Category Archive

Describe your writing or art-making space.

Yark!  I write wherever I am–sometimes at my computer desk on the desktop computer or in a notebook.  Sometimes I write while sitting on the couch or in bed, with the laptop or pen and paper.  I’ve been known to go to the library and hide in a corner and scribble like mad in a notebook.

For art–there’s always the floor–and the table–when I can find it.  Usually the floor though–more room there and I can spread out more.  Since i cannot get to any table lately, I have actually been using my ironing board as a sewing platform to hold my sewing machine aloft as I sew.

Describe your writing implement, device, equipment, or tools you use to create.

pens of all sorts, pencils, crayons in a pinch–usually because my dd steals all my pens and leaves me broken bits of crayon in place of the stolen pens, laptop computer, desktop computer, dip pens, markers, a finger or two dipped in paint upon occasion

What is the oddest object in your creative space?

a big round metal thing–we found it on the ground during a trip to the library–it looks as if it fell off someone’s car although for the life of me we cannot identify where on any car or truck or anything else it could have come from–it’s as big around as my hand with a big hole in the middle and all rusted and beautiful–and my dd and I immediately said we needed it for an art project–that particular art project has not yet presented itself so I have the piece just lying here and there as it gets moved around alot just to keep it out of the way

Do you listen to anything while you create? If so, what?

my dd singing is a norm–Deva Premal, Duran Duran, Madonna are other typical things–of late my favourite thing to listen to is absolutely nothing at all–which has now come into conflict as we live in an apartment and school is nearly done for the year apparently as there are kids–as in near teen-agers always about yelling and screeching and basically being a menace on many levels

Do you engage in any interesting habits, exercises, warm-ups or rituals before you settle down to create?

hiding from cats and kid?  making a nice strong pot of tea is a definite–I drink tea all day and night.  other than that I do alot of deep breathing all the time

when I use the laptop I do try to keep the charging cord nearby just in case I need it lest I lose anything 

Raven TK

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

In no real order at all…with no real rhyme or reason…

1.  Geisha by Liza Dalby–an exploration of the real world of Geisha 

2.  Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman–much better than the movie too

3.  Emotional Yoga by Bija Bennett

4.  Drawing As A Sacred Activity by Heather Williams

5.  All Year Round by Druitt, Fynes-Clinton and Rowling

Raven TK

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

These are all books I’ve acquired since I moved out here, and I deliberately chose different books–it didn’t seem interesting to grab all the communication texts I teach from

1. 60 Hikes within 60 Miles of Phoenix.  A book that breaks down interesting hikes by views, difficulty, location.

2. The Zen of Seeing. A beautiful book,  hand-drawn and handwritten using shades of gray and black inks, that promotes seeing and drawing at meditation.

3. Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks.  Music and the brain. (I’m tone deaf.)

4. Book Proposals that Sell.  Step by step instructions for writing the non-fiction book proposal.

5. Create Your Own Artist’s Journal. A beautifully written and illustrated book that grounds you in the practice of keeping a visual journal.

My books are in no particular order:

The Creative Habit

The Witch of Portobello

The Elements of Design

Not Quite World’s End

Jottings: Flights of Fancy from Liz Smith

Only by closing my eyes in front of each section of shelves stacked with books, more or less arranged in genres, and reaching out blindly.  Thus, I came up with these five.  In an hour, or a day, there would be a different five.

1.  Die To Live – Questions and answers about meditation, existence, life, reincarnation, etc., with humor and wisdom.

2. The Source  - one of the first books taking one place on earth (a tell in Israel) and relating a fictionalized history of that place and surrounding area since the very beginning.  Going through the history of pagans, Jews, Christians, Muslims, the book relates the beginnings of the centuries-old problems still affecting that area, and the world.

3.  Writing From Life: Telling your Soul’s Story – great prompts and writing information to assist you to dig deep into your life and its motivations.

4.  Soul Collage – Great information and examples on how to do collage to enhance the processing about who you really are and why.

5.  The Doomsday Book – science fiction whereby historians in 2055 go to the 14^th century to observe, unfortunately arriving in the midst of an influenza outbreak which complicates their project.  

