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Growing up, there was a print of Il Ponte Di Asnieres in our house. It fascinated me. The colors were so stark and yellow. It wasn’t unlike the color of the dust in the rural area where we lived. For years I thought the image in the painting was the place my parents came from.

Why did my parents choose that picture to bring with them? They had so little, they were allowed to take so few things. The monogrammed linens I understood. The silver candlestick I would have taken, too. But why that image? I never knew. But for years I wondered where that train was heading.

Often, I wonder where my parents got their strength, to start over in a strange land well into middle age. I wonder what it would have been like to grow up as someone else’s daughter, in a house that had a television. What would it have been like to have watched The Mickey Mouse Club? To have eaten Twinkies before the age of 20? But then again, that strict, rigid upbringing may have been exactly what I needed to become a writer.

If Vincent Van Gogh had lived a life of ease, of wealth, of comfort, would his paintings  have been as rich?  Would his brother have been as supportive? There is no time machine to show alternative lives. Or alternative paintings. We have the memories of Van Gogh’s tortured life and the glory of the paintings.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Telling stories, singing songs.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Won’t you come along?

He’s tunes to play and songs to sing-

A lute, a flute, a fiddle wild-

Fingers fly and voice trills

Enchanting each and every child.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Over hills and through the pass.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Winking at each comely lass!

He’s news to tell and stories, too-

Tales to chill and tales to thrill.

His voice echoes through the night

People listening with a will.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Tattered, torn, limping some.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Still he beckons, Come!

He sits beside the fire at night,

His voice rising in a song.

His listeners sit up straight and then-

Old ones smile and sing along.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Folks will come from far and near.

Comes a minstrel a-wandering,

Come and listen, for he’s here.

     Vincent was born on March 30th, 1853.  At age 16, his uncle (also named Vincent) helps him get a job at the famous Paris-based art gallery Goupil & Co. at its Hague branch.  For the first few years he does well, and is transferred to London and Paris, but Vincent’s relationships with his employers and his family deteriorates as Vincent increasingly comes to see his life as an art dealer meaningless, like the “pretty pictures” he is forced to sell.  He is fired.  Vincent’s father is a preacher, and Vincent decided to try to become a preacher too, but is a failure at that as well.  He tries teaching and that doesn’t work out.  He falls in love with his cousin and she rejects him.  His father kicks him out of the house.  Things aren’t going well. 

     In 1880, at age 27, Vincent turns to art.  We all know the rest of this story: Vincent dies 10 years later, after having created an enormous number of paintings and drawings, but never selling enough to support himself and apparently never becoming successful.  How did he keep going those 10 years?  How did he not starve, have a roof over his head, and more importantly, keep working at his art without succumbing to the doubts and fears expressed by his family, his associates and himself?  His brother Theo.  That one person who believed in him, who supported him, who was his lifeline and touchstone. 

     Vincent wrote to Theo, shortly before he died: “At present I do not think my pictures are worthy of your kindness to me.  But once they are worthy, I insist that you will have created them as much as I, and that we are fashioning them together.”  Theo died six months after Vincent, but before he died he wrote to their mother, “Life was such a burden to him (Vincent), but now, as it often happens, everybody is full of praise for his talents…Oh Mother!  He was so my own, own brother.” 

Posted by Mari, for Vincent’s birthday, and dedicated to my husband Rod.  Although I am no Vincent, he is my Theo.

I can only speak from my own experience…

I am
Child & Daughter
Artist & Writer
Friend & Wife

I am nothing without them
With their love & encouragement I go on
In stubbornness I continue
With and without I go on

On a sad note, I came home today I found my brave little mouse dead in his little cage. He’’s been sickly for about a week, but last night still came and got a treat from me before bed. I think the little guy just feel asleep. So I put his limp little body in a small chocolate box in a blanket of clean paper towel and a small cookie bit like he liked. I taped it shut and wrote on the box “you were my good and brave little mouse and I love you, I will see you again in another life”. I’m a little sad to have lost him. To some just a pesky rodent but, honestly, this little mouse was such a character. I will miss him.

The story of how Trillian came to me here: http://aletteke.wordpress.com/2006/08/10/brave-little-mouse/

he stands at the top of the stairway
and demands in a testosterone rage
that I tell him where I’ve hidden
his laundered shirts, blue and beige.

he’s been so worrisome lately
to his dad, and me, his mom.
driving recklessly on nearby streets,
slamming home at three a.m.

so i say to him, “Just go away
and take care of yourself.”
and I wonder what I did so wrong;
he was raised with common sense.

so he moved that very weekend
to a friend’s house ‘cross the town
and I never went to see him there
but I wished that he’d come home.

by twenty-two he mellowed,
i saw him driving down our street.
he said he’d bring his friends home
for “a decent meal to eat.”

I met them at the doorway
I didn’t know what to think
But my son, he smiled and hugged me
and he kissed me on my cheek.

“i’m sorry that it’s been so long,
that I did not call for help,
but I had to sort stuff in my mind
and plan my life myself.”

And I knew my son, he’d grown much,
more wise and yet still sweet.
and I welcomed him with open arms.
and pains in my heart, they ceased.

It is Vincent Van Gogh’s birthday on Friday and in honor of that day (March 30, 1853), the Bluestockings will be celebrating in the Taverna. If Vincent were to drop in (and who knows, in the ethereal world of Lemuria, he just might), he will probably bring his brother Theo who was a great support to him during his life. The question to discuss is this:  like Theo, who has supported you in your artistic endeavors, in small or big ways, financially, mentally, emotionally, in words or in actions. Post your piece to under the category: BS 30.03.07 Van Gogh & Mentor or comment below.

Our thanks to Mari for suggesting the topic this week.

It seems to me that the last time I came into the Taverna, it was a quiet little haunt. But now? The establishment has turned on the music, and the song is an excellent choice I might add. Let’s all take to the dance floor, and won’t we have fun!

Bo

Do you know Little Run-Along?

Little Run-Along slips around the corner

And leans against the door frame-

“Oh, there you are,” says Mama,

“Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along brushes her brown curls

Out of her eyes

And sighs

“Yes, Mama,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along wanders up to the fence

And drapes her arms over it.

Papa looks over and says,

“Oh, there you are.

Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along wipes her hands on her dress

And sighs,

“Yes, Papa,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along drifts into the kitchen

and slides into a chair.

Grandma looks up and says,

“Oh there you are.

 Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along scratches her leg

 and sighs,

“Yes Grandma,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along climbs the stairs

 and sits on the top one.

Grandpa looks out a door and says,

“Oh, there you are.

 Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along shakes her head

and sighs,

“Yes, Grandpa,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along plods over to the front steps

and sit on the bottom one.

