J.P. Stassen's "Deogratias"

from http://www.globalpolicy.org/security/issues/rwanindx.htm

This is a book I will be reposting on paperbackswap again rather than keeping. It needs to remain in circulation. It needs to be read. It needs to disturb and haunt as many people as possible.

And it needs to not sit on my bedside table in order to continue to disturb me. It is so upsetting that, long after being read, will stay with me. Just looking at the cover is enough to give me a case of the spiritual shudders.

And yet I will never, ever regret having read it.

What Stassen has done is truly remarkable. The artwork is amazing, if difficult to read without bright light due to the many subtle shades of black ink he used.

My God, what we humans are capable of.

Read it - if you are strong enough in spirit.

~Namaste

Big Clay Pot, by Scott Mills

photo by iom keith, flickr

I happened upon this book quite by accident - it was offered on sale at Daedalus Books for a pittance, and since I was already ordering a few things from them anyway, I tacked it on to my order. It may just turn out to be the best of all the items on the packing slip! Now I'm eager to read some of his other graphic novels, and I've added this book to the suggestion list for my students.

Although it takes place in Japan around 200 B.C.E. and at one point relates the story of the Shinto goddess Amaterasu, the book is more Zen than anything else. It is the story of a little Korean refugee and her developing relationship with an old man, Kokoro (which means heart/mind/spirit - it's a concept that does not translate directly into English). Lovely little piece and I recommend it, even for children. I read it with N, who understood even some of the subtleties underlying the simple text.

~Namaste

The Book of Salt, by Monique Truong

photo by Simon Pride, flickr

What a gem. People all over the world are clamoring for J.K. Rowling to write another in the Harry Potter series; I am waiting for another book by Monique Truong. I don't care what it's about, either. I will happily read anything she writes, simply for the joy of seeing how she puts words together with such beautiful facility.

This book should sit on a shelf right next to Like Water for Chocolate, for those readers trying to eat their fill of words. It is for those of us who love the blending of cultures like spices, who yearn for the extra-ordinary love story flavored with a pinch of the exotic. Most of all, it is a book that defies the boundaries of genre and of expectation. It is a book about Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, and their cook "Thin Binh," as they call him, but ultimately, it is about the ways in which we are all isolated and wish so hard not to be.

It is not presented as a love story - let me state this right now, because I don't want to frighten anyone away! Here is the passage that hooked me:

I wanted that afternoon to ask Miss Toklas whether the household budget would allow for the purchase of two pineapples for a dinner to which my Mesdames had invited two guests. I wanted to tell her that I would cut the first pineapple into paper-thin rounds and saute them with shallots and slices of beef; that the sugar in the pineapple would carmelize during cooking, imparting a faint smokiness that is addictive; that the dish is a refined variation on my mother's favorite. I wanted to tell her that I would cut the second pineapple into bite-sized pieces, soak them in kirsch, make them into a drunken bed for spoonfuls of tangerine sorbet; that I would pipe unsweetened cream around the edges, a ring of ivory-colored rosettes. And because I am vain and want nothing more than to hear the eruption of praises that I can provoke, I wanted to tell her that I would scatter on top the petals of candied violets, their sugar crystals sparkling.
"Madame, I want to buy a pear . . . not a pear."
Miss Toklas looked at me, recognition absent from her eyes.
I, yes, lost the French word for "pineapple" the moment I had opened my mouth. Departing at their will, the words of this language mock me with their impromptu absences. When I am alone, they offer themselves to me, loose change in a shallow pocket, but as soon as I reach for one I spill the others. This has happened to me many times before. At least I now know what to do, I thought. I repeated my question, but this time I had my hands on top of my head, with only the bottom of my palms touching my hair. My fingers were spread like two erect, partially opened fans. Complete with my crown, I stood in front of my new Madame and Madame the embodiment of "a-pear-not-a-pear." I remember seeing GertrudeStein smile. Already, my Madam was amusing herself with my French. She was wrapping my words around her tongue, saving them for a later, more careful study of their mutations.