I can’t just list five - here’s another I have to include:

6.  God’s Whisper, Creation’s Thunder - dealing with the connection between findings of the new physics and the insights of the great mystics.

1. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats - poetry

2. Zen in the Art of Writing - essays on writing

3. Aunt Dimity, Vampire Hunter - a cozy mystery

4. The Fire Rose - a fantasy, retelling the story Beauty and the Beast, set in early 20th century San Francisco

5. The Knitter’s Handy Book of Patterns - the title says it all!

- She Wolf

The place where I like to write is where I am right now.  A comfortable computer chair with head and lumbar support combined with a card table situated by a window looking out over my backyard.  From this spot I can meditate, read, or write at the table with my purple gel-pen.  Frequently I lean back, gaze out the window, watch the birds, butterflies, bugs and bunnies, while clouds of all configurations coast by. I delight in the deciduous and evergreen trees of all hues of green, and revel in whatever flowers are blooming, from the huge wild rose bush with cascading white-flowered canes to the erect purple iris – I observe it all, and mull.

Mulling is the process whereby I throw various ideas and thoughts in, allowing them all to slowly simmer at their own pace as they recombine into new permutations and possibilities.  It is my brain’s slow-cooking process whereby ingredients swirl around in the stew pot, colliding, passing by, softening and recombining, each adding flavor to the other, to concoct a great stew or soup.  And sometimes an unexpected ingredient I forgot I even added enhances the end result. 

I sit, surrounded by bookcases of books, art supplies, pictures of my loved ones, even a reproduction of a clay Sumerian tablet from about 2500 BC I purchased on one of my many visits to the University of Pennsylvania Museum in Philadelphia.  I often wonder what people might think if they rummage through the collapsed remains of my house in Arkansas years from now and unearthed what would appear to be a Sumerian artifact.  One of the unexpected ingredients surrounding me.

The place where I like to write is also the place where I like to meditate, read, mull, watch nature without the exposure to ticks and chiggers, plan gardens, listen to music; in other words, the place where I relax in ways necessary for my life.  I realize, though, that I might sometimes need to inject a little more fire and play into my mulling to prevent the tendency to drift off with the clouds.  

1. The Creative License - a book about creative everyday journalling

2. The Way of the Peaceful Warrior - novel with a spiritual twist

3. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time- written from an autistic boy’s perspective

4. Himalaya - armchair travel

5. Beyond Baked Beans Green - veggie cookery

Small Graces- simple beauty of everyday life

Brian Froud’s World of Faery - luscious artwork - over 30 years of his magical mystical beings

The Book of Weird - a quirky encyclopedia of mythical creatures & their descriptions

Green Man myths - an anthology of wood sprites/beings/stories

The Golems of Gotham - “A book Job might have written if he had a wry sense of humor” - “magical realism that delves into Holocaust memories”

The Stand by Stephen King: I read this once a year, at least. King’s best book, raising all kinds of questions about Good and Evil, the nature of society, the best and worst of humanity - the characters are so beautifully drawn, I feel as if I know each one personally now. The underlying theme - what do you believe? What do you hold sacred? Would you take a stand? Powerful stuff.

Nigella Express: My favourite cook book at the moment. I love the succulent way Nigella writes about food. Even her recipes-in-a-hurry dally over the sheer pleasure of cooking and eating. My son in law, the Filipino chef bought it for me as a spur of the moment gift, so it is doubly treasured.

Roget’s Thesaurus: A very old, battered Penguin paperback edition.

The Prester Quest by Nicholas Jubber: I’m reading this now. It’s the hilarious account of Jubber’s quest to walk in the footsteps of a medieval priest charged with finding the mysterious (and non existent) Kingdom of Prester John, somewhere in Africa.