Her puppy comes over and barks.

“Oh, there you are,” says Little Run-Along,

“Run along now and play.”

Her puppy whines and tucks his tail

And walks slowly away.

Little Run-Along watches him go

And then something catches in her heart

“Wait!” she says, “I’ll come too!”

Incense floats on

While reading an article, I came across a really good quote. But the person who said it was so unlikely. Turns out that many people said things we would think others said. So I turned it into a quick game. 6 quotes, 6 people. See if you can match them up!

Now, for another round of good dark Porter!

Here’s a picture I took recently of a raku pot I made two years ago and part of our bone collection.  We live near fields and woods and are regularly visited by foxes, raccoons, deer and ‘possums.  Sometimes they leave their bones behind and we collect them, if we can get to them before they’re eaten.  I made this pot with the thought in mind of keeping part of our bone collection in it and that’s why I designed it with the bone shapes on the outside.  I believe the skull is from a deer.  We love bones and I would dearly love to have a human skull.   I mean other than the one that’s inside my head.

This is my first attempt of rhymed verse since grade school ( and that’s very long ago).

The tempo isn’t just quite right
But I do so love the sentiment.

Sorry! I’ve been trying so many rhymes, I couldn’t resist that couplet when it popped into my mind. And here’s the poem.

A Gypsy Memory

I wander far from family tents
while camping in thick wilderness.
to far explore from all the rest.

Creeping so silent through thick underbrush
breathing so quiet, barely a hush;
the forest arms wrap me with restoring touch.

Then I open my eyes so very wide
and a dark, young girl I really do spy
in colours bright on a sweet Gypsy child.

Quite shy, she hides in a giant oak tree
and peeks around slowly so she can see.
Our eyes do meet, and smile do we.

We smile, oh, a most friendly smile
She beckons; we walk ‘most a mile
And seek her camp of Gypsies wild.

Down to a clearing in the vale
Bright caravans line the deep, green dale
Protected from both wind and gale.

Oh, fabulous tents and ornate spires
Amid the glowing, embered fires
Hear tambourines ring high and higher

In fascination, I can’t hold still
As gypsies sing with robins’ trill
And dance so free on misty rill.

The families from the Middle East
make rice and curry, a fine feast,
their welcome’s true for man or beast.

I find a hammock in the trees
and watch a honking pass of geese
My happiness shall never cease.

But then a yell from mountain high
My father calls and so I cry
“Yes, father, here I am” and sigh.

My Gypsy friend hides with her clan
All dancing and all singing banned
Tents fill with woman and with man.

And slowly I go up the path
to meet my Dad and we rush fast
for he feared we’d meet a Gypsy lass.

This story lies within my heart.
Forced so by race, we had to part
But Gypsies, they’d read my Tarot card.

They’d searched my fortune; it was read
A laugh-filled life and long, they’d said.
Soul mate and I, we’d live well wed.

The Tarot card I’d saved was Lovers.
The life I knew, the mem’ries, hover
surround my bed and quilted cover.

I dream of Gypsies.

“The craft of questions, the craft of stories, the craft of the hands–all these are the making of something and that something is soul.”                                                                           Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I am sure this quote has inspired Heather too, as this is what Soul Food Cafe is all about.

                                                                                                                                                                  “Arts and crafts are vitamins and minerals for the soul.”                                                             Dawn Jaekel

A new quote, never posted before.

When my friend Emily came to visit me, I wasn’t sure she’d enjoy the place. There’s no TV, no video games, no junk food. Well, except those cookies in the pantry. But Emily liked it, and each day she got a little more daring.

Then one day she went for a walk. She took the camera, but although I saw the pictures, and listened to her story, I still can’t believe it.

I have been reading the history of Burma in fiction this past week and remembering the letters that came from Akyab when part of the story was happening. I thought you would like to look at my website, Poems from Memory Lane. Fran, Cronelogical

WINTER

WE ARE DAMNED, MY SISTERS by Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill

16.03.07– This week at the the Bluestocking Lounge:

Robin wrote an account of an life-changing moment in Scotland in The Fall at the Taverna. Heather responded by commenting: “Well thank you very much Robin. I now have goosebumps from one end of my body to the other and they are all tingling. I will share a defining moment for me and feeling the presence of my maker. Wouldn’t it be a great Blue Stockings topic Lori?”

I think she might be right. This week’s BlueStocking discussion is “Have you ever had a defining moment in your life and felt the presence of a higher power?”

Either comment below, or make a new post to BS 03.16.07 Defining Moments.

I’m so touched by the stories of people who are dropping by the discussion on Creativity and your own experiences with it. Please feel free to contribute. It’s exactly the kind of discussion that makes Riversleigh feel so right for all of us.

For those who want a taste of early Spring, I’ve put a few photos up in the Murmuring Woods.

Last night I went to the 2^nd meeting of a Writer’s Workshop I had learned of at the local library. At the first meeting, three weeks ago, I was the only participant. I was assured by the leader of the Workshop that at least a “couple more” people were coming to the 2^nd one, and when I arrived at the library, I met the two new “writers”. One was a college student, a young Asian woman probably in her early 20’s. The other was an older woman, overweight and with the bearing and stance of a no-nonsense, do-it-herself farm woman. We introduced ourselves and the leader, a mid-30’s woman with a Master’s in English, told the newcomers how we had worked the last meeting. Each had brought samples of their work with copies for all, and each was to read a portion of what they’d brought. Then the rest of us would critique, make suggestions, and so forth. The college girl had brought a journal entry about a bike ride she took in Wyoming, the leader had brought a fairy tale she’d been working on, and the country woman had brought a short story about a hunting dog.

I had brought my recently written review of the first part of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, and I was the last to read. After finishing my reading, there was total silence. And then more silence. And still more silence. And then finally- silence. At this point the door to the room we were in chose to close itself, slowly and also silently, and we all stared until the door was completely closed. I said, “I’m sorry, Marcel, I’m doing the best I can”. Everyone laughed, and joked about poltergeists, and then the college girl said she couldn’t really say anything about my writing, because it was “…like, a critique, right?” and she couldn’t understand it. Our leader made some helpful suggestions and asked me questions about why I’d written some things as I did, such as Proust’s use of a Magic Lantern Projector as a metaphor and as way to introduce the themes of the novel. After I finished, the farm woman finally rared back in her chair, crossed her meaty arms over her chest, put one ankle up over one thigh, and said, “Have you ever noticed how when you have a group of people in a room, there’s one who doesn’t say much and just listens as the others talk about what a book really means and what the author really meant and their opinions on it all. I’m a listener, and I just sit here thinking what a load of hogwash! What clap-trap! Why can’t you just read a story and enjoy it? All that stuff you’re saying means nothing! It’s all hogwash! It’s all clap-trap!”

