary, the vicar's daughter who towered above us, danced abominably and kept us all in stitches with her accent imitations. But after those initial weeks, partying was relegated to weekends in the main (at least it was for law and medical students in Cardiff) because the tutorial work began to pile up and we had to stay in the law library until ten at night just to keep up, and even then I felt I was still behind.
[technorati: freshmen, colleges, cardiff, liverpool]
Tuesday
Gorging on peaches
It's been a humid and uncomfortable summer in Pennsylvania and I can't stand this kind of weather, probably because my 'temperate' Irish genes get out of whack. Then again, I can't stand the Commonwealth's static-filled, bone-chilling winters, either. I've always hated extremes, both in people and the climate. So I'm happier we're in September because the sun's turned benign again and we can sit outside and enjoy a glass of wine.
Americans always complain about the horrid Irish and Brit climates after they've returned from a visit over there, that it's always raining and the sun's lazy when it does make an appearance, and they usually end by saying, "I don't know how people can stand it there."
There's some truth to their complaints, and it's also true the Brits and Irish certainly take full advantage of the sun's beneficence when they're visiting over here. A few years ago, we had a friend visiting from London in the early Spring and, on the first afternoon of his stay, a watery sun escaped from behind the clouds. Six-foot-three, burly and with skin so white it almost blinded one to look at him ( his hulking physique I'd always thought a terrific counterpoint to his calling as an Anglican vicar), he announced he was going to do a bit of 'bronzing', excused himself and went upstairs. Notwithstanding I'd translated for two other friends present that 'bronzing' was Brit speak for 'tanning,' one of their mouths fell open when she saw him return dressed in his swimwear.
"I've only got two weeks and can't go back to England without a tan," he said, and laughed as he passed out the door with a towel draped over his lily white shoulders.
Our friends watched spellbound as he spread his towel on the uncut grass, slathered himself in sun oil (SPF2 because he was greedy to catch and process every ray) and stretched out. Certainly no American--nor I, because I'd gone native by then--would have considered lying out at this time of year, but to my friend the sun was hot and perfect for tanning...I mean bronzing.
This summer I have done no bronzing and, aside from the gallop to LA and Boston, I've spent my time indoors with the air-conditioning cranked up. On those rare occasions I have gone outside, I've done so to mow the lawn, do a spot of weeding--a job I've always despised since childhood because my father always selected me out of his five offspring to do it--or take a stroll to our garden where we'd planted fruit trees. Larry, who's got green fingers, also planted a cornucopia of veggies including zucchinis, butternut squash, tomatoes, Chinese cucumbers, eggplant which I still call aubergines and peppers. I must say it's a very satisfying experience to go there and take stock of the fruit and veggies, even better to pick and eat them fresh for supper.
Yesterday, we strolled to the 'orchard' with friends and gorged on the peaches. They tasted superb. We planted the trees--two peach trees, two pear trees, and two apple trees, one of which produces five types of apple (something I'd never known was possible until I saw the thing and then had to satisfy myself it had nothing to do with genetic engineering before its acquisition)--several years ago and this is the second year the peaches grew to a decent size and looked edible. Last year, they'd looked appetizingly large too, but then a crafty deer (Bucks County is cursed with an abundance of some of the most conniving, intelligent deer in the country) jumped over the fence before they'd fully ripened and scoffed the lot.
What was particularly satisfying about this year's crop was that we didn't have to spray them, so they could be picked and eaten right off the trees. These peaches are pungent and succulent, their sweetness undoubtedly intensified by the knowledge they're our own bounty. In fact, they're so sweet, I've vowed never to eat another peach from a supermarket ever again. I'm simply going to savor every bit of what we have, purchase from local farmers stands when we're through with our own, and then recall their sweetness from memory until next year comes around again. No matter how prettily they're presented, supermarket fruit tastes wretched nine times out of ten. Bring back the era of the local greengrocer, I say.
[technorati: English, genetic engineering, peaches, sunbathing]
Americans always complain about the horrid Irish and Brit climates after they've returned from a visit over there, that it's always raining and the sun's lazy when it does make an appearance, and they usually end by saying, "I don't know how people can stand it there."
There's some truth to their complaints, and it's also true the Brits and Irish certainly take full advantage of the sun's beneficence when they're visiting over here. A few years ago, we had a friend visiting from London in the early Spring and, on the first afternoon of his stay, a watery sun escaped from behind the clouds. Six-foot-three, burly and with skin so white it almost blinded one to look at him ( his hulking physique I'd always thought a terrific counterpoint to his calling as an Anglican vicar), he announced he was going to do a bit of 'bronzing', excused himself and went upstairs. Notwithstanding I'd translated for two other friends present that 'bronzing' was Brit speak for 'tanning,' one of their mouths fell open when she saw him return dressed in his swimwear.
"I've only got two weeks and can't go back to England without a tan," he said, and laughed as he passed out the door with a towel draped over his lily white shoulders.
Our friends watched spellbound as he spread his towel on the uncut grass, slathered himself in sun oil (SPF2 because he was greedy to catch and process every ray) and stretched out. Certainly no American--nor I, because I'd gone native by then--would have considered lying out at this time of year, but to my friend the sun was hot and perfect for tanning...I mean bronzing.
This summer I have done no bronzing and, aside from the gallop to LA and Boston, I've spent my time indoors with the air-conditioning cranked up. On those rare occasions I have gone outside, I've done so to mow the lawn, do a spot of weeding--a job I've always despised since childhood because my father always selected me out of his five offspring to do it--or take a stroll to our garden where we'd planted fruit trees. Larry, who's got green fingers, also planted a cornucopia of veggies including zucchinis, butternut squash, tomatoes, Chinese cucumbers, eggplant which I still call aubergines and peppers. I must say it's a very satisfying experience to go there and take stock of the fruit and veggies, even better to pick and eat them fresh for supper.
Yesterday, we strolled to the 'orchard' with friends and gorged on the peaches. They tasted superb. We planted the trees--two peach trees, two pear trees, and two apple trees, one of which produces five types of apple (something I'd never known was possible until I saw the thing and then had to satisfy myself it had nothing to do with genetic engineering before its acquisition)--several years ago and this is the second year the peaches grew to a decent size and looked edible. Last year, they'd looked appetizingly large too, but then a crafty deer (Bucks County is cursed with an abundance of some of the most conniving, intelligent deer in the country) jumped over the fence before they'd fully ripened and scoffed the lot.
What was particularly satisfying about this year's crop was that we didn't have to spray them, so they could be picked and eaten right off the trees. These peaches are pungent and succulent, their sweetness undoubtedly intensified by the knowledge they're our own bounty. In fact, they're so sweet, I've vowed never to eat another peach from a supermarket ever again. I'm simply going to savor every bit of what we have, purchase from local farmers stands when we're through with our own, and then recall their sweetness from memory until next year comes around again. No matter how prettily they're presented, supermarket fruit tastes wretched nine times out of ten. Bring back the era of the local greengrocer, I say.
[technorati: English, genetic engineering, peaches, sunbathing]
Wednesday
The flood of change?
Currently, we have two dear friends staying with us. They arrived unexpectedly. They live in New Orleans.
When news of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation she would reek on the gulf coast flooded the airwaves, we became hugely concerned, our concern compounded after we tried to contact them on a number of occasions and they didn't call back. It turned out they were on vacation in Russia and arrived at JFK on Sunday morning. They didn't contact us because they were traveling with friends and one of them became very ill and they had to get him to a doctor and look after his upset wife. They've since flown off to stay with a daughter in Atlanta and our friends then called and asked if they could stay because they had no way of getting back to their beautiful home in the French Quarter.
They were once our neighbors in Bucks County and have been together for fifty-one years. About ten years ago the maintenance of the lawns and farmhouse they owned became too much, so they decided they to pack up and move to New Orleans where Bob's best friend and his wife (the chap who got sick) live. Of course, over the years, Larry and I have visited them and our trips have always been happiness-laden experiences.
I fell in love with the French Quarter from the moment I set foot on its uneven, cobbled streets. The gorgeous shabbiness of the rambling homes, the live oaks sprawling chaotically toward the heavens, the competing aromas wafting from the myriad of restaurants (many of which I've tried because I love my food), the lazy Mississippi river, the shops laden with exotic wares, all of these sights conspired to make me feel I was in an old European city. Of course, there are more prestigious areas of the city, the Garden District for example, but their palatial houses and the fancy European cars parked under their porticos can be found in any city. Nothing state-side can compare with the Quarter and its carefree inhabitants.
So like our friends and other countless Americans, it's with profound shock that we watch the disintegration of that great city. Exacerbating the shock of the city's newfound circumstances and threatening to push it toward grief is my recently learning just how important New Orleans is to the United States in general, with its nearby refineries that I knew about, but also with its business of shipping grain and other commodities throughout our land. In my ignorance and, undoubtedly because I was always there on vacation, I'd always thought of New Orleans as solely a 'party town'.
As I watch the breakdown of law and order in that city, I am reminded of just how fragile our democracy and way of life is today. We assume we are the mighty United States, that we are the natural provider of democracy and aid throughout the world, that foreigners look to us to shine justice's lantern in the world's dark corners. There can be no excuse for looting or unlawful activity in our society. What we are witnessing on CNN and other broadcasting outlets is stultifying. It is difficult to believe this widespread illegality is occurring in the United States.