Ghosts of Vesuvius: Charles Pellegrino’s rivetting comparison of the destruction of the twin towers and other major disasters, such as the sinking of the Titanic and the eruption of Mt Vesuvius. I found it incredibly moving; when Pellgrino and his fellow workers returned to Pompeii after sifting through Ground Zero to study the damage and compare it to Vesuvius (the effects were the same, so investigators were hoping to save lives in future events of this type, including volcanic eruptions) their attitude had changed dramatically. Pompeii was no longer a historical event but an intensely human one. For the first time, these pragmatic scientists `contaminated’ a site by leaving memorials for the long dead - such as a doll, from `the childen of New York to the Children of Pompeii’ (because one of the bodies found at Pompeii is a small girl child clutching a doll.) A most beautifully written book - I highly reccomend it.

Here’s a fun discussion prompt that allows us to know each other better.

As quickly as possible, list five books from your bookshelves making sure they are not all from the same genre. For example, it could be a novel, autobiography, about science, on spirituality, a cookbook, a book, a memoir, poetry, art, how to, business, self help — make sense? 

You can give a brief one sentence description of what the book is about. However, don’t give us any information on why you chose these books or the name of the author (not needed). Just list the 5 book titles and what the book is about and then post them to Blue Stocking Society. That’s it

The second part is where the fun comes in.  We comment on each other’s list of 5 book titles, sharing our perception of what each title tells us about the person we are writing about. When commenting on the book titles, it’s best to write what first comes to your mind instead of trying to figure what you think or know about the person.

I’ll start it off with five (5) book titles from my bookshelves. I look forward to everyone jumping in and posting their 5 book titles and then all of us commenting on each other’s titles.

Here goes:

1) Einstein’s Dreams, a novel (simple, lyrical, and literal details to locate Einstein precisely in a place and time–working on his bizarre, unheard-of theory of relativity)
2) A Trail Through Leaves, The Journal as a Path to Place (a treasure-box of ways to write, draw, and be alive to the world.
3) 7 Deadly Sins of Chocolate (a cookbook with chocolate recipes designed to represent the 7 deadly sins)
4) Brave Hearts, Rebel Spirits (stories of modern-day prophets of positive change inspiring the world
5) Through the Eyes of the Gods: An Aerial Vision of Africa (aerial photography showing us the remarkable part of the world from a whole new angle)

– genece hamby, contemporary artist & poet
http://sanctuaryofstillness.wordpress.com

Writing Rituals - or generally odd things I’ve gotten away with using
the excuse, “Because I’m a writer…”

–One of the oddest writing spaces I’ve ever used was an abandoned,
quite weathered tiny mobile home, which had no electricity, no
furniture, no bathroom - and it was parked in a national forest (behind
a friend’s log cabin). Me, a yellow legal pad, and a couple of pens - I
had everything I needed to write for a whole weekend. My only company
was a few long-dead wasps on the floor. It was quiet, peaceful, and I
filled several pages easily…

–Probably the oddest writing utensil I ever used was a dandelion. I
was at an outdoor concert, got inspired, but had no pen or paper. So I
tore up a paper drink cup, picked a dandelion, and smeared a poem. It
was a rather short poem.

–I don’t know how odd it is, but it seems appropriate for a writer: no
matter what room I’ve used as an office, I’ve always hung a bright 9 X
12 inch orange sign with 4-inch glow-in-the-dark letters that spell,
“SEND HELP!”

–When I was writing my novel about my experiences in a religious cult,
I used to listen to Gregorian chants to get in the ethereal mood.

–For warm-ups, I try to remember these inspirational words from Ray
Bradbury:

“You throw up at the typewriter all morning and clean up all afternoon.”
And “He who has fun creates!”

—an aside - When John Steinbeck was writing East of Eden, he kept a
companion book which was published as Journal of a Novel. He would warm
up for the day by talking about the story, how it was going, his hopes
for it, by drafting a “letter” to his editor each day…Often, the last
line of the letter read, “And I hope you like it…” I try to keep that
same warmth, friendliness, and respect for my readers in mind when I
start writing…

Kerry

I usually write on a computer. I find that odd sometimes, because I have always found a clean sheet of paper and a smooth-writing pen pure inspiration. My hand, however, is rarely able to keep up with my mind, and my handwriting degenerates into unreadable, thoughts get lost, and the whole thing turns writing into an exercise in pure frustration. (Poetry is the exception. I still need paper and pen for poetry.) The days of typewriters were no better. My fingers often hit the wrong keys, and I have no patience with myself over that. A computer, though, with a word processing program - now that is my best work-place.