Thank God Marcel had already left the room.

Here’s the link to what I wrote: http://marimann.wordpress.com

I once read a book about children’s rhymes in which a study was described in which a totally new skipping verse was found to have travelled from Britain throughout the English Empire of the day in less than 80 days–and that, I might add well before the internet. Fran

Growing up, we were not encouraged to dream, neither day- nor night. Night dreaming might be mentioned if it was scary or taught a lesson. Anything else–the mysterious, flying, living a wonderful life–was dismissed as a waste of time. And day-dreaming was no better. You could have been learning, cleaning, studying, or making yourself a better person.

As the only American-born member of my family, this did not seem strange. My parents had not ony gone through the hard-time 1930s, but they went through World War II in one of the countries that lost.

To read the rest, as well as see a link on how to daydream, visit my art studio. There’s chai on the table.

(Image from Love of Scotland.)

I once took a great, one might even say magnificent, fall down a long metal staircase in a castle ruin in Scotland. I met a Spirit of some kind on the way down, which may or may not explain why I survived a fall that should have killed me, and that’s the story I’m going to tell now.

My husband (who prefers a pseudonym so, online, I call him the LovelyMan or the LM) and I took our first trip to Scotland in 1993. The LM was combining business with pleasure, which was how we were able to afford the trip at the time. We spent our first week in Glasgow, taking the occasional day trip by train to places such as Sterling and Edinburgh. Our second week we rented a car and set off with a rough itinerary, wandering and following recommendations of the locals.

Early in our first week we stopped at a Tourist Information Center (TIC) in the Muckle Toon ‘O’ Langholm in the Scottish Borders area. Every morning we would locate a TIC in order to book our room in a B&B for the upcoming night. The LM and I don’t usually travel in such a seat-of-the-pants manner. That’s what made this trip all the more fun. We were never quite sure where we would end up.

At the TIC in the Muckle Toon ‘O’ Langholm we booked our room and then spent some time chatting with James, the man who helped us with the booking. After a bit of back and forth about Mary Queen of Scots (I had read a hefty biography about her before our trip), James suggested we visit Hermitage Castle. As it was sort of on our way (or at least not completely out of our way), we decided to follow James’ advice and directions.

We set out on our adventure by following our first example of the narrow single-track country roads in Scotland. The road did a lot of winding through a rolling countryside where the primary inhabitants seemed to be sheep. The weather was typical of what we had been experiencing: rain with sunny spells. It was a misty rain with ground fog creeping and crawling over the hillocks, creating a mysteriously beautiful atmosphere.

We didn’t encounter any other vehicles on that road to Hermitage. We had to stop once or twice to wait for the sheep to clear out of the road, a novel experience for us.

The rain had stopped but it was still cloudy and gloomy when we arrived at Hermitage Castle. The weather and ground fog added to the castle’s grim appearance. The castle is next to Hermitage Water and is surrounded by bleak and open moorland. Although not that far from civilization, it did seem very remote. I read somewhere that Radio Scotland once described the castle as the embodiment of “sod off” in stone. It certainly seems to give off that message.

There were no other tourists there. The only person around was the castle’s caretaker, Patrick, who gave us a little information about the castle, took our admissions fee, and sold us a guidebook.

The LM and I walked down the path that led to the castle, guide book in hand, admiring this big hunk. The weather cleared, the sun came out and it looked like it would be a nice day after all. Best of all, we had the place all to ourselves. We were off the beaten tourist path.

Inside the castle ruin we meandered around, awed by the sight of our first castle ruin. We noticed a set of metal stairs leading up to what would be, in these times, the third floor (just to give you some of idea of height). There was a bird’s nest up there and the LM wanted to go up and have a look around so up we climbed. When we got to the top I took a few photos and then decided I wanted some from ground level. I started down the metal staircase. My foot slipped a bit and I said to the LM, “Be careful going down. The stairs are very slippery.”

Famous last words. Well, ok, not last words. I wouldn’t be writing this now if they were.

I turned around, started down, and my feet went sliding out from under me. What happened next was pretty much a blur as far as the ride down the stairs. I somehow managed to maintain an upright position, sliding and bumping down, hanging on to the railing, which was as slippery as the stairs, for dear life. I know I was going down with great speed yet it seemed to take forever. In fact, time did stop at one point. Even my husband, who doesn’t like to speak of such things, thought something “odd” had happened as I neared the bottom. His sense of time slowing and standing still parallels mine, but I think his was more about fear. He later said he thought for sure he’d be taking me home in a body bag.

I was nearing the bottom of the stairs, having cut one finger and torn off the fingernail of another, when I realized I was about to slam into a 400-year-old wall. At the speed I was moving down the stairs, the meeting of my body and the wall was not going to be a pleasant experience for me. The wall, I was sure, would survive it. As for me, I didn’t think it likely I would live through it, much less walk away. I had a lot of time to think this out in spite of that speed. Time had slowed…

… and two or three steps from the bottom time stopped.

I don’t know where I went or who I met. It was a woman, that’s for sure. At first I felt this incredible warmth as I moved through an amazingly brilliant and beautiful light. I thought at the time “Oh, I must have died on the way down.” There was no fear at all in that thought.

This is the part everyone wants to know about. I don’t mean to be a tease, but I honestly don’t remember what happened here other than I met and spoke with a Spirit. Was she Divine? I don’t know. Perhaps she was a spirit of the castle or of the land for which I felt a great affinity, as if I’d come home, the home of my soul. I do feel, and have always felt, that she introduced me to the concept of a Goddess because it was from this point that my spiritual path changed. Shortly after this event I began to study Goddess religions.

I think I spent a bit of time outside of time, outside of this world. And when it was time, I was back in the fall only something had changed. I hit a cushion of warm air that slowed my fall so that by the time I hit the wall, I just grazed it with my nose instead of smashing my face into it. I walked away with a smudge of dirt on my nose, a cut finger, a very sore right hand (from where it hit the wall), and the loss of most of a fingernail.

A small price to pay for an incredible experience.

I spent the rest of the trip seeing things out of different eyes. I think I’ve spent the rest of my life seeing things out of different eyes. There’s a beauty to life that wasn’t there before. I forget that from time to time. My eyes tire or my mind is out of tune. There have also been times when I regret having left wherever it was I went and find myself yearning to feel that warmth and that light. Then I remember I carried a small bit of that out with me and it’s there whenever I want to feel it.