And yet, our New Orleans friends are not surprised. Of course, they are deeply shocked. The flooding has not reached the part of the French Quarter where their home is situated, yet they cannot relax because the house may be looted and/or destroyed by these people. Already, their tenant had to leave his apartment out of fear: on the only night he chose to remain, the streets were in pitch darkness and awash with bands of roaming strangers. People are being approached aggressively for money, etc.
For years, our friends have told us that outside of the affluent areas, New Orleans is within a hair's breath of being a 'third-world city'. Just outside the French Quarter, hordes and hordes of the city's population live in housing that is best truly described as 'shotgun shacks.' I have seen these houses and the abject poverty with my own eyes, would not have believed it could exist in the United States otherwise. The education system in these parts of the South is in shambles and churning out thousands and thousands of kids who can't read or write. What hope do these people have? Should we really be shocked when they seize the opportunity and turn predator?
I ask you whether these conditions should be allowed to exist in the United States. Why are we not using our tax dollars to improve the lives of all our citizens, the impoverished blacks and whites as well as the well-off? A country can only be truly great when ALL of its citizens are energetically pursuing happiness. Why can our lawmakers not realize this? Why can they not focus and apply themselves truly toward the betterment of our America. Why can they not stop squandering our resources? May true enlightenment come out of the floods and misery in New Orleans and the gulf. This, I fervently hope and pray.
[technorati: New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina, French Quarter, looters]
When news of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation she would reek on the gulf coast flooded the airwaves, we became hugely concerned, our concern compounded after we tried to contact them on a number of occasions and they didn't call back. It turned out they were on vacation in Russia and arrived at JFK on Sunday morning. They didn't contact us because they were traveling with friends and one of them became very ill and they had to get him to a doctor and look after his upset wife. They've since flown off to stay with a daughter in Atlanta and our friends then called and asked if they could stay because they had no way of getting back to their beautiful home in the French Quarter.
They were once our neighbors in Bucks County and have been together for fifty-one years. About ten years ago the maintenance of the lawns and farmhouse they owned became too much, so they decided they to pack up and move to New Orleans where Bob's best friend and his wife (the chap who got sick) live. Of course, over the years, Larry and I have visited them and our trips have always been happiness-laden experiences.
I fell in love with the French Quarter from the moment I set foot on its uneven, cobbled streets. The gorgeous shabbiness of the rambling homes, the live oaks sprawling chaotically toward the heavens, the competing aromas wafting from the myriad of restaurants (many of which I've tried because I love my food), the lazy Mississippi river, the shops laden with exotic wares, all of these sights conspired to make me feel I was in an old European city. Of course, there are more prestigious areas of the city, the Garden District for example, but their palatial houses and the fancy European cars parked under their porticos can be found in any city. Nothing state-side can compare with the Quarter and its carefree inhabitants.
So like our friends and other countless Americans, it's with profound shock that we watch the disintegration of that great city. Exacerbating the shock of the city's newfound circumstances and threatening to push it toward grief is my recently learning just how important New Orleans is to the United States in general, with its nearby refineries that I knew about, but also with its business of shipping grain and other commodities throughout our land. In my ignorance and, undoubtedly because I was always there on vacation, I'd always thought of New Orleans as solely a 'party town'.
As I watch the breakdown of law and order in that city, I am reminded of just how fragile our democracy and way of life is today. We assume we are the mighty United States, that we are the natural provider of democracy and aid throughout the world, that foreigners look to us to shine justice's lantern in the world's dark corners. There can be no excuse for looting or unlawful activity in our society. What we are witnessing on CNN and other broadcasting outlets is stultifying. It is difficult to believe this widespread illegality is occurring in the United States.
And yet, our New Orleans friends are not surprised. Of course, they are deeply shocked. The flooding has not reached the part of the French Quarter where their home is situated, yet they cannot relax because the house may be looted and/or destroyed by these people. Already, their tenant had to leave his apartment out of fear: on the only night he chose to remain, the streets were in pitch darkness and awash with bands of roaming strangers. People are being approached aggressively for money, etc.
For years, our friends have told us that outside of the affluent areas, New Orleans is within a hair's breath of being a 'third-world city'. Just outside the French Quarter, hordes and hordes of the city's population live in housing that is best truly described as 'shotgun shacks.' I have seen these houses and the abject poverty with my own eyes, would not have believed it could exist in the United States otherwise. The education system in these parts of the South is in shambles and churning out thousands and thousands of kids who can't read or write. What hope do these people have? Should we really be shocked when they seize the opportunity and turn predator?
I ask you whether these conditions should be allowed to exist in the United States. Why are we not using our tax dollars to improve the lives of all our citizens, the impoverished blacks and whites as well as the well-off? A country can only be truly great when ALL of its citizens are energetically pursuing happiness. Why can our lawmakers not realize this? Why can they not focus and apply themselves truly toward the betterment of our America. Why can they not stop squandering our resources? May true enlightenment come out of the floods and misery in New Orleans and the gulf. This, I fervently hope and pray.
[technorati: New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina, French Quarter, looters]
Princess, the update
Apparently, it was a most interesting evening at the parental home last night.
Mum decided it best to tell the truth and waited for an opportune moment to announce the fish's demise. After the telling, which took place out of Ryan's earshot, everyone went to Siobhan's house--it adjoins my parents--but still my mother could not see Princess. My sister found her. She was staring at them open-mouthed and belly-up from one of the turrets uppermost windows.
The party removed back soon thereafter to my mother's house while Michael, my sister's husband, fished Princess out of her bowl, told Ryan who was naturally very sad, and the two disposed of the body in the garden
After a few hours, my sister came back in to Mum who began to apologize further as she is prone to do, though she informed me she also took great care to re-emphasize it was not anything she had done. Apparently, my sister stood and left the room leaving my mother as open-mouthed as her last vision of Princess. She heard Siobhan shut the back door quite hard before she returned to the parlor and proceeded to tell her she'd just gone out to check Ryan wasn't about and eavesdropping (he's a very intelligent child) and she wasn't to fret anymore about the fish.
It turns out it wasn't Princess who'd died. Princess had in fact died months ago, as had another subsequent fish, and Siobhan had replaced these fishes with very similar ones on two occasions. She hadn't told Mum about them in case she'd inadvertently tell Ryan. In fact, Siobhan admitted to being so tired of the fickle fishes that Michael and she decided to tell Ryan that Princess had indeed died. And moreover, my sister informed Mother that, after the last remaining one departs, there will be no pets of any description forming part of the Florida-James/McNicholl household.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers and daughters, family, pets]
Mum decided it best to tell the truth and waited for an opportune moment to announce the fish's demise. After the telling, which took place out of Ryan's earshot, everyone went to Siobhan's house--it adjoins my parents--but still my mother could not see Princess. My sister found her. She was staring at them open-mouthed and belly-up from one of the turrets uppermost windows.
The party removed back soon thereafter to my mother's house while Michael, my sister's husband, fished Princess out of her bowl, told Ryan who was naturally very sad, and the two disposed of the body in the garden
After a few hours, my sister came back in to Mum who began to apologize further as she is prone to do, though she informed me she also took great care to re-emphasize it was not anything she had done. Apparently, my sister stood and left the room leaving my mother as open-mouthed as her last vision of Princess. She heard Siobhan shut the back door quite hard before she returned to the parlor and proceeded to tell her she'd just gone out to check Ryan wasn't about and eavesdropping (he's a very intelligent child) and she wasn't to fret anymore about the fish.
It turns out it wasn't Princess who'd died. Princess had in fact died months ago, as had another subsequent fish, and Siobhan had replaced these fishes with very similar ones on two occasions. She hadn't told Mum about them in case she'd inadvertently tell Ryan. In fact, Siobhan admitted to being so tired of the fickle fishes that Michael and she decided to tell Ryan that Princess had indeed died. And moreover, my sister informed Mother that, after the last remaining one departs, there will be no pets of any description forming part of the Florida-James/McNicholl household.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers and daughters, family, pets]
Monday
Princess, the goldfish
Mum rang to share her crisis last night. My sister Siobhan and her family went to Spain on vacation last week, are due back tomorrow, and left her in charge of my eight-year-old nephew's two goldfish. These goldfish are so beloved in my sister's household that one has already been taken to the vet a few months ago because it was swimming listlessly. This news of my sister's love for fish was all the more astonishing in that she would under no circumstances allow neither David (my other nephew) nor Ryan a puppy nor kitten when they wanted one on a number of occasions a few years ago. Dogs and cats were decreed disruptive of her home's tranquility, which I read to mean they shed far too much hair and thus much additional household vacuuming would be required. (My suspicions were confirmed subsequently when my mother remonstrated she was not prepared to look after any four-legged animal--they live beside one another--when my sister, her hubby and the kids went off to work and school respectively.