Ideally, I would have a quiet room with peaceful blues and greens decorating it, a few favorite pieces of fantasy art and knickknacks, and a comfy chair and a desk the right height for my keyboard. I would have either no music, or something like world music or new age or gentle classical -anything without words - on the stereo, very softly. Alas, reality is far different.

If I have my keyboard, I can, and often do, write anywhere. I lose myself in what I am writing, and the world around me disappears.

I write at the dining room table with the family squabbling and dogs barking and birds squawking and the stereo booming whatever the last person who got to it set it on, all normal and noisy around me.

I write at my desk in the bedroom with a sport-of-the-season game blaring in the background, my desk cluttered and frequently topsy-turvy. (Although it is topped with some of my favorite bits and pieces - a baby griffin, a Chinese dragon purchased on a trip to Los Angeles almost thirty years ago, a scene of a wizard’s cottage, a sand dollar that my oldest son brought me from a trip to Seattle, a few small stuffed critters, and some tiny eggs from my birds. There is also, regrettably, a collection of tea cups and mugs up there that needs to go back to the kitchen.) But when I’m writing, I really don’t notice the state of the desk. (And yes, I know I actually can do something about the messy desk, but when I do, it never lasts very long. Entropy is strong in my house.)

I would write in the car (this is serious downtime and boredom sends my imagination into overdrive) but I get car sick. I do have a car charger for the computer, though.

I used to think I needed things just right to write. Now I know that if I want things right, then I just need to write.

- She Wolf © 2008

My writing rituals are fairly ordinary and my workspace extremely mundane. Typically, I draft my writings by hand, where I absolutely must use a black felt tip pen, preferably a Flair. With this pen, I can recline and keep the ink flowing. Sometimes I write on my living room sofa; other times I’m at my local natural food store that has free wi-fi—a fact that is important and I’ll describe in a minute. Typically, I write either very late at night or early in the morning, such as right now.

So, anyway, my handwritten drafts just tend to be a list of notes, phrases that roll around in my mind, and perhaps some more complicated explications. Then I move to my PC and flesh out the text. Now, when I am creating digital art, I typically skip the handwritten bit and just go straight to my computer and start working. My computer is in my bedroom/library/office/storeroom…. See, I live in this really, really small apartment and most rooms are utilized in a multipurpose manner. No I do not write in the bathroom but I have had many inspired thoughts there.

I don’t have too many odd things around my workspace—just usual things like books, papers, music CDs, books, a vacuum cleaner, my bed, a DVD of Qi Gong exercises (which I watch on my computer because my DVD player is broken,) books and more books. Regarding books, the two that are right next to my monitor at the moment are Writing Down the Bones by Goldberg and Krause’s Color Index: CMYK and RGB Formulas for Print and Web Media.

I don’t usually listen to anything specific when I write or make art. At the moment I am listening to some guy on the radio ranting about the state of the world—oh, I just heard a crow caw right outside the window—really, I’m not making this up—and two bus lines roar by my front door every five minutes from about 5:30 am to about 9 p.m, rattling the windows and drowning out any other sounds. In hot weather, when I have my bedroom windows open, I can hear everything coming from the people who live in the building next door. I hear them talking, cooking, watching tv, entertaining, etc. This is usually followed by the sounds of my muttering something about their getting a room somewhere else and the loud sliding shut of said bedroom window.

I have no other writing rituals except when I work at my computer, I MUST have something to drink—it can be anything (usually coffee) as long as it is sitting on the right side of my computer—which is interesting because I am left-handed. Also, and more importantly, I can’t even begin to work unless I check my e-mail first. I don’t know why this is, but I cannot work until every unread e-mail is read. So when I am writing somewhere not my home, then I must find a place with a free wi-fi spot (such as my local natural food market), when I can plug in my Ipod and look at my e-mail. Oh, no, I’m not addicted at all to the internet, nope, not me.

My ending ritual is realizing that I have to be somewhere else, scrambling to sign off, and bolting out of the room–Such as now– It is now 6:20 in the morning and I have to hustle to get ready for work.