We’ve been back to Scotland once since then. I can’t wait to go again. Just as I think I carried a small piece of the land back with me, I’m pretty sure I left a small bit of myself there. Everything seems complete, joined, when I’m there.

This is one of my favorite quotes by folk music artist, Pete Seeger. I think it represents the people here and especially the efforts of Heather.

“The artist in ancient times inspired, entertained, educated his fellow citizens.

Modern artists have an additional responsibility — to encourage others to be artists . . .

each of us must in some way be a creator as well as a spectator or consumer . . .

Make your own music, write your own books,

if you would keep your soul.”

To the Artist in us all,

Cathy

Ahh, fairy tales and children’s nursery rhymes.  Not all of them were for children however.  Some of them were also meant for parents.  Giving advice on how to raise children, for  example.

                                                                                                                                                          
There Was An Old Woman

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.*     
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.**
She gave them some broth without any bread.***
She whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.****  

                                                         
*Ancient slang for pre-fab houses in the suburbs.
** These were the days before Sesame Street & Barney.
***  What you do when there’s no McDonalds in the neighborhood.
**** The recommended advice to parents and the point of the rhyme.   

                                
Isn’t it great the times have changed?  Now we have Dr Seuss and books like “Hop on Pop”.  

      
“Hop on Pop” from Wikipedia

It is a very simple rhyming book, intended for younger readers, filled with colorful pictures. The book has no apparent plot, just pages of silly and fun rhymes.
“Hop On Pop” is an existential odyssey contrasting the child’s desire for freedom and the intrinsic need to satisfy parental authority figures. The rhyming couplets represent at once an acceptance of cultural form and tradition and a free-form explosion of self-actualizing creation.

Hop on Pop– an example of modern values.  A vast improvement.                                                       

Disclaimer: No children were harmed during the making of this posting.  And reports of Dr Seuss’s demise have been greatly exaggerated.  From personal experience I can assure you that Dr Seuss is still on the loose.  He was last seen in the company of the Elvis the King (uh-huh, uh-huh).  An album of their greatest hits is expected soon–who can forget such chartbusters as: Let’s Hop On Pop with Blue Suede Shoes, Horton Hears A Who In The Ghetto, or The Green Eggs & Ham Jambalaya??  To order your copy now, call 1-800-666-9999.  Have your credit card number ready for speedy delivery.  The Taverna di Muse is in no way responsible for the preceding offer or the contents of this post and will disavow all knowledge.

Here are several of my favorite  quotes.     

The Way It Is by William Stafford

“There is a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you can’t get lost. Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old. Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding. You don’t ever let go of the thread.”

What is your thread?  I think mine is my passion for creativity, in as many forms as I can experience.

In Western civilization in general, it is so hard not to be totally focused on outcome/results/the product.  When I feel I am getting sucked into it again, I reread this quote and start again.

“The object of painting a picture is not to make a picture–however unreasonable this may sound. The picture, if a picture results, is a by-product and may be useful, valuable, interesting as a sign of what has passed. The object, which is back of every true work of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a high state of functioning, a more than ordinary moment of existence.”
Robert Henri

This quote gives me the chills (in a mostly positive way) every time I read it.  He’s describing a risky path indeed.  But, as far as I know, it’s the only way that-at the end of your life-you can look back at your life and honestly say, “Yeah, I lived my life.”   Instead of  your parents’ life, the “American” way of life,  a life of external achievements only,  etc.

“I took the lamp. And leaving the zone of everyday occupations and relationships where everything seems clear, I went down into my inmost self, to the abyss whence I feel dimly that my power of action emanates. But as I moved further and further away from the conventional certainties by which social life is superficially illuminated, I became aware that I was losing contact with myself.  At each step of the descent a new person was disclosed within me of whose name I was no longer sure, and who no longer obeyed me. And when I had to stop my exploration because the path faded from beneath my steps, I found a bottomless abyss at my feet, and out of it came - arising I know not from where - the current which I dare to call my life.”
Teilhard de Chardin

Warning: Some readers may be disturbed by some of the images in this news report. Don’t ever tell this tale to your kids.

Breaking News: Little Red Riding Hood Crime Revealed
Reporter: Heather Blakey

The thylacine, or Tasmanian Tiger looked like a large, long dog, with stripes, a heavy stiff tail and a big head. Its scientific name, Thylacinus cynocephalus, means pouched dog with a wolf’s head. Fully grown it measured about 180 cm (6 ft) from nose to tail tip, stood about 58 cm (2 ft) high at the shoulder and weighed up to 30 kg. The short, soft fur was brown except for 13 - 20 dark brown-black stripes that extended from the base of the tail to almost the shoulders. The stiff tail became thicker towards the base and appeared to merge with the body.

Tasmanian Tigers were said to be usually mute, but when anxious or excited made a series of husky, coughing barks. When hunting, they gave a distinctive terrier-like, double yap, repeated every few seconds.

The tiger was shy and secretive and always avoided contact with humans. Despite its common name, ‘tiger’ it had a quiet, nervous temperament compared to its little cousin, the Tasmanian devil. Captured animals generally gave up without a struggle, and many died suddenly, apparently from shock. When hunting, the tiger relied on a good sense of smell, and stamina. It was said to pursue its prey relentlessly, until the prey was exhausted. The tiger was rarely seen to move fast, but when it did it appeared awkward. It trotted stiffly, and when pursued, broke into a kind of shambling canter.

Since 1936, no conclusive evidence of a tiger has been found. However, the incidence of reported tiger sightings has continued. There have been hundreds of sightings since 1936, many of which may have been clear cases of misidentification.

During the nineteen eighties Parks and Wildlife Officer, Richard Malrooney, was said to have undertaken an extensive but unsuccessful search to confirm a 1982 sighting reported near the Arthur River in the State’s northwest.

Now twenty three years later startling information has emerged which has shocked Tasmanian residents and left a cloud, darker than the crimes committed against the native aboriginal population and the wretched inhabitants of the Port Arthur Penal Colony. It appears that Parks and Wildlife were compelled to suppress Richard Malrooney’s startling report that rare DNA, extracted from skeletal remains was found in bottled jars of ethanol on the dusty shelf of a house in a remote part of Northern Tasmania. Only last year more Frankenstein style remains were found there. Amongst these was a well-preserved, one hundred and thirty six year old Tasmanian tiger pup.

It has now emerged that a young girl and her grandmother conspired to undertake horrific experiments on these innocent creatures in a cottage in the wilds of Tasmania during the late eighteen nineties and the first part of the nineteenth century. It appears that they relentlessly pursued the Tasmanian tiger, trapped them and committed heinous crimes against them. They covered their actions by spreading the story that these carnivorous animals were a threat to both humans and livestock. Bounties were put on the head of tigers and hundreds of the animals were trapped, snared, shot and poisoned near their property. No one had guessed that these well respected women kept a terrible secret.