~Monique Truong, The Book of Salt, pp. 34-35. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 2003.

The Road to Mandala

Well, here's my first-lesson, first mandala. I had fully intended to begin on Monday, but I told myself that it will happen when it happens, and no pressure. N and I sat down to create together. I cleared the table as best I could, rucking up the tablecloth so as not to create indelibly all over it. We lit the candles and put on one of our favorite cds.

I began by marking the bindu. I'd read about it in a small book I have about mandalas (which I don't have at hand at the moment, so I can't cite title and author). The bindu in a mandala is the center. I'm still not sure whether one is supposed to start with the bindu or end with the bindu, but I started with it. Mine's very small, but I really wanted it to be larger. Not sure what happened there . . . .

My idea was to create a safe place mandala - one that made me feel secure and comfortable while I was making it and when I looked at it. This was important to me, because I feel very much that I'm going out on a limb by trying something artistic. I've got three very artistic children (two who plan to make their living in the arts!), a brother who is a professional artist, a mother, uncle and cousin who are professional artists, an aunt who was. I'm surrounded by them, and I've never been able to create beauty, though I've always wanted to. So I thought that while I was doing something that felt dangerous, I'd at least try to make it come out giving me a sense of safety in the end.

Twisted logic, I know.

N told me that she planned to make a little wooden doll in the center of hers, "with a round, round face and round, round eyes, but a very pointy nose!" We both chose circles, for the obvious reason that we were working inside the circular outlines provided by the lesson plan - though you will notice that neither of us filled them in with circular patterns. I played it "safe," I noticed, by tracing around little round objects instead of freehanding, and I discovered after a few minutes that I was sitting all crunched-up, so I attempted to loosen my muscles somewhat.

We were fine, until Loreena McKennit began singing about "The Highwayman." By the end of the song, all my lovely circles, which I'd originally planned to fill with filigree patterns, had turned into moons (the one that isn't a crescent is the full moon)! I didn't do it consciously; it just happened, I'm sure, because the road was a ribbon of moonlight. I wasn't really listening to the song, but I had to memorize that poem in 6th grade, so I know how it goes . . . .

And N's!!! During the last verse of the song, she announced, "I don't like that song. It's sad. Now my mandala is called 'Sad Girl' and the little girl was mean to her wooden doll and drew her with big tears and put her away in the attic and doesn't play with her any more because she is all grown up and doesn't want toys." I looked over at her mandala. I was both impressed by the detail and artistic ability, and deeply shocked by the graphic horror it conveyed.


I find it profoundly disturbing. So did N, who said "You can put it on the mandala blog, but I don't want it any more, it's too sad." We decided we were done with our first mandalas. We also decided that it really does matter, very much, what music we listen to while we are creating! So tomorrow we will choose something completely different. We are also planning to use an entirely different medium.

In other news, I've spent (with the help of Rabbit's many friends & relations) hours & hours moving virtually all the books (and bookcases) from the bedroom down to the study, and my computer desk and computer up to the bedroom. Things are still at 10s & 3s (not so bad as 6s & 7s), but for the most part it's finished. And I am delighted with the result!

There is still much to be done to prepare for the upcoming semester which, for me, begins Tues. 1/16. C starts on Monday. Z, on the other hand, will finish her fall semester on Friday 1/19 and then take a one week break (during which she will work frantically on her Chinese). N went back to school on 1/2 and has been busy every afternoon for almost two weeks already.

~Namaste

When is a Mote Not a Mote?

Photo by Simon Pais (flickr)

When it'a a shingle. Okay, so the eye in the photo is definitely not mine. I have shed a few pounds since last month, but I'm not gaunt yet, and I haven't grown facial fringe yet, either. And my eyes, at least what can be seen of them, are still green.

That haunted look, however, fits well.