Have a great day everyone. I’m looking forward to reading about your writing habits.

Lori

Two wooden figures  on the upper shelf
wave to some hidden presence
bend their knees
in ritual parade
one kicks out at the set
of opera glasses as if it knew
them ancient and useless
The tiny carved cat disregards the lot
and shuts her eyes

And at that point a thunder clap
closed my electronic performance
so I took off with the book that explains
my  predicament:  Chaos theory; now there’s
an explanation for the break up
of pattern and its reconstruction and that, I think,
is the oddest thing
I keep at hand.

The rest is routine, a keyboard, Mac,
a WACOM that is refusing my direction
I cannot listen
to music, but strangely often
to someone who speaks to a far off microphone
as if the drone of someone else’s voice
will help to  find my own when the new pattern
has failed to form at the edges of that chaos,
age and history create

You talked of habit—most of mine need discipline
a question to be answered
a plan to make
a memory  to release
a view from far beyond the  walls of quiet room, or garden
an old letter
an attempt to picture a long-forgotten face
and now this challenge—the reply
too long perhaps—I thank you friend
for demanding a place in mine.

by Fran Sbrocchi

I’m a person who loves creating and living in a sensual, harmonious and warm environment that melts me into my Muse. Though I have a formal desk, I rarely use it. Instead, I put my laptop and Wacom tablet on a folding table that can be moved anywhere in the house. Typically, it’s the living room where I spend most of my time digitally painting.

The room is a blend of deep reds, blacks, tans and earthy yellows. Candles, a Japanese Gong, Chinese Cabinet made of 300 year old Chinese wood, tea set, books and other objects of meaning add character. A Feng Shui Consultant had this to say about the living room ambiance, “It’s a beautiful, rich and elegant blend of Asian, African and Balinese that manages to come together creating a strong sense of sensuality and serenity.” That about says it all! Now with a new water fountain, it’s become an outer sanctuary reflective of an inner sanctuary.

During the day, I listen to a TV Satellite Station called Audio Vision which is a place where you can be surrounded by sounds of nature, poetry and acoustic music. It’s pure pleasure for me and my black cat, Serena.

Sitting in this environment makes it easy to create. The rest is up to my Muse. She’s very pleased that I listen and give way to her devotion for creating beauty. With each brush stroke, she’s in the mood — the mood to express and bring forth form from something deeper.

– genece hamby, contemporary artist & poetry
http://sanctuaryofstillness.wordpress.com

Who were the Bluestockings? A “bluestocking” was once a term of derision leveled at women who thought to improve themselves through informal intellectual and literary discussions.  Periodically,  the SFC Bluestocking Society convenes at the Taverna to carry on that tradition. A topic will be posted and Taverna members are welcome to post comments related to the topic. (When you post your comments, please click the “Blue Stocking Society” category.) For more information on the history of the Bluestockings, please feel free to peruse the minutes of their meetings.

Today’s Topic: Writing Rituals

I found a useful article at the BBC website about the writing rituals of several Irish authors. It made me curious about how each of you prepare to write or make art. Using these questions as a model, tell us a thing or two about your “rituals.” To get you started, I’ve borrowed a couple of questions/directives from the article and stuck in a couple of my own:

Describe your writing or art-making space.

Describe your writing implement, device, equipment, or tools you use to create.

What is the oddest object in your creative space?

Do you listen to anything while you create? If so, what?

Do you engage in any interesting habits, exercises, warm-ups or rituals before you settle down to create?

You may create a new post or comment below. Please categorize new posts to 16.04.08 Writing Rituals.