They were sadists.

Little Red Riding Hood, as the young woman was known throughout the small town of Keltro, was in the habit of going to work with her grandmother each weekend. She always wore a red cape and spent time in what was then known as the Asbestos Range National Park.

Narawntapu National Park, as it is now called, stretches from the low coastal ranges to the long Bass Strait beaches, and includes an historic farm, a complex of inlets, small islands, headlands, wetlands, dunes and lagoons, all with an amazing variety of plants and animals.

Red Riding Hood and her grandmother were well respected in the small community of Keltro. The Westwards had farmed the region for years. Red Riding Hood’s grandmother had come to Tasmania in 1835 on the Resource with other free settlers from England. Lucinda Westward had a Licence in Midwifery and was a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. From about 1815 the colony began to grow rapidly as free settlers arrived and lands were opened up for farming. Lucinda Westward was the eldest daughter of Isaiah Spencer Westward an English farmer who claimed land in the Keltro region.

The beautiful, incredibly talented Westward became a prominent colonial medical “specialist”, a surgeon. In the early days, she was mainly called upon to restore or amputate damaged limbs. Great advances in anatomical knowledge during the early colonial period, derived from the dissection of human bodies, greatly increased the range of feasible operations. After the advent of anaesthetics and later of disinfectants in the middle of the nineteenth century she is said to have ventured into the abdominal cavity, the neck, and the chest. These operations were mainly performed under chloroform.

Westward had some experience in obstetrics and gynaecology and in latter years strayed into the doubtful provenances of mesmerism and electrotherapy. She was highly successful and became very wealthy. Upon her retirement she chose to become reclusive and live in the cottage, adjacent to the Asbestos Ranges and despite the humble appearance of her home lived in luxury. What no one knew was that although she maintained the appearance of a congenial, aging doctor, Lucinda Westward was dabbling in evil arts and she had found creatures to experiment upon. Isaiah Westward had always complained that a wolf like creature was eating his stock and Lucinda decided to take her revenge and experiment on this ancient species.

To capture these shy and secretive creatures, which generally avoided any human contact, Lucinda sent her granddaughter into the park with her basket to play among the butterflies and flowers that littered them. The girl had a special skill. She was able to communicate with all creatures and she enchanted even the hesitant Tasmanian tiger. When Red Riding took off her hooded red cape to reveal terrible bruises and scars the tiger went willingly to Grandmother’s house to protect her from the torture so cruelly inflicted upon her. Once there the beast was locked in a barren steel cage and subjected to unspeakable torture.

Malrooney, now retired, told reporters that the ghastly scene of mangled bodies parts in bottles found at the long abandoned Westward property left him permanently traumatised. He reported that these animals were routinely cut open, subjected to surgical operations, poisoned and forced to live in dark, barren steel cages for years. Many were left to suffer and die in these cages without any pain relief.

Today the Narawntapu National Park is a place of peace. However, many visitors to the park have reported sighting creatures that look like Tasmanian Tigers and have said that they have smelled their distinctive odour and heard husky coughing barks late at night. If you are out walking this park late at night you might hear the spine chilling, high pitched screeches of a Tasmanian Devil or smell the distinctive odour of the Tasmanian Tiger. If you do, get away from there as fast as you can - you are in grave danger. The legacy of Lucinda Westward and her granddaughter lives on in the forest where followers, generations removed, continue the practice of evil she began so long ago. Watch your step carefully! The ghostly spirits of tortured creatures regularly avenge the dead.

“What I think about vivisection is that if people admit that they have the right to take or endanger the life of living beings for the benefit of many, there will be no limit to their cruelty.” Leo Tolstoy

Give sorrow words

The grief that is not spoke

Whispers to the unquiet heart

And bids it break.

Taken from Shakespeare’s Macbeth

I genuinely believe this but am in awe of the insight, so beautifully expressed and so many centuries before Freud.

‘The pain then is part of the happiness now. That’s the deal.’

From the film ‘Shadowlands.’

Again absolutely spot on for insight and as a person who has always had issues with separation it encapsulates how I should look at relationships.

‘Why are you so good to me?’

‘Because someone was good to me once when I needed somebody.’

From the 1940’s black and white film ‘Now Voyager.’

I am an absolute sucker for 1940’s films and can’t count how many times I’ve watched this particular one. Bette Davis, Claude Rains and Paul Henreid. If you’ve never seen it you may have caught the very last scene where Jerry picks up two cigarettes, lights them both, passes one to Charlotte and as we look up into heavens she says, ‘Oh Jerry don’t let’s ask for the moon, we have the stars’.

So Shakespeare, an old black and white love/melodrama and a modern film.

Murder Mayhem Betrayal and Political Intrigue!

The Blue Stocking Society will be meeting this Friday to discuss

Children’s Rhymes and Fairy Tales

Are these really just children’s stories and what do they tell us about our history and ourselves?

Snow White – she’s not just a Disney Cartoon this is a story about an attempted murder , Hansel and Gretal are nearly done in by a cannibal and all we follow is a trail of bread crumbs! Miss Mary Quite Contrary is believed to be a rhyme about the Infamous Bloody Mary and instruments of torture and we teach these stories to little kids!

Bring your favorite story or rhyme and interpretation and your sense of humor 

 it’s going to be a great meeting.

This week’s topic is brought to you by, you guessed it, Anita Marie!

Comment below or make a new post archived as BS 09.03.07 Children’s Rhymes.

Who says an old idea cannot live again and that children, despite the most adverse situations will read if they can? I am sure that Joan Oleck will not mind my passing on this message from the British Columbia School Librarians to the Blue Stockings. For me this is inspiration and for those who write children’s stories hope for the future. Fran

Plane Drops 7,000 Books for Canada’s Indigenous Kids

Joan Oleck — School Library Journal, 3/5/2007

Most kids head to the library or bookstore when they need a book, but the aboriginal Cree children in Canada’s Far North can boast about a more adventurous experience. They received 7,000 novels and picture books after a military plane dropped them on to the frozen ice of a river emptying into Hudson Bay.

The February 26 drop was designated for K–10 students of the aboriginal reserve called Fort Severn First Nation. The tribe, like all of Ontario’s 26 northern first nations, suffers from geographical isolation, poverty, low literacy, and, until recently, a near-total lack of books in its school libraries. In all, two air drops delivered 900,000 new and gently used books for children in the subarctic native communities, which are unreachable by land during the winter.