It now appears Mum has failed to look after a finned animal as well because one of the fish, Princess, the largest and sleekest to boot, has departed. And exacerbating the issue is the fact that my sister asked about the fish on a call last night. Apparantly, Mum noticed the now deceased fish was looking "a bit pale around the gills" a few weeks ago and, moreover, that it had developed some white spots around its mouth, but she said nothing to Siobhan and now wishes she had made her observation public...certainly before they left for Spain. Apparently, the tank has a submerged castle replete with an open door, mirrors and high turrets within and the fish has gone inside and cannot be coaxed out with neither pencil, fork nor my father's plump index finger.
"Are you sure it's dead, Mum?" I asked.
"It's dead."
"Perhaps the pencil jabbings or Dad did it in?"
"That's not funny." She coughs.
"They normally go belly up."
"It can't. There's not enough room."
"What about the other fish?"
"I don't think it knows. They can't sense these things."
"No, what's it doing?"
"God, I hope it doesn't die, or if it plans to, that it'll wait until tomorrow evening."
The obvious answer--which I, of course, tendered promptly--is to go to a pet store and purchase another healthy fish of the same proportion (and my mother did admit there is one of similar size in another pet shop about two hours drive from her home). However, she feels very conflicted. She thinks it would be deceitful, and she should just tell them the truth on their return because it was not her fault. I said that would be tricky and asked whether she'd do it before they give her her gifts or after.
After a pregnant pause, she informed me that Dad was helping to decorate my brother Dermot's home, the home where I and my siblings had been raised, and complained his wife had had the kitchen cupboards removed on a whim, only to be told subsequently by a craftsman that she'd made a mistake because they were made of some of the best wood he'd ever seem.
"As if I'd have sub-par cabinets in any home I ever lived in, Damian," she said.
Now, my sister-in-law has decided she wants them put back again but a few of the doors have been damaged, which will cost her greatly to have them repaired. The vindication in Mum's voice sizzled through the phone line, and then it darkened again when she returned to her goldfish dilemma.
Anyway, tomorrow will tell which solution she opts for, though I suspect it'll involve a few toilet flushings and Dad being rapidly dispatched to the distant pet shop.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers, family, pets]
It now appears Mum has failed to look after a finned animal as well because one of the fish, Princess, the largest and sleekest to boot, has departed. And exacerbating the issue is the fact that my sister asked about the fish on a call last night. Apparantly, Mum noticed the now deceased fish was looking "a bit pale around the gills" a few weeks ago and, moreover, that it had developed some white spots around its mouth, but she said nothing to Siobhan and now wishes she had made her observation public...certainly before they left for Spain. Apparently, the tank has a submerged castle replete with an open door, mirrors and high turrets within and the fish has gone inside and cannot be coaxed out with neither pencil, fork nor my father's plump index finger.
"Are you sure it's dead, Mum?" I asked.
"It's dead."
"Perhaps the pencil jabbings or Dad did it in?"
"That's not funny." She coughs.
"They normally go belly up."
"It can't. There's not enough room."
"What about the other fish?"
"I don't think it knows. They can't sense these things."
"No, what's it doing?"
"God, I hope it doesn't die, or if it plans to, that it'll wait until tomorrow evening."
The obvious answer--which I, of course, tendered promptly--is to go to a pet store and purchase another healthy fish of the same proportion (and my mother did admit there is one of similar size in another pet shop about two hours drive from her home). However, she feels very conflicted. She thinks it would be deceitful, and she should just tell them the truth on their return because it was not her fault. I said that would be tricky and asked whether she'd do it before they give her her gifts or after.
After a pregnant pause, she informed me that Dad was helping to decorate my brother Dermot's home, the home where I and my siblings had been raised, and complained his wife had had the kitchen cupboards removed on a whim, only to be told subsequently by a craftsman that she'd made a mistake because they were made of some of the best wood he'd ever seem.
"As if I'd have sub-par cabinets in any home I ever lived in, Damian," she said.
Now, my sister-in-law has decided she wants them put back again but a few of the doors have been damaged, which will cost her greatly to have them repaired. The vindication in Mum's voice sizzled through the phone line, and then it darkened again when she returned to her goldfish dilemma.
Anyway, tomorrow will tell which solution she opts for, though I suspect it'll involve a few toilet flushings and Dad being rapidly dispatched to the distant pet shop.
[technorati: goldfish, mothers, family, pets]
Thursday
False apologies
Pat Robertson's outrageous call for the United States to reactivate the Doctrine of Assassination and murder a foreign head of state offended me on many levels. It offended my Roman Catholic upbringing, my sense of decency, my understanding of the American way of life and my understanding of civilized behavior. I should say, I do not pretend to have a firm grip on the state of Venezuelan politics but I understand Chavez is an avowed anti-globalist as are many people in Europe and the United States, that his country's government was awash in corruption before he came to power, that he has little time for organized religion and sees them as hypocrites, and that he enjoys the support of the majority of impoverished Venezuelans who happen to have brown skin but has little or no support among the ruling class who're descended from European ancestry. Moreover, I do find it quite odd that President Chavez has a penchant for wearing military uniforms in public, likes to associate with Fidel Castro and has a spotty record of success but, as the head of a foreign power, he is entitled to absolute respect regardless as to whether his rule and government is deemed repugnant by other westernised countries.
What is not okay is for a self-appointed man of God, the leader of a large Christian evangelical group to call for that country's leader's assassination. Under no circumstances can a Christian sanction killing and Mr. Robertson has overstepped his boundaries, widely. Nor is this the first time he has done so. And, as before, he has predictably issued a meaningless apology wrapped up in the skin of a further admonishment, an apology that is intended solely to restore his status-quo as a practicing Christian and prominent American. It seems to me the members of his religious community would be better served if they replaced this aging patriarch with someone less incendiary, with someone who would practice fully the edicts of Christianity. In calling for President Chavez's assassination, Mr. Robertson has in my view placed himself squarely in the barren terrain of fanatical Islamists, jihadists and others who will brook no vision of the world but theirs. By his redundant apology, he is not redeemed, but rather exacerbates a tendency toward wanton dangerousness.
[technorati: Pat Robertson, Hugo Chavez, Venezuela, The 700 Club]
What is not okay is for a self-appointed man of God, the leader of a large Christian evangelical group to call for that country's leader's assassination. Under no circumstances can a Christian sanction killing and Mr. Robertson has overstepped his boundaries, widely. Nor is this the first time he has done so. And, as before, he has predictably issued a meaningless apology wrapped up in the skin of a further admonishment, an apology that is intended solely to restore his status-quo as a practicing Christian and prominent American. It seems to me the members of his religious community would be better served if they replaced this aging patriarch with someone less incendiary, with someone who would practice fully the edicts of Christianity. In calling for President Chavez's assassination, Mr. Robertson has in my view placed himself squarely in the barren terrain of fanatical Islamists, jihadists and others who will brook no vision of the world but theirs. By his redundant apology, he is not redeemed, but rather exacerbates a tendency toward wanton dangerousness.
[technorati: Pat Robertson, Hugo Chavez, Venezuela, The 700 Club]
Wednesday
Helen Boyd's interview
At the Lambda Literary Award readings, I was most fortunate to meet and strike up a conversation with Helen Boyd whose book My Husband Betty published by Thunder's Mouth Press was a finalist in the transgender category. Helen is a fascinating woman, is married to a man who happens to crossdress, and her book explores the relations of these straight men and their female partners or wives.
Anyway, Helen read A Son Called Gabriel and liked it very much, said she didn't see the ending coming, and invited me to answer a few questions she had for her Five Questions with series.
[technorati: My Husband Betty, Helen Boyd, Transgender issues, LGBT]
Anyway, Helen read A Son Called Gabriel and liked it very much, said she didn't see the ending coming, and invited me to answer a few questions she had for her Five Questions with series.
[technorati: My Husband Betty, Helen Boyd, Transgender issues, LGBT]
Sunday
Goodbye, Mo
Last Friday, the world lost a highly colorful, eccentric, charismatic character as Marjorie (Mo) Mowlam died in a hospice in Kent, England at age 55. She died of a brain tumor that first appeared in 1997. In her tenure as the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland--a job no British government cabinet member ever wants, she being no exception, because it is viewed as a second-rate position, a position of exile--she was both hated and loved by both the nationalists and extremely conservative Unionists. However, they will never forget her because she was straight-forward, chewed gum, put her feet up on the highly polished table during meetings if she felt like it, swore at politicians, poked fun at them, and, once even, took off her wig to help diffuse tension during a very important meeting. Though she did not want to be sent to Northern Ireland, once she became the SoS, she settled into her role with unmitigated dedication and enthusiasm, grew to love the province, and was one of the key players instrumental in bringing Sinn Fein to the negotiating table and helped bring about the Good Friday Agreement.
Though a huge public persona, Mo was an intensely private individual and few were privy to her most intimate thoughts. Her youth was spent in difficult circumstances--her father descending into the grip of alcoholism--and she experienced much personal tragedy in her life, which included the loss of a boyfriend by drowning whom she loved intensely. Moreover, Mo made her presence felt on our side of the pond because she spent six years here, studying for a Ph.D at the University of Iowa and teaching in Florida where she was stalked and assaulted (before managing to escape) by a stranger who broke into her apartment. She maintained vociferously that her stalker was Ted Bundy who killed two young women at a nearby campus.