If one takes Woolf’s statement only in the literal (material sense) then I would have to disagree.  JK Rowling would probably also disagree–she certainly didn’t have money or a room to herself when she began writing the Harry Potter books!  (Nor do I think she is the exception which proves the rule.)  Writing is one of few arts which doesn’t really require investment–in terms of expensive materials.  A pen, paper, and your imagination are the minimum requirements.  What seems more relevant to me are the issues of time and places to write.  What is your investment in these areas?  Is writing a priority for you?  Or is it at the very bottom of your “to do” list?  After you’ve taken care of everything else?  If this is your situation then money and a room of your own won’t change anything.  It won’t make you a writer (or any other kind of artist).  So, for me, the important questions are: if I want to write, do I give myself priority time in which to write?  (Even as little as half an hour can work.)  Then do I have a place to write–as free from interruptions as possible?  Beyond a degree of quiet, I don’t have many requirements about place.  I write indoors and outdoors, at tables, on the couch, etc.  In the evening, during the afternoon, whatever fits my schedule or an unannounced visit from the Muse.  Writing has a flexibilty & portability that many other arts do not have.  I don’t have fantasies about “the perfect writer’s room” or “what I would do if only I had the money”.  I’m too busy doing the writing I want to be doing!  However, there are special places I like to write, and the photo below shows one of them.

(Click for larger image.  Photo by Cheshire D.)

This is a place in the park near my house.  I visit as often as possible.  To write or just to sit and think or day dream.  “Writing time” includes periods of not writing–so that ideas can percolate and gather strength.  I’ve discovered that rivers and waterfalls are good environments for me as a writer.  What about you?   Oceans?  Lakes?  What natural places inspire your Muse?

October 26, 2007

In 1929, Virginia Woolf wrote A Room of One’s Own.  In it, she wrote the now famous line, “…a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”.   Let’s expand that to “create her own art of any kind”.  Do you find this to be true?  Besides your room here at Riversleigh (and if you don’t have one, why not?), do you have a room or at least a space of your own to create in?  If you don’t, do you think you really need one?  How essential is it?  If you could create your own space, what would it look like?  And how about having the money?  Please post your answer and pictures of your space under the category “BS 26.10.07 Room of One’s Own”

1. What are you reading right now?

2. What books or authors made such an impression on you that they virtually changed your life (or at least the way you think about life)?

3. What book(s) do you want to read or think you should read but haven’t? And why not?

4. That book that you have inside of you, the one that’s just screaming for you to write it- what is it’s title?

At the financial asset management firm where I worked for 5 and 1/2 years, I did not really “fit in” with the others there.  Why?  It’s hard to know where to start…but our values were just different.  I was more concerned with world affairs than what was on TV.  I live in the country, in an over-100-year-old house, and buy my clothes at thrift shops and the Salvation Army.  Most of my co-workers lived in the city or the suburbs and bought their clothes at the mall.  I badgered the bosses into letting me start a recycling program in the office.  I was appalled at the waste of food I saw everyday and talked my co-workers into giving me their leftovers instead of throwing them out, which I then brought home to our chickens or to our compost bin.  My co-workers learned that if they had questions about being a vegetarian, natural foods, green living, meditating, Yoga…I was the one to ask.  I also gave Tarot card readings, seemed to be able to “read their minds”, and celebrated days like Beltane, Dia de los Muertos and solstices instead of July 4th and Christmas.  So what’s all this got to do with Friday the 13th?  Because for all of the reasons above, and more, I was called the “office witch”, and on Friday the 13th, everyone would say, “…but it’s Mari’s lucky day!”.   And so it was.

To be honest I have never taken a great deal of notice of Friday 13. I have never noticed that I have have had any particular bad luck on that day, and in fact, the events that I would call bad luck have occured on other days. Yesterday, I noticed no black cats, ladders or broken mirrors - the garbage was picked up on time (and the truck didn’t drop any in the street), The chops didn’t burn for dinner and oh joy! my computer actually worked without giving me too much grief.
So much for Friday 13. But why do we consider it unlucky anyway? You won’t find this date figuring hugely in the catalogue of major disasters. The Titanic sank on Monday, April 14; Krakatoa erupted on August 26; Chernobyl nuclear power plant went into meltdown on Saturday April 26. No Friday, no 13.
So given its conspicuous absence when something very unlucky happens, why do we fear it so? many events, including the crucifixion of Christ, have been believed to have happened on that date, but in fact there is no connection at all, or the actual dates are unknown.
The number 13 is considered to be unlucky because there were 13 at the Last Supper, and it is the card of Death in the Tarot. That kind of evidence would never stand up in court.
Friday is actually a fortunate day