The project is the brainchild of Ontario Lieutenant Governor James Bartleman, who is a member of the Mnjikaning First Nation. When Bartleman started the drive for the first nation school libraries in 2004, he collected 1.2 million books.

Bartleman’s chief-of-staff, Nanda Casucci-Byrne, says the thrill of watching the first drop outweighed the minus-10-degree temperatures and biting wind she had to brave. “It was a very large plane, the largest the community had ever seen,” she says. “It circled the community three times, and on the third time, on this predesignated spot on this frozen lake, you saw this large door at the back of the plane open. Then parachutes started to open. It was like gifts from the heavens.”

Once the massive crates hit the ice, nearly everyone in the community of 250 people hopped on their Skidoos and dogsleds and raced to reach the containers. Bartleman helped nearly 50 children tear open boxes and choose books. Some of the kids even plopped down on the snow and began to read, says Casucci-Byrne.

“When we put out this appeal, we thought, ‘If we get 150,000 books, it’ll be tremendous,’” she says. “Nine hundred thousand books later, and seeing this airplane coming to the most northerly, remote area of Ontario, and seeing these books fall from the sky… it was a beautiful picture.”

I meant to say Happy Birthday to Dr. Seuss last week (March 2) but it slipped my mind. (Lots of things are slipping lately!) Anyway it was Dr. Seuss’ 103 anniversary of his B-Day…he’s been dead, regretably, several decades. It was also Cat in the Hat’s 50th birthday the day before (March 1). Such celebration we had, pulling all the old Dr. Seuss books off the bookcase and reading them all in one sitting. We even sent an e-mail birthday card to the Cat. (So did 400,000 other people — can you imagine?)

Anyway, I found a great quote (amongst many others) :

The more that you read, The more things you will know.

The more that you learn, The more places you’ll go.

Dr. Seuss

Happy traveling to you all! Looks like we’ll all be taking off for places unknown! Enjoy!

Barbara F.

“Maybe if I had not picked up that one person dying on the street, I would not have picked up the thousands.”  Mother Theresa

 ”Work while you have light.”  Marcel Proust’s favorite quote, taken from the Bible.

Took my camera along to my appointment at a downtown hospital clinic and saw the first blossoms just barely in bloom. The whole city has a different feel about it, even the stone maidens atop the Cathedral place and the carved mermaid at an old building at Hastings and Grandville. More photos and with better detail, just follow the link by clicking on the animation and follow the URL to my flickr site.

Some time it has been since I walked
Upon these paths of peace and delight,
Still remember I well the day I first saw
Those city walls of splendour, so bright.
The city itself sat on a hill
Surrounded it seemed by walls of gold,
And any who saw it in the sun
Were dazzled by beauty, as is often told.

The City of Light lay resplendent in glory
Magnificent spirals and churches abound;
A peal of bells rang out a new story
It seemed as if angels alone were around.
Its beauty seemed both untouched and unreal,
And I merely human with feet made of clay,
That little there was but for me just to feel
Such a City of Angels was not mine on that day.

[This poem was written as an attempt to create using traditional rhyming stanzas. It is based on a piece of prose written about a vision seen while wandering in the environs of the City of Ladies.)

(Enthusiastic Exploration. Photo by Robin)

No one keeps up his enthusiasm automatically. Enthusiasm must be nourished with new actions, new aspirations, new efforts, new vision. Compete with yourself; set your teeth and dive into the job of breaking your own record. It is one’s own fault if his enthusiasm is gone; he has failed to feed it. ~ Papyrus

I have such a large quote collection and any one of them could be or happened to be my favorite at one time or another. This one about enthusiasm is my current favorite.

I’ve been in the midst of a lot of changes over the past several months. Some of those changes involve my health. Rather than jump right into surgery and medications, I made the decision to be proactive by taking charge of my health and my life, making lifestyle changes that will hopefully bring the desired results (so far, so good!). If you’ve ever made lifestyle changes, you know that some days are easy but most days you’re plodding along and something trips you up and next thing you know, you’re back to old ways and bad habits, wondering why you started this self-improvement project in the first place.

When I quit smoking (what seems like a lifetime ago, but it was only 6 years), I learned that the only way I could succeed was by remaining positive about the change no matter what. No matter what happened in life, no matter how bad the cravings got, no matter how much easier it might have been to give up. Bad cravings were fended off with positive thoughts, laughter, or general overall craziness if that’s what it took (I once took a killer craving, mentally shot it out into space, and wondered if there was some creature on another planet suddenly hit by nicotine cravings crying out “I want a cigarette!” and then wondering what the heck a cigarette is and why he was craving it). I kept myself from smoking by making a long and ongoing list called “The Joys of Quitting.” That list was a lifeline of enthusiasm for me. It reminded me of why I was quitting and why it was worth it to get through the moment and the craving. I nurtured and nourished my quit every single day (still do), continually feeding my enthusiasm.

For health reasons I’ve recently changed my diet and have taken on an ambitious exercise program. I had to start with very small steps, working my way up to where I am now. There were days when I didn’t want to leave my bed. I use this quote to get me up and get me moving.

On the days I couldn’t do much physically, I started learning how to do new things. I’m learning how to draw and paint. My drawings and paintings are very childlike, but so is my enthusiasm for them. I get excited watching something appear on a blank sheet of paper, even if that something isn’t what I originally visualized, even if that something will never be considered a Great Work.

Every day I feed my enthusiasm for life, for love, for my health, for my healing, and for my Self. It keeps me going, even on those days when all I want to do is quit.

~ Robin

There are lots of quotes that inspire me. Most of them are ones that get me out of my head and into my heart.

When the workload is big and the spirit is thinking that ironing may be the only solution, as I’ve done all the laundry, I like this one:

“You do not have to complete the task, but neither can you put it down.” That usually helps me work for a set period of time, like an hour. After that, I want to keep working. That quote was from the Talmud, as is this one: “We do not see things the way they are, we see things the way we are.” Always good to get perspective. Sometimes I have to realize that I’m just walking through someone else’s reality and that doesn’t make it my reality, too.

I saw this written on a wall when I was in China, and at first didn’t understand it, then learned to love it: “We must separate truth from fact.”

And Thomas Edison’s advice: “We frequently miss opportunity because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.”

And after trying to do tackle something that was beyond my skill set, I finally said, “Half of being smart is knowing what you are dumb at and not doing it.” This is not the same as not pushing yourself, but it is very different from wasting time trying to get something that you can’t do. Just to be clear: I will never be a ballerina, for reasons of age, weight, arthritis and talent. If I suddenly enrolled in ballet school with dreams of dancing the Nutcracker, it would be a waste of time. If I enrolled to increase balance, that would just be pushing the comfort zone. But I’ve spent an enormous amount of time tackling things I should have left alone.