On her return to Britain, she did what had to be done to rise up Labour's ranks, won a seat in Westminster eventually, and moved up the rungs of government. In fact, her popularity became so great, she obtained a huge ovation at the 1998 Labour Party Conference, one so huge it outlasted Tony Blair's ovation, and she was convinced he never forgave her for that.
Though long gone from Northern Ireland when Mo took her position there, I recognized from afar that elusive blend of charisma, determination and irreverence that defined her public persona, that set people like her apart, and loved her for it. Though retired from public life due to the illness, she will be missed by her peers, enemies and all who admired her. The world is a darker place for her departure. God speed, Mo.
[technorati: Mo Mowlam, Tony Blair, British Cabinet, Ted Bundy]
Though a huge public persona, Mo was an intensely private individual and few were privy to her most intimate thoughts. Her youth was spent in difficult circumstances--her father descending into the grip of alcoholism--and she experienced much personal tragedy in her life, which included the loss of a boyfriend by drowning whom she loved intensely. Moreover, Mo made her presence felt on our side of the pond because she spent six years here, studying for a Ph.D at the University of Iowa and teaching in Florida where she was stalked and assaulted (before managing to escape) by a stranger who broke into her apartment. She maintained vociferously that her stalker was Ted Bundy who killed two young women at a nearby campus.
On her return to Britain, she did what had to be done to rise up Labour's ranks, won a seat in Westminster eventually, and moved up the rungs of government. In fact, her popularity became so great, she obtained a huge ovation at the 1998 Labour Party Conference, one so huge it outlasted Tony Blair's ovation, and she was convinced he never forgave her for that.
Though long gone from Northern Ireland when Mo took her position there, I recognized from afar that elusive blend of charisma, determination and irreverence that defined her public persona, that set people like her apart, and loved her for it. Though retired from public life due to the illness, she will be missed by her peers, enemies and all who admired her. The world is a darker place for her departure. God speed, Mo.
[technorati: Mo Mowlam, Tony Blair, British Cabinet, Ted Bundy]
Thursday
Why I write
As an author, I hope that my writings will educate as well as entertain, that they will reach and move people in ways that perhaps even I cannot anticipate. Of course, I realize that not all of my future novels will meet this kind of self-imposed 'test' if you will, but nevertheless, this is something I am conscious of when I write certain books. For example, my next novel which will soon go out on submission to publishers and whose working title is Unusual Steps is really a dark comedy, and was written with no particular lesson or objective in mind. In other words, its goal is to entertain.
Not so with A Son Called Gabriel. With this novel, I was as determined to educate readers about what it's like for a young boy who discovers to his horror that he's growing up gay in a very conservative culture as I was to entertain them with humor and wit. Some lofty-minded authors will undoubtedly scoff and say the author should have no such goal in mind, that he or she should care only about the goal of creating high art. That, too, is also fine, a worthy objective. But, frankly, I don't give a damn if they think this is the only goal in writing quality fiction. I care passionately only that my work is accessible to people who love to read, that they can relate to the story, and where possible, that they can learn something no matter how small in the process of reading it.
I am very happy to report that I appear to have been successful in this mission with 'Gabriel.' Many people have said at readings or they've emailed to say how glad they are that I have written about this complex subject within the context of a novel. Such conversations and emails brighten my day, make me so very joyful that this was my first novel to get published.
Recently, I received an email from a woman who wrote to express her feelings after she'd read 'Gabriel.' I was very moved by her words and wish to share them with you. After I'd read the email, I closed my eyes and said to myself, "This is why I wrote this book."
Here it is:
Hello.
My name is Rita-Anne. I just finished reading "A Son Called Gabriel". I purchased the book, only having read the inside page and being drawn to it because it is set in Northern Ireland.
By about pages 8/9, I realized that he was gay. That's when I read the reviews on the back cover!
While I have many friends who are either gay, lesbian or transgendered, I found this book gave me a greater understanding of the internal turmoil they experienced as children/young adults.
Having been to Northern Ireland too many times to count (my best friend lives in Belfast), I completely understood the social elements, the familial conflicts and the time frame in which the book is set. And while I laughed a number of times throughout the book, I must confess I cried shamelessly when Gabriel hits his breaking point.
That said, I am sorry the book is finished because I now feel a sense of loss. In addition, I am sorry I didn't get a chance to meet you while you did the signings in the North Wales and Philadelphia areas last month.
Thank you, Mr McNicholl, for writing such a tender, wonderful and insightful novel.
All the best,
Rita-Anne Provenzano
-----
It's me who thanks you, Rita-Anne.
[technorati: Northern Ireland, fiction writing, Belfast, writers]
Not so with A Son Called Gabriel. With this novel, I was as determined to educate readers about what it's like for a young boy who discovers to his horror that he's growing up gay in a very conservative culture as I was to entertain them with humor and wit. Some lofty-minded authors will undoubtedly scoff and say the author should have no such goal in mind, that he or she should care only about the goal of creating high art. That, too, is also fine, a worthy objective. But, frankly, I don't give a damn if they think this is the only goal in writing quality fiction. I care passionately only that my work is accessible to people who love to read, that they can relate to the story, and where possible, that they can learn something no matter how small in the process of reading it.
I am very happy to report that I appear to have been successful in this mission with 'Gabriel.' Many people have said at readings or they've emailed to say how glad they are that I have written about this complex subject within the context of a novel. Such conversations and emails brighten my day, make me so very joyful that this was my first novel to get published.
Recently, I received an email from a woman who wrote to express her feelings after she'd read 'Gabriel.' I was very moved by her words and wish to share them with you. After I'd read the email, I closed my eyes and said to myself, "This is why I wrote this book."
Here it is:
Hello.
My name is Rita-Anne. I just finished reading "A Son Called Gabriel". I purchased the book, only having read the inside page and being drawn to it because it is set in Northern Ireland.
By about pages 8/9, I realized that he was gay. That's when I read the reviews on the back cover!
While I have many friends who are either gay, lesbian or transgendered, I found this book gave me a greater understanding of the internal turmoil they experienced as children/young adults.
Having been to Northern Ireland too many times to count (my best friend lives in Belfast), I completely understood the social elements, the familial conflicts and the time frame in which the book is set. And while I laughed a number of times throughout the book, I must confess I cried shamelessly when Gabriel hits his breaking point.
That said, I am sorry the book is finished because I now feel a sense of loss. In addition, I am sorry I didn't get a chance to meet you while you did the signings in the North Wales and Philadelphia areas last month.
Thank you, Mr McNicholl, for writing such a tender, wonderful and insightful novel.
All the best,
Rita-Anne Provenzano
-----
It's me who thanks you, Rita-Anne.
[technorati: Northern Ireland, fiction writing, Belfast, writers]
Monday
Sky Power
God, what superb power filled the skies last night. There's nothing as marvelous, as spectacular, as thrilling as a Pennsylvania summer lightning storm.
Our house is situate on a knoll and set within a circle of mature trees--stretching elms, graceful sassafras and sturdy ashes in the main--and last night was the most beautiful lightning I've ever beheld in my entire life. Every crack and hole within the tree canopy, every gap between the black tree trunks filled instantly and often with gloriously blue electric that threatened with every thuderous boom to advance farther and come uninvited into the bedroom. And what angry roars...so earsplitting I felt the stucco walls shake as if in terror, and I imagined the cedar shingle roofing rise and curl before its blue power. Spice, our seventeen-year-old dog now currently having trouble with his back legs, and practically deaf, slept right through the wild symphony.
The last time I could recall such massive thunder and lightning was on the evening my parents had arrived to spend a fortnight's vacation with Larry and me. Mum is terrified of lightning, is heedless to the fact that fork lightning is a rare occurrence in any part of Ireland. I remember how paralyzed she used to get when we were children and there was an early evening storm replete with ferocious boomers that rolled across the sky as if God and the devil were locked in a game of bowls. As soon as the first pang of sheet lightning flashed across our eyes, she'd scream like a banshee and freeze like she were a hare caught in a car's headlights. Between the first and second boom rolls of thunder, she'd charge to a nearby closet, or the darkest room in the house, and would refuse to re-emerge until we came and told it the storm had passed, which we never did of course until we'd raided the cookie cupboard and gorged ourselves.
On her first night in Pennsylvania a fork lightning storm erupted right over the house. Bone-tired from her long flight, she'd already retired for the night and in between lightning flashes and the thunder, so violent I could hear the window panes shudder, I heard massive hysterical screams overhead. Next instant, furious footsteps came down the stairwell and mother crashed through the French doors leading to the living room in her bright pink nightie. Always proper and reserved in the presence of company, and especially in front of Larry whom she was just getting to know, Mother hadn't even bothered to bring her robe, so intense was her terror. Naturally, it was great fodder with which to pull her leg throughout the duration of the vacation, and she also saw the funny side.
And wouldn't you know it? On the day of their departure, Murphy's Law came into play and a violent thunder storm broke out in the afternoon which brought down a middling-sized tree on our driveway. By then though, Mother was utterly calm, almost oblivious; by then, she'd taken a second or third pill from her Valium stash because she's also terrified of flying.