The day after I wrote the mote post, my lid swelled even more. Far worse, I began to feel as though something were crawling around just under my skin. (You may now hum the theme from the "Aliens" movie, if you know how it goes. I don't, and anyway, I'm living this, so I shall refrain. And just a btw - did you realize that Ewan McGregor was in the original 1986 "Aliens"? Interesting tidbit.) By Thursday I could hardly see out of the eye, and by Friday I was so creeped out by the whole thing that I called and scheduled an appt. with Dr. W. Naturally, because of the holiday, the earliest she could see me was Tues. morning.

Over the weekend, a sort of hole appeared, so I thought great, something has bitten me and laid eggs inside. The eggs have hatched and the creatures are crawling inside me.


Yeah, yeah, I know it's an ear & mine's an eye, but you get the idea. The expression of horror still holds.

Dr. W. takes a look, listens to my description and pronounces it shingles. Then insists I see an opthalmologist immediately to make sure it isn't affecting my cornea.

So the upshot is that I'm on medication to keep it from spreading, though I assume that if it hasn't spread by now I am fairly safe. Now I just wait for those little guys to get out of my face . . . .

Oh, YUCK.

Small epiphany here, which came to me in my cousin K's voice (though she was probably unaware of it): this mote-that-is-not-a-mote was not of my making after all, and turned out not to merit any guilt. Perhaps I should not be so quick to shoulder blame. Note to self: remember this.

~Namaste

Book: The Mermaid Chair

So two nights ago I finished reading Kidd's The Mermaid Chair. I received it last April for my birthday, and saved it till I had time to read it all the way through in a couple of days instead of in the five-minute increments of which my reading life has consisted for far too long.

Wise choice. Had I been forced to read it in dribs & drabs, it would have ruined the experience for me. I spent a great deal of time thinking about it each night after I stopped reading, and I find I'm still thinking about it now, with deep satisfaction. This will be one of the rare books I will read a second time in a year, I think - as much for the joy of the language as for the ideas in it.

I came to Mermaid Chair at a time in my life when I needed it - not for the "woman in love with two men" theme, but for the more vital themes, which I won't go into here because I don't want to spoil it in case anyone actually reads this.

Wonderful book. Inspired writer. I suspect that the parts which spoke most deeply to my soul were autobiographical. I can't wait to read her Bee Season, which I've ordered from paperbackswap.

~Namaste

New Year's Epiphany

Photo by Optimist from Utopia (flickr)

Today's little epiphany: I need to avoid all the usual new year's resolutions and instead just shoot for more tranquility and simplicity in my life. My cousin K is right: those danged resolutions just put pressure on us; what we need is to be kind to ourselves instead. There are many things I can do to increase the amount of tranquility in my life; in fact, even 5 minutes' tranquility a day would be a distinct improvement. So that is what I will work on.

A friend has suggested that the virus that hit us was the norovirus. In any case, Z is fine now, C is pretty much over it, I think my mild case is gone, and now R is feeling lousy. R did manage a short walk with me today, and N rode her little bike in circles around us. It was a grey day, cloudy with occasional sprinkles, but warm enough for light jackets and gloves. It was good to get out instead of sitting inside and feeling sad about the end of R's vacation.

N misses school dreadfully. Consequently, so do the rest of us, but for a slightly different reason. She goes back to school tomorrow, and all five of us eagerly await the 12:20 arrival of her school bus.

Speaking of N and school, our kitchen is decorated with many colorful characters, all of whom have mouths full of teeth. Some people might find this disturbing; I certainly wonder what the art teacher thinks of N's approach. From pre-K she brought home this fierce angel, which later acquired a "paid" sticker from Giant as part of its festive decoration:

Note the sharpness of the teeth, please. This year, from kindergarten, she brought home a rather manic pumpkinheadman:

Then just before vacation, she came home with a snow man, whose teeth were made of tiny snowballs but who, nevertheless, I am not sure I'd want to meet up with in a dark (snow-covered) alley.
The really interesting aspect of this artistic tendency is that only the artwork done in school includes teeth. Most of the stuff she draws at home is in anime style, showing no teeth at all. What dark and forbidding subconscious issues does this point to? . . .

Tranquility. I need tranquility. N's teeth are not a topic conducive to tranquility.

~Namaste