This was a great exercise!

Two quotes by Joy Williams, author of “The Quick and the Dead,” that I found odd enough to copy into my quote journal. Now why did I do that?

‘The hours between two and dawn are like a gift that only a few unwrap — a puzzling, luminous gift.’

‘Society, as a rule, doesn’t bother anyone pushing a shopping cart. The further a cart is taken from the store where it belongs, the more deference is paid to the possibly unstable individual who has taken charge of it.’

Food for thought, eh?

Barbara F.

Biederbeck: What kind of fiend are you?
Phibes: The kind that wins, my friend. 

This quote  is from one of my favorite movies: Dr Phibes Rises Again- it stars my favorite actor of all time Vincent Price.

When I was a kid ( I was about 8 when I saw this movie ) this line became my personal mantra- not because I was a fiend ( though I was an outcast and bit of a rebel ) but it showed me that at your very lowest you could fight back.

And win or lose you can do it with style.

It’s a thought worth keeping

amm

Dear Foodies:  What is your favorite quote?  And why?  Create a post and archive it to “Favorite Quotes”.

Here’s one of mine:   

“There is one thing I’ve learned, folks, and this is absolutely key–it’s not the thing you fling, it’s the fling itself.”  Chris-in-the-Morning, KBHR, Cicely, Alaska

When Chris, the artist/disk jockey, in the 1990 television show Northern Exposure, decided to build a giant catapault to fling a cow, he had no idea until his friend, Ed Chigliak, told him that Monty Python had already flung a cow in The Holy Grail.   At first despondent that his “transitory cow-fling thing” already had been accomplished, he immediately became inspired when he saw the rubble of Maggie’s burned down house.  He took her damaged piano, filled it with all sorts of discarded flotsam and jetsam from the Cicely townsfolk, and then utters the words above just before he launches the piano to its ulitmate destruction.

The point?  For me I constantly struggle between the product and the process.  I know this is not for everyone, but for me, the process IS as important as the finished process.  There is healing in the act of creating something, every bit as much as in the satisfaction of enjoying the finished piece. 

Now, I need to find something to fling. 

Lori Gloyd (c) 2007

I have a theory that inspiration floats around like winged seeds, the air is full of ideas and they alight on anyone, regardless of whether you are a painter, a writer or an inventor. They just float about and pop into peoples’ heads, and sometimes they take root and produce a flower, other times they can’t grow beyond that first flash of inspiration and move on. Have you ever noticed that if you don’t use a flash of inspiration, someone else will? A story or picture you vaguely had in mind turns up as someone else’s work. I don’t mind when that happens, it just shows the seed found more fertile ground.
Jo Rowling said that Harry Potter just `popped into her head” fully clothed and ready to go - of course he did. The seed that was destined to flower into the seven Harry Potter novels knew this was the mind that would nurture it best.
I know sometimes and idea pops into my head fully formed and all I have to do is write it up or gather my art materials - if the idea lies fallow and doesn’t come to anything, no matter how often I look at it, I know it’s not really meant for me. I just caught one that was floating about, and I’ll happily let it go to find another mind. There are plenty more floating about up there, and while some are not for me, I’ll catch one that is.

Sun breaks the night spells
cast by veils of chiffon and lies.
Satin clouds part to reveal
what darkness hides.
Whisperings of icy breezes
trail over the horizon.
Snow arrives,
reaching into shadows
with fingers of dazzling truth.
But the traveller prefers to
follow trails that lead him to
far and distant promises.
A still pool remains,
reminding any who
care to listen that
secrets more ancient
than they know
lie at the bottom of
her realm.

In this excerpt from a painting by Edward Hopper, there are two people dining, for what reason no-one knows. No-one knows what they are saying, what is happening, what they are planning, or what has happened. Most of life is unknown, and it is said that to write requires a curious mind. So curiosity is an inspiration, and this painting, simply titled “New York Restaurant” (1922), leaves a lot of blanks to fill. I say he is working his way round to proposing, as a wild guess from the body language — he looks like he is presenting her with an idea of some kind, and she looks as if she is not quite there yet, musing a little. But I do think she likes him, because of the trouble she has taken to dress. Looks like it’s lunch, in the daytime. Do men propose in the daytime or night time as a rule? Not sure. Yet I am curious and I do realise I might never know…

(Image - Edward Hopper 1922 - Muskegon Museum of Art.)

Creative inspiration?

It must be divine
because
I cannot explain
where it comes
from…

Inspiration,
the view
outside my window

I observe color harmonies,
textures, silhouettes,
and patterns of clouds.

Almost every evening
a new gallery opening appears
in the sky.

In these moments
I marvel at
this beautiful planet
and think how lucky I am
to see as I do.

Sometimes I take pictures
but mostly I try
to absorb the feeling
and memorize details.

I wonder how much
enters into my work,
but mostly
it is not planned.

Art supplies
and tools
inspire me.

I wander the art supply store
noticing everything.

I linger over industrial tools
to see what possible marks
they can make.

In solitude
I lose myself
in my task
to find
joy

~Lunagirl

A mystery ship on a misty tide
floats silent, its passengers sleeping
waiting for a signal
from an empty window

Oh, a rather complex question for me, Lori.  Is my source external or internal?  It’s like asking me if I’m introverted or extraverted. I read a lot of books (which is supposed to mean I am introverted) but if you stop to look at the kind of books I read–at least 80% of my reading is about people (novels, psychology, the arts) not things.  So I’m an extroverted introvert?  I seem to be both!  Some people score 80/20 or 70/30 on the introvert/extrovert dimension.  I’m like 45/55!  External input prompts my writing and so does internal energy.  It’s very mixed up for me and I think, at this point, not very relevant.  I write because I want to write and I’ll use whatever kind of inspiration (external or internal) comes to me.  But, I can think of situations where this might be a good question.  Such as, am I writing to get approval?  To get published?  To become famous?  Because one of my parents was a famous writer??  Are these questions examples of external motivation or internal motivation?  Could be both. 
Oh, lord, I think I’ll go on to the easier question.  Is the source of my inspiration divine?    I would not say so, but I can understand why artists/writers/musicians have said this.  There have been rare occasions (usually when writing poems) when I feel that I (my ego, conscious self) has not written something.  Another part of me (beyond my ego) has written it.  Because it comes out about 98% finished!  Maybe I have to give it a title, but the rest of the work was done before I picked up the pen to write!  Plop!  There is it!  A complete little story in the form of a poem.  I wish I could figure how I did it and do it more often!  (The conscious self/ego wants that control!)  Most of my writing though (fiction or non-fiction) comes in pieces.  A little bit here, a little bit there.  It needs time to grow.  Sometimes I get endings before beginnings, or middles before beginnings & endings.  Sometimes it’s like putting a puzzle together or quilting.  This dialogue goes here, etc.  Or, to use another metaphor, (used first by someone else but I can’t remember whom) and this I could believe, there’s always a river or stream of creativity going thru us–24 hrs a day, 365 days a year, (and dreams are part of this river too), but we (our conscious self) can only go swimming in this river part of the time.  Do not mourn the time we are not swimming though, for we are human and therefore need to eat/sleep, care for children, pay the mortgage, etc.  Indeed, if we didn’t do those things we wouldn’t be able to “go swimming” at all.  So celebrate–and come on in, the water’s just fine.