[technorati: thunder, sheet lightning, pennsylvania]
Our house is situate on a knoll and set within a circle of mature trees--stretching elms, graceful sassafras and sturdy ashes in the main--and last night was the most beautiful lightning I've ever beheld in my entire life. Every crack and hole within the tree canopy, every gap between the black tree trunks filled instantly and often with gloriously blue electric that threatened with every thuderous boom to advance farther and come uninvited into the bedroom. And what angry roars...so earsplitting I felt the stucco walls shake as if in terror, and I imagined the cedar shingle roofing rise and curl before its blue power. Spice, our seventeen-year-old dog now currently having trouble with his back legs, and practically deaf, slept right through the wild symphony.
The last time I could recall such massive thunder and lightning was on the evening my parents had arrived to spend a fortnight's vacation with Larry and me. Mum is terrified of lightning, is heedless to the fact that fork lightning is a rare occurrence in any part of Ireland. I remember how paralyzed she used to get when we were children and there was an early evening storm replete with ferocious boomers that rolled across the sky as if God and the devil were locked in a game of bowls. As soon as the first pang of sheet lightning flashed across our eyes, she'd scream like a banshee and freeze like she were a hare caught in a car's headlights. Between the first and second boom rolls of thunder, she'd charge to a nearby closet, or the darkest room in the house, and would refuse to re-emerge until we came and told it the storm had passed, which we never did of course until we'd raided the cookie cupboard and gorged ourselves.
On her first night in Pennsylvania a fork lightning storm erupted right over the house. Bone-tired from her long flight, she'd already retired for the night and in between lightning flashes and the thunder, so violent I could hear the window panes shudder, I heard massive hysterical screams overhead. Next instant, furious footsteps came down the stairwell and mother crashed through the French doors leading to the living room in her bright pink nightie. Always proper and reserved in the presence of company, and especially in front of Larry whom she was just getting to know, Mother hadn't even bothered to bring her robe, so intense was her terror. Naturally, it was great fodder with which to pull her leg throughout the duration of the vacation, and she also saw the funny side.
And wouldn't you know it? On the day of their departure, Murphy's Law came into play and a violent thunder storm broke out in the afternoon which brought down a middling-sized tree on our driveway. By then though, Mother was utterly calm, almost oblivious; by then, she'd taken a second or third pill from her Valium stash because she's also terrified of flying.
[technorati: thunder, sheet lightning, pennsylvania]
Friday
Connie Martinson Talks Books
When I was out in LA recently, I was invited to discuss A Son Called Gabriel with Connie Martinson on her infamous book show. Well, for those of you living in the LA area, that show will air on Monday, August 15th, at 3 PM and again at 11.30 PM PST on LA CITYVIEW -CH 35.
It also airs in SF and NYC and some other major cities, but I don't know the time.
[technorati: Connie Martinson Talks Books, Connie Martinson, Los Angeles]
It also airs in SF and NYC and some other major cities, but I don't know the time.
[technorati: Connie Martinson Talks Books, Connie Martinson, Los Angeles]
Thursday
It's official!; I'm a Mac man now
I've ended my procrastination and took possession of a G4 Mac Powerbook. I'm now the owner of a sleek, metallic 17-inch laptop (which fits into my briefcase--a non-negotiable requirement)and am now learning how to use the thing.
I didn't buy it new. I decided to be uncharacteristically frugal. You see, my neighbors Scott and Jessica both have laptops and Scott is a Mac man, knows everything about Macs that there is to know. So when I mentioned a while ago that I was thinking of moving to Apple, he helped me research the internet and I bounced tons of questions off him. Then things got busy with the paperback release of 'Gabriel' and I put the whole thing on the sideburner. Anyway, he called me recently and said he was getting a new more powerful Mac--he does lots of CAD design work--and asked if I was interested in buying his old one (only around two years old approx) for a good price. I took him up on his offer.
Most people don't like to buy second-hand ('pre-owned' is the American euphemism, I know) but I was comfortable and Scott has spent two hours setting my systems up and answering my questions as I used the thing. He was also dead nice in that he wanted me to have a 'first time Mac buyers experience.' So, he put the Powerbook (along with its cables and manuals) I was buying into the same pretty box his new laptop arrived in and let me open it as if I'd just taken delivery of a brand new machine. It was a really neat idea because, as soon as I opened it and took out the incredibly slim, silver oblong and felt its weight in my hands, I fell in love with it as I've never fallen in love with a computer before. The only other laptop I owned was an Hitachi that I was very fond of, but it was stolen from my hotel room in London--an inside job, the police said--about five years ago.
Already, I've learned a lot--there isn't a great amount of difference really--and its much faster zipping through the 'net' than my old one. One thing I'm missing is the PC mouse with its double click to do 'cut and paste', though I've been told I can buy any mouse that's USB compatible and it'll work. But the Mac shortcuts more than make up for this shortcoming in the interim. Another learning curve issue is adjusting to the notebook keyboard and I'm touching one button that makes everything uppercase.
I've also splurged and got a 'router' so I can access the web from any part of the house and bought a 'cruzer' which backs up all my stuff into its key ring sized storage device that's 1.0GB. Next on the agenda is the acquisition of a new laser printer because my old one does not run on the Mac operating system, but they've become a lot cheaper. Currently I have a Brother 630 that cost bout $550 when I bought it seven years ago and it's archaic, prints only 6 pages a minute.
I'm hoping for great things from my Powerbook! Not least, I'm hoping it'll inspire me to complete my latest novel which I haven't worked on in yonks--more about that in another post. And my old faithful PC will retire from its writerly duties (just as soon as I email myself my manuscripts), but its hard disc will churn and resound onward for all within earshot to hear because it's become Larry's toy.
So all in all, I'm pleased as punch (should a writer worth his salt resort to cliche ever, I wonder?) and am happy to have great neighbors who are also friends. Now onward with that new novel...
[technorati: Mac, laptop, PC, Apple,Powerbook]
I didn't buy it new. I decided to be uncharacteristically frugal. You see, my neighbors Scott and Jessica both have laptops and Scott is a Mac man, knows everything about Macs that there is to know. So when I mentioned a while ago that I was thinking of moving to Apple, he helped me research the internet and I bounced tons of questions off him. Then things got busy with the paperback release of 'Gabriel' and I put the whole thing on the sideburner. Anyway, he called me recently and said he was getting a new more powerful Mac--he does lots of CAD design work--and asked if I was interested in buying his old one (only around two years old approx) for a good price. I took him up on his offer.
Most people don't like to buy second-hand ('pre-owned' is the American euphemism, I know) but I was comfortable and Scott has spent two hours setting my systems up and answering my questions as I used the thing. He was also dead nice in that he wanted me to have a 'first time Mac buyers experience.' So, he put the Powerbook (along with its cables and manuals) I was buying into the same pretty box his new laptop arrived in and let me open it as if I'd just taken delivery of a brand new machine. It was a really neat idea because, as soon as I opened it and took out the incredibly slim, silver oblong and felt its weight in my hands, I fell in love with it as I've never fallen in love with a computer before. The only other laptop I owned was an Hitachi that I was very fond of, but it was stolen from my hotel room in London--an inside job, the police said--about five years ago.
Already, I've learned a lot--there isn't a great amount of difference really--and its much faster zipping through the 'net' than my old one. One thing I'm missing is the PC mouse with its double click to do 'cut and paste', though I've been told I can buy any mouse that's USB compatible and it'll work. But the Mac shortcuts more than make up for this shortcoming in the interim. Another learning curve issue is adjusting to the notebook keyboard and I'm touching one button that makes everything uppercase.
I've also splurged and got a 'router' so I can access the web from any part of the house and bought a 'cruzer' which backs up all my stuff into its key ring sized storage device that's 1.0GB. Next on the agenda is the acquisition of a new laser printer because my old one does not run on the Mac operating system, but they've become a lot cheaper. Currently I have a Brother 630 that cost bout $550 when I bought it seven years ago and it's archaic, prints only 6 pages a minute.
I'm hoping for great things from my Powerbook! Not least, I'm hoping it'll inspire me to complete my latest novel which I haven't worked on in yonks--more about that in another post. And my old faithful PC will retire from its writerly duties (just as soon as I email myself my manuscripts), but its hard disc will churn and resound onward for all within earshot to hear because it's become Larry's toy.
So all in all, I'm pleased as punch (should a writer worth his salt resort to cliche ever, I wonder?) and am happy to have great neighbors who are also friends. Now onward with that new novel...
[technorati: Mac, laptop, PC, Apple,Powerbook]
Monday
A self-imposed abstinence of sorts
I had a very interesting experience this past weekend. My friend, Lee, of L&L (they of the evening of the infamous 'psychiatrist game') had a birthday party--a pool party on account of the excellent weather--and I was most disappointed not to be able to down some large and excellent looking Margaritas on account of the fact I had a reading at a local BN at 6.00 pm. At 5.00 pm, just as the food--I'm a voracious lover of good food--was about to be served, I duly left the party in sad spirits, doubly so because I was going to miss a game of softball that was to take part afterward, and drove to the reading. During the ride, I indulged a thought that the deities of the universe would undoubtedly be most benign this evening because of my heap of deprivations and would pull out all the stops and deliver me an alert audience of at least thirty bodies, all solvent, all anxious for a bit of Northern Irish culture.
The first signal that something was amiss was that there were no copies of my novel in the window. As I pushed open the double doors leading into the beautiful air-conditioning--it was wretchedly humid outside--the second clue became apparent because of its absence. The stand announcing an author event was also missing. Immediately, I went to the information desk, asked for the crm as I scanned the BN events leaflet, and was told she was not working that day.
After I explained myself, the bookseller contacted the manager who came out crimson-faced and very apologetic. The poor crm had made a mistake (when she'd contacted me about the reading she was only one week into the position) and put me down for a September date instead of August. I've just spoken to her now on the phone and we've settled on a September date, though she was still mortified about the mix-up.
It was all rather amusing really, particularly so since I hadn't really wanted to do the reading that evening, either. In hindsight, the fact that it was to take place on a Sat evening should have been a red flag. I should have mentioned at the time we were arranging the thing that it seemed to be an odd evening for an author event. In fact, I'd almost take a bet that John Grisham would not pull a big audience on a hot summer evening.
Anyway, back I went to the birthday party and, as I was coming up the driveway, I saw a bunch of people huddled in a circle on the front lawn. I got out of the car and went over. Poor Lee had injured her ankle in the softball game and was writhing in pain as someone applied ice to reduce the swelling. Not a nice way to celebrate one's birthday. However, no serious damage was done and I went back to the car, absolutely determined now that nothing was going to prevent me ending my Margarita abstinence.
At this time I'd also like to add, because Lee is a voracious reader and she's currently reading a book I've been interested to review on the blog, I've invited her to do the review. I won't give the title just yet, but it'll post in early September.
[technorati: Barnes & Noble, book reviews, John Grisham,softball]
The first signal that something was amiss was that there were no copies of my novel in the window. As I pushed open the double doors leading into the beautiful air-conditioning--it was wretchedly humid outside--the second clue became apparent because of its absence. The stand announcing an author event was also missing. Immediately, I went to the information desk, asked for the crm as I scanned the BN events leaflet, and was told she was not working that day.
After I explained myself, the bookseller contacted the manager who came out crimson-faced and very apologetic. The poor crm had made a mistake (when she'd contacted me about the reading she was only one week into the position) and put me down for a September date instead of August. I've just spoken to her now on the phone and we've settled on a September date, though she was still mortified about the mix-up.
It was all rather amusing really, particularly so since I hadn't really wanted to do the reading that evening, either. In hindsight, the fact that it was to take place on a Sat evening should have been a red flag. I should have mentioned at the time we were arranging the thing that it seemed to be an odd evening for an author event. In fact, I'd almost take a bet that John Grisham would not pull a big audience on a hot summer evening.
Anyway, back I went to the birthday party and, as I was coming up the driveway, I saw a bunch of people huddled in a circle on the front lawn. I got out of the car and went over. Poor Lee had injured her ankle in the softball game and was writhing in pain as someone applied ice to reduce the swelling. Not a nice way to celebrate one's birthday. However, no serious damage was done and I went back to the car, absolutely determined now that nothing was going to prevent me ending my Margarita abstinence.
At this time I'd also like to add, because Lee is a voracious reader and she's currently reading a book I've been interested to review on the blog, I've invited her to do the review. I won't give the title just yet, but it'll post in early September.
[technorati: Barnes & Noble, book reviews, John Grisham,softball]
Friday
Paula and Love in Action--no, it's not a band name
I guess you've probably surmised I would not be a Lou Dobbs fan, but now Paula's starting to come across as a hack. Now Bill's gone from American Morning, the only one left to like is Soledad, and I think she should get her tail back to the networks or PBS.
Anyway, here's a copy of the e-mail I sent to Paula Zahn and her "producers" about...well, it speaks for itself, really.
It's unlikely I'll get a response because my experience with conglomerates (in my case, MCI and American Express) is that they ignore letters of complaint in hopes the pest will go away and they can then continue with their corp. objective of making tons and tons of money. However, in the event CNN responds, I'll be sure to share.
------------
Dear Paula, et al
My name is Damian McNicholl and I'm the author of A SON CALLED GABRIEL, which is a semi-autobiographical novel and deals in large part with a young boy struggling with his sexuality in a very conservative environment.
It's taken me until today to decide to write about a recent episode of 'Paula Zahn Now', an episode in which you presented the case of two youths being sent to a camp called Love in Action for 'curing.' The reason for my delay was the unexpected onset of a temporary emotional hangover.
Why a temporary emotional hangover, you might ask? Well, it came into being when I noted how carelessly you reported on this painful subject. I feel you abdicated your responsibility as a journalist in this instance, and I have admired your work greatly. However, this piece was poorly reseached, if at all researched, and you completely disregarded both the opinion of the AMA and APA in your zeal to present a spurious organization claiming to 'cure' its charges of the affliction of homosexuality.
As a seasoned and responsible reporter, it is your duty to present all sides of an issue, and you and CNN have failed terribly. Where is the empirical data from this institution claiming successful conversions? I am not talking of one case or two. I am asking, what is the statistically meaningful number of persons they have 'cured', and where is their data?
Where is the presentation of AMA and APA opinions that there is no problem, that there is nothing to 'fix' or 'cure' when someone is homosexual. Where are the counterbalancing viewpoints from people such as me, people who have grown up in conservative homes and communities, who have struggled with our sexuality, and who are now well-adjusted, successful and happy the Supreme Being or God chose to make us homosexual?
Without posing these vital questions and presenting a balance, your presentation came across as amateurish at best. May I suggest you go to the library and obtain a copy of my novel, and also check out other works like it, and do meticulous research, and then redeem yourself by presenting a fair and balanced program on this subject. I would also like you to take some time out and reflect on the great pain and anguish you will have caused the young people whose parents, as a result of your inaccurate reporting, will now doom their child to spend time in this camp. That experience will endure far longer in their lives than my emotional hangover, of that you can be certain.
Sincerely
Damian McNicholl
[technorati: Paula Zahn, CNN, Soledad O'Brien,Love in Action]
Anyway, here's a copy of the e-mail I sent to Paula Zahn and her "producers" about...well, it speaks for itself, really.
It's unlikely I'll get a response because my experience with conglomerates (in my case, MCI and American Express) is that they ignore letters of complaint in hopes the pest will go away and they can then continue with their corp. objective of making tons and tons of money. However, in the event CNN responds, I'll be sure to share.
------------
Dear Paula, et al
My name is Damian McNicholl and I'm the author of A SON CALLED GABRIEL, which is a semi-autobiographical novel and deals in large part with a young boy struggling with his sexuality in a very conservative environment.
It's taken me until today to decide to write about a recent episode of 'Paula Zahn Now', an episode in which you presented the case of two youths being sent to a camp called Love in Action for 'curing.' The reason for my delay was the unexpected onset of a temporary emotional hangover.
Why a temporary emotional hangover, you might ask? Well, it came into being when I noted how carelessly you reported on this painful subject. I feel you abdicated your responsibility as a journalist in this instance, and I have admired your work greatly. However, this piece was poorly reseached, if at all researched, and you completely disregarded both the opinion of the AMA and APA in your zeal to present a spurious organization claiming to 'cure' its charges of the affliction of homosexuality.
As a seasoned and responsible reporter, it is your duty to present all sides of an issue, and you and CNN have failed terribly. Where is the empirical data from this institution claiming successful conversions? I am not talking of one case or two. I am asking, what is the statistically meaningful number of persons they have 'cured', and where is their data?
Where is the presentation of AMA and APA opinions that there is no problem, that there is nothing to 'fix' or 'cure' when someone is homosexual. Where are the counterbalancing viewpoints from people such as me, people who have grown up in conservative homes and communities, who have struggled with our sexuality, and who are now well-adjusted, successful and happy the Supreme Being or God chose to make us homosexual?
Without posing these vital questions and presenting a balance, your presentation came across as amateurish at best. May I suggest you go to the library and obtain a copy of my novel, and also check out other works like it, and do meticulous research, and then redeem yourself by presenting a fair and balanced program on this subject. I would also like you to take some time out and reflect on the great pain and anguish you will have caused the young people whose parents, as a result of your inaccurate reporting, will now doom their child to spend time in this camp. That experience will endure far longer in their lives than my emotional hangover, of that you can be certain.
Sincerely
Damian McNicholl
[technorati: Paula Zahn, CNN, Soledad O'Brien,Love in Action]
Wednesday
WBAI Pacifica Radio, NYC--99.5FM
For those blog readers living in and around NYC, this coming Monday, August 8th, beginning at 11.00 am, I'll be interviewed about A Son Called Gabriel on Pacifica Radio's Out/FM program by host Peter Jonas. The interview will be live from their offices overlooking the Hudson at the end of Wall St. Looking forward to it as I'm a big Pacifica radio fan. I don't know if it'll be archived but I'll find out, and if it is, I'll post an update.