Cheshire

P.S.  Honest truth.  I wrote this before I saw the photo Literary Bohemian posted with her writing.  Go check it out–it’s a beautiful nature scene.

The topic this week at the Bluestocking’s Meeting is: “What are your sources of inspiration? Is it from within? Or without? Is it divine or not so?”

This topic is so timely for me. There is more synchronicity happening in my life than I know what to do with! And, it’s all thanks to the Artist’s Way, the ritual of writing morning pages, practicing Yoga, and learning to manifest my own artistic journey.

During my first college art class, the professor -a petite and enthusiastic woman with kind eyes- imparted some amazing advice to me. Our objective was to draw a still life -including shading and shadow- both of which I felt wholly inadequate to learn.

(Shading and shadow had always been hard for me. But, during the course of the class, she taught me to “see” in new ways. “Follow the line,” she’d say. “Just follow the line. Is it darker here than there? Why? Where is the light? Where is the shadow? Pay attention to the chiaroscuro,” she taught us. And, it worked. I saw objects in new ways –literally. I saw light where before I’d noticed none, I noticed the patterns it made across the Humboldt Bay at sunset while I drove to art class. I’d see the way the grays and greens would soften, as my perspective of the red- wooded mountains would increase in distance. I noticed the way a shadow appeared to ripple across the glittering fresh water lagoons of Northern California while the idyll ocean mist made its footfall on land.)

The advice my professor -herself an accomplished artist- imparted to me: “A piece of art is your own creation. You are allowed to take whatever artistic liberties with it that pleases you. The point is NOT to make the still life an exact replica of itself. The point is to create the still life the way YOU see it –the way YOU interpret it.”

Because of her words I know that Philip Sydney’s quote is true “”Fool!’ said my Muse to me, ‘look in thy heart and write’.”

Outer sources of inspiration -no matter how profound- are in every case filtered through the being of the artist and through the eyes of the beholder. It is the gift of the artist to allow the world to see life through his or her own eyes. While inspiration abounds and the muse plays her coy game of hide-and-seek, the heart and soul of the artist actively participates in the formation of inner landscapes. Do I believe that inspiration comes from within? I believe that interpretation comes from within. As for inspiration –it lives everywhere!

L.B.

Some famous creatives have made these observations about their sources of inspiration:

• Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: ‘Fool!’ said my Muse to me, ‘look in thy heart and write.’  Philip Sidney

• When inspiration does not come, I go for a walk, go to the movie, talk to a friend, let go . . . The muse is bound to return again, especially if I turn my back!  Judy Collins
• There is a deity within us who breathes that divine fire by which we are animated. Publius Ovidius Naso

What are your source of inspiration?  Is it from within?  Or without?  Is it divine or not so?

Comment below or post to category BS 02.03.07 Creative Inspiration.

They say that the ancients, our ancestors, early man and woman, believed that time was circular, not linear, like we moderns do today. I say that time itself is an artificial construct, a linear abstraction superimposed over apparently eternal circular events. The sun and moon rise and fall, seasons come and go, men and women are born and die. There, you say, a perfect example of linear time- one is born and in a straight line, shortest distance, one dies. End of time. I say sometimes when you’re in the circle, and the other circles are spinning around you and beside you and beyond you, it’s hard to see for the spinning, unless you can grab onto something in the center to hang on to.When I was eight my father moved our family, my mom and sister and I, to the outer rim of a circle. Kirby Haigh Circle was the name of the street, but only on our half. The other half was called Tarpon Place, I guess because it was on the water and a tarpon is a kind of fish. What Kirby Haigh meant nobody knew, plus it was hard to say and we always had to spell it when we were telling someone our address. The first day my sister and I came home from school, we couldn’t remember which of the houses on the circle was ours, although we knew it was on the outer rim and not one of the houses in the center, whose backyards all came to a point in the middle like spokes on a wheel. So we walked around the circle and finally chose one that we thought was our new house.The house we went to was actually our next door neighbors, a Navy family like ours but they were from Germany. The wife spoke no English at all and she was the one who answered the door and looked blankly at us while we tried to figure out who was this woman in our house. Later we would become friends with her two sons and would trade German words for English. Once my sister asked them what was German for “firefly” and the older one said “light bulb” and we laughed until they went home angry. The older one’s name was Burnt and the younger one was Jurgen, pronounced “yoor-gen” not like the hand lotion. We wondered what kind of people would name their sons so oddly; after all, we were German but had good American names. Mari Lynn and Cheryl Lee. Southern in tone but I was the only true Southerner, having been born in the Naval hospital in Portsmouth, VA. My sister was born in Pennsylvania like my mom and dad; but really true Southerners wouldn’t have allowed me to call myself Southern. Just cuz the cat has kittens in the oven, they’d say, we don’t call’em biscuits.Anyhow, while we’re still standing on the German lady’s porch my mom came out of our house next door and saw us and then we knew we were at the wrong house. The houses all looked alike and as we found out later, they all had the same floor plan although some were reversed. Our house was supposed to have three bedrooms but one of them connected to the kitchen so we used it as a dining room and tried to ignore the closet that was there. My bedroom was billed as a study and was so small I could sit on the floor with my back against the bed and my legs drawn up against my chest and still my feet would touch the dresser on the opposite wall. At night in this bedroom I could hear a clock ticking (although I didn’t have one) that I thought was the house’s heart beating or my own and would be scared because I thought it meant my life was ticking away. My sister’s bedroom was right next to mine and our parents was across the hall. I would try all sorts of different strategies for sleeping with my sister in her bed and sometimes it would work. Sometimes I would try to sleep in my parents bed but when I got old enough to know that sperm came out of the man and went into the woman it made babies, I got scared to sleep in their bed because I didn’t know how the sperm got from the man to the woman. I thought maybe it just got out in the night and crawled across the bed until it found an opening and maybe if there was some in the bed it might get me by accident.