[technorati: New York, WBAI, Pacifica Radio,out/FM]
[technorati: New York, WBAI, Pacifica Radio,out/FM]
Monday
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits review and some Author Blarney
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits Having read with others at the Book Expo America's Emerging Writers series last June, I heard Laila Lalami read an excerpt from her forthcoming book--link is provided for you to gain additional information--which will be published by Algonquin Books in October 2005. Intrigued by its Moroccan setting, I raced to the back of the room after the reading and helped myself to an ARC (Advanced Reading Copy) and decided on a whim to take it with me on my recent book tour to Los Angeles. Her book, a collection of stories, written in straightforward prose, transports the reader into a mint tea suffused part of the world where many of the citizens work yet still live in what I think of as unmenacing poverty, though some, aspiring to better their lot, are ferociously attracted to the 'greener grass' of Spain. Utilising the framework of a perilious journey to be undergone in a rubber boat across the Straits of Gibraltar--a framework which works because it unites each characters dual stories (a 'before' story in Part One and an 'after' story in Part Two)--Lalami introduces us initially to her 'actors' through the eyes of Murad, a man who has paid much for his passage.
Among his fellow travellers is Faten, a devout Muslim--befriended by the sophisticated and wealthy Noura, a girl who takes up wearing the hijab much to her westernized parents horror--who will make it to Spain and a life of prostitution; Halima, a wife whose drive is to escape and divorce her abusive husband; and Aziz who leaves behind a pragmatic wife and dreams of making enough money in Spain to return and found a viable business in his homeland.
After I'd finished her book, the thought occurred that, while I read pretty extensively, I read the work of British, Irish and North American writers in the main. While Lalami is born and raised in Morocco and her book is not translated, nevertheless, the book's setting prompted me to consider what I'm missing by not actively seeking out literature that has been translated into English. In any event, I consider myself fortunate to have come across this book of colorful stories. On a few occasions, I will say I found myself so intrigued by a major secondary character that I found the story's conclusion a tad abrupt because of my need to know more, but such is the author's prerogative as the creator of her characters. The power of these stories lies in their universality:they show us that humanity has the same needs and problems, no matter whether we are rich or poor, or whether we stem from the sophisticated West or the sunwashed medinas of Morocco, and that the crossing of treacherous straits in pursuit of our dreams does not inevitably meet with success or happiness.
Author Blarney
Laila, thanks for taking the time to stop by my blog and
answer a few questions about your first book.
Thanks for having me.
DMN: Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits examines the lives of four Moroccans who decide to flee their homeland in search of a better life in Spain. What served as your inspiration for these stories and how did you set about doing research?
LL:I don't think my characters' decision is so much a question of flight as it is a quest to improve their lot. There's something of that in all of us, I think, but few of us have had to contend with the particular circumstances that compel my characters to decide to leave. The first time I heard about the boat trips across the Mediterranean was in the 90s, and I thought it would be interesting to write a story about one such trip. But then I realized that writing about the trip itself was a little like trying to look at a painting with my nose up against it. I had to step back and think about the characters's lives before and after. So that's how the book came about.
DMN: Of the various characters in the book, I found myself most drawn to Faten because of her curious blend of assuredness and desire to please, particularly her
desire to please her flatmate in the final part of her tale. Is there one character in the stories with whom you feel a particular affinity and, if so, could you elucidate?
LL: I'm fond of all my characters, even the boat captain (an earlier version of the book had more back story about him and how he ended up in the business of smuggling people.) But I suppose if I had to pick one, it would be Murad. He was the first character I came up with, and the one who stuck around the longest.
DMN: I found that you seasoned your prose with just the right amount of Moroccan to give the stories great texture and vibrancy without interrupting the 'fictional dream' or pace. As a writer from a foreign country too, I also had the similar task
of conveying to the reader the feel of the native language and culture without bogging down the narrative. Was it difficult for you to decide on how much idiom or Moroccan to include in order to reach a necessary or correct balance?
LL: I tried to follow my instincts, to represent the internal thoughts and dialogue of my characters as best as I could. Sometimes, there were words that simply wouldn't work in translation, so I used Arabic. Other times, I chose to use the vernacular to make a point.
DMN: What do you hope people will take away from your book when they reflect?
LL: First, I would hope that they enjoy reading the book. And of course I hope it engages readers. I've been told that my book is political, which sort of surprised me, as this wasn't my goal at all when I wrote it. I was mostly interested in the characters. But I suppose we live in an age when class is so rarely addressed seriously than when it is, it becomes a political statement. Anyway, I have no illusions about changing anyone's mind about anything. I just hope that people get to see the world through my characters' eyes, for a little while.
DMN: Algonquin Books is the publisher of your first book. How did this come about?
LL: In the most traditional of ways, I suppose. I found a literary agent (Stephanie Abou of Global Literary Management) and she sent out my book to several
publishers, including Algonquin. We had some serious interest from several of them, but Algonquin was the most enthusiastic.
DMN: Is it fair to say Morocco is comprised equal part Christians and Arabs and that the cultures live harmoniously? What is the economic situation in Morocco now? Do people still attempt to cross the Straits illegally?
LL: Ethnically speaking, the vast majority of the Moroccan population is a mix of Arab and Berber. The dominant religion is Islam, with small Jewish and Christian
minorities. As far as illegal crossings, yes, they still happen, despite all the drownings. In fact, the majority of would-be migrants these days are non-Moroccans, who travel hundreds of miles through the desert from sub-Saharan Africa, on foot, in order to get to Tangier. They live in hiding or get odd jobs until they can cross. Until people have something better to live for in their own countries, they will
continue to try their luck elsewhere.
DMN: I read that you attended university in England at one point. Where and what did you study, and how did you find student life in the British Isles?
LL: I studied at University College London, for a degree in Linguistics. I was very bookish and somewhat of a loner, but I enjoyed London tremendously.
DMN: You have now begun work on a novel. What differences or unexpected challenges, if any, have you encountered between writing 'Hope' and your new work?
LL: It's tough, man. I'm working on a very difficult chapter now, so it's been excruciatingly slow. With short stories, I found getting the first draft down
somewhat easier, though I revised fastidiously.
Laila also runs the literary blog Moorish Girl.
[technorati: Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits, Laila Lalami, Morocco, Algonquin books,Moorish Girl]
Thursday
Surviving an "on-the-air" attack
Last night was a very special evening because I was invited to discuss my novel with a book club who'd selected it as their July choice. The club comprised eight women--all of them teachers, educators and mothers--and one man who loves being the thorn among roses. How refreshing it was to spend nearly two hours answering questions about the writing process and 'Gabriel'. Over glasses of wine and snacks and with great enthusiasm, they discussed issues raised by the novel, namely family life and relationships, bullying, homosexuality, the Irish political situation, class prejudice and bigotry and intolerance. Their stimulating conversation made me think at one point, "This is why I wrote this novel and had it published in the United States. This is why I write."
Not so the interview I had this morning with a Rehoboth Beach shock jock, which I thought I'd share with you. First though, it requires me to fill you in on some pertinent background information.
When the hardcover of 'Gabriel' released last June, my publicist--a woman called Joan Schweighardt who first discovered my book and whom I now consider a great friend--was appointed by my publisher, and she did a stellar job finding me radio and telly spots to talk about my work. As I was to do a book tour of DC and Virginia last July, I decided to spend the weekend at our friends flat at Rehoboth Beach and do a reading at a bookstore which happened to be Lambda Rising, the gay one. Joan organized for me to do a 'phoner' with a radio station the day before my arrival in town and the talk show's producer asked her to send info about me and the book, which she duly did.
It will be clear to many of you by now that my novel deals with, among other important issues, Gabriel's sexual confusion as he enters puberty. To his horror, the protagonist finds himself attracted to other boys and, being a good Catholic child, he makes a valiant attempt to counter and expunge these feelings by dating a succession of girls, including the very wealthy, upper-middle class and Protestant, Fiona. It is also clear that my novel examines Gabriel's terror of becoming gay and his inability to tell his parents of his terror because of their rigid Catholicism and the pitiful, conservative environment in which he is growing up.
Unbeknownst to me, the host of this radio show had made a decision to skewer me. His second question was quite aggressive, but I put it down to the fact some radio personalities try to blindside a guest in order to get the listeners interested, if not highly excited. But this chap was relentless. He ignored an entire raft of issues, and kept asking inflammatory and silly questions--think Howard Stern here. For example, "Why did you make Gabriel gay?" and "I don't understand why Gabriel likes adult men." The questions and comments flummoxed me because I didn't know Gabriel liked adult men, either. You can guess the agenda; basically the questions bore no relevance to the novel's content and I was, in effect, being hi-jacked on the air. What was most despicable was that the questions had a marked anti-gay bias and seemed aimed only at expressing the host's abject bigotry and intolerance of gays, in addition to inciting the intolerance and even hatred of sections of his listenership. He was not in the least interested to examine the fear, pain and isolation the young protagonist felt, but rather wanted to extract lurid details as to why Gabriel would want to sleep with men, etc and whether I was Gabriel, etc. (I have never hidden that the book has a semi-autobiographical element--is in fact fiction rooted in experience.) As I saw immediately what was happening, I tried to steer the conversation back toward the literary, to discuss other important issues, but was consistently thwarted. Admittedly, I was a novice on the radio then, so I did my best and soldiered on without losing my temper or hanging up the phone.
A year later, the paperback's out, and I'm going to Rehoboth this weekend and Joan booked me on a radio show to coincide with my signing at Browseaboutbooks on Sunday. I could not remember the name of the host who'd tried to make a fool out of me and, after researching it, Joan was pretty sure the host wanting me on this time was not the same chappie. Early this morning I did the 'phoner', and guess what? Yes, you're absolutely right.
The first clue was his boyish voice. The next was his allusion to the fact he'd interviewed me before. My heart sank. I became instantly more alert. My first inclination was to slam down the receiver and go back to bed. And then I thought, it's people like me who, given an opportunity to do interviews such as these, can help diminish, if not actually extinguish, mindless bigotry. Of course, by now I've become a pretty seasoned veteran of radio and telly, so that aided my resolution...gave me the courage to continue with the interview, if you will.
And sure enough, the chap's segue was very sugary:he raved about the glowing reviews of my novel and the fact it was a finalist in a number of awards. In hindsight, this was aimed at buttering and softening me up for quick consumption. The first missile launched came in the form of a statement. He couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay. I said, he was sexually confused and trying to fight being gay. He ignored the response and said again that he couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay.
Immediately, I knew the barren path we were headed down, so I asked him a question.
I said, "What do you not understand?" Out came the flood of bile, his allusions to homosexuality and how he didn't understand it and then he dredged up pieces of our last interview. So I nipped it in the bud and addressed his audience directly, informing them how the host had shown disdain for my book and misrepresented it during the previous interview, how it had sold well in hardcover throughout the US to merit a paperback edition coming out now, that I wanted only to discuss the full content of the book and not discuss aspects of homosexuality that were not included within its covers, and last but not least, how I wrote the book to overcome bigotry, intolerance and downright animosity of children growing up different.
For a few delicious seconds, there was only dead air and I could hear the wheels in my host's brain make the connection. Next he asked, "Exactly what do you think the book will teach adolescents?"--and he referred to the review from a columnist for a parenting magazine and tried to quote her out of context. Again, I would not allow it. I said simply that it would teach kids to take action against bullies, because they are the first to see it happen in the playground, and it would teach them tolerance and compassion for any of their peers who're growing up different and struggling with it.
A little upset, he accused me of trying to manipulate the interview, and I expected him to terminate the conversation. But, clearly mindful of my allusion to bigoted and intolerant people, he switched tack and began to discuss the novel's other pertinent issues, such as the conservative community Gabriel lived in and the state of Irish politics. So all in all, I believe the interview was effective because some people called in to ask questions, and the host's closing questions were about my new novel
and touring in general.
Something very important was reinforced within my core today. We must all take a stand against bigotry, hatred and intolerance, no matter how inconsequential that stand may seem. We must avail of every opportunity to state clearly what we believe to be right and just, to speak out against what we know in our hearts is wrong, to educate people living in ignorance or hatred. We may not succeed at first. We may not succeed ever with those determined to hate or show intolerance. Even in those cases, we can take satisfaction in knowing we did the right thing. It is always easier to poke fun and ridicule minorities and those who are different. It is harder to love than hate, yet love we must.
[technorati: Rehoboth Beach, bigotry, Talk Shows,homosexuality]
Not so the interview I had this morning with a Rehoboth Beach shock jock, which I thought I'd share with you. First though, it requires me to fill you in on some pertinent background information.
When the hardcover of 'Gabriel' released last June, my publicist--a woman called Joan Schweighardt who first discovered my book and whom I now consider a great friend--was appointed by my publisher, and she did a stellar job finding me radio and telly spots to talk about my work. As I was to do a book tour of DC and Virginia last July, I decided to spend the weekend at our friends flat at Rehoboth Beach and do a reading at a bookstore which happened to be Lambda Rising, the gay one. Joan organized for me to do a 'phoner' with a radio station the day before my arrival in town and the talk show's producer asked her to send info about me and the book, which she duly did.
It will be clear to many of you by now that my novel deals with, among other important issues, Gabriel's sexual confusion as he enters puberty. To his horror, the protagonist finds himself attracted to other boys and, being a good Catholic child, he makes a valiant attempt to counter and expunge these feelings by dating a succession of girls, including the very wealthy, upper-middle class and Protestant, Fiona. It is also clear that my novel examines Gabriel's terror of becoming gay and his inability to tell his parents of his terror because of their rigid Catholicism and the pitiful, conservative environment in which he is growing up.
Unbeknownst to me, the host of this radio show had made a decision to skewer me. His second question was quite aggressive, but I put it down to the fact some radio personalities try to blindside a guest in order to get the listeners interested, if not highly excited. But this chap was relentless. He ignored an entire raft of issues, and kept asking inflammatory and silly questions--think Howard Stern here. For example, "Why did you make Gabriel gay?" and "I don't understand why Gabriel likes adult men." The questions and comments flummoxed me because I didn't know Gabriel liked adult men, either. You can guess the agenda; basically the questions bore no relevance to the novel's content and I was, in effect, being hi-jacked on the air. What was most despicable was that the questions had a marked anti-gay bias and seemed aimed only at expressing the host's abject bigotry and intolerance of gays, in addition to inciting the intolerance and even hatred of sections of his listenership. He was not in the least interested to examine the fear, pain and isolation the young protagonist felt, but rather wanted to extract lurid details as to why Gabriel would want to sleep with men, etc and whether I was Gabriel, etc. (I have never hidden that the book has a semi-autobiographical element--is in fact fiction rooted in experience.) As I saw immediately what was happening, I tried to steer the conversation back toward the literary, to discuss other important issues, but was consistently thwarted. Admittedly, I was a novice on the radio then, so I did my best and soldiered on without losing my temper or hanging up the phone.
A year later, the paperback's out, and I'm going to Rehoboth this weekend and Joan booked me on a radio show to coincide with my signing at Browseaboutbooks on Sunday. I could not remember the name of the host who'd tried to make a fool out of me and, after researching it, Joan was pretty sure the host wanting me on this time was not the same chappie. Early this morning I did the 'phoner', and guess what? Yes, you're absolutely right.
The first clue was his boyish voice. The next was his allusion to the fact he'd interviewed me before. My heart sank. I became instantly more alert. My first inclination was to slam down the receiver and go back to bed. And then I thought, it's people like me who, given an opportunity to do interviews such as these, can help diminish, if not actually extinguish, mindless bigotry. Of course, by now I've become a pretty seasoned veteran of radio and telly, so that aided my resolution...gave me the courage to continue with the interview, if you will.
And sure enough, the chap's segue was very sugary:he raved about the glowing reviews of my novel and the fact it was a finalist in a number of awards. In hindsight, this was aimed at buttering and softening me up for quick consumption. The first missile launched came in the form of a statement. He couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay. I said, he was sexually confused and trying to fight being gay. He ignored the response and said again that he couldn't understand Gabriel wanting to be gay.
Immediately, I knew the barren path we were headed down, so I asked him a question.
I said, "What do you not understand?" Out came the flood of bile, his allusions to homosexuality and how he didn't understand it and then he dredged up pieces of our last interview. So I nipped it in the bud and addressed his audience directly, informing them how the host had shown disdain for my book and misrepresented it during the previous interview, how it had sold well in hardcover throughout the US to merit a paperback edition coming out now, that I wanted only to discuss the full content of the book and not discuss aspects of homosexuality that were not included within its covers, and last but not least, how I wrote the book to overcome bigotry, intolerance and downright animosity of children growing up different.
For a few delicious seconds, there was only dead air and I could hear the wheels in my host's brain make the connection. Next he asked, "Exactly what do you think the book will teach adolescents?"--and he referred to the review from a columnist for a parenting magazine and tried to quote her out of context. Again, I would not allow it. I said simply that it would teach kids to take action against bullies, because they are the first to see it happen in the playground, and it would teach them tolerance and compassion for any of their peers who're growing up different and struggling with it.
A little upset, he accused me of trying to manipulate the interview, and I expected him to terminate the conversation. But, clearly mindful of my allusion to bigoted and intolerant people, he switched tack and began to discuss the novel's other pertinent issues, such as the conservative community Gabriel lived in and the state of Irish politics. So all in all, I believe the interview was effective because some people called in to ask questions, and the host's closing questions were about my new novel
and touring in general.
Something very important was reinforced within my core today. We must all take a stand against bigotry, hatred and intolerance, no matter how inconsequential that stand may seem. We must avail of every opportunity to state clearly what we believe to be right and just, to speak out against what we know in our hearts is wrong, to educate people living in ignorance or hatred. We may not succeed at first. We may not succeed ever with those determined to hate or show intolerance. Even in those cases, we can take satisfaction in knowing we did the right thing. It is always easier to poke fun and ridicule minorities and those who are different. It is harder to love than hate, yet love we must.
[technorati: Rehoboth Beach, bigotry, Talk Shows,homosexuality]
Monday
Link to Los Angeles Pacifica Radio interview
I decided to try this experiment because my IMRU interview on Pacifica Radio (KPFK 90.7FM) will play in Los Angeles tonight, 7 pm PST. As it's streamed over the internet, anyone who would like to listen to it over the computer may do so by linking to their site tonight (07/25) at 10.00 pm EST:
Their url is:
Pacifica Radio IMRU
Otherwise, it'll be on their archives.
[technorati: Los Angeles, Hollywood, Pacifica Radio,IMRU]
Their url is:
Pacifica Radio IMRU
Otherwise, it'll be on their archives.
[technorati: Los Angeles, Hollywood, Pacifica Radio,IMRU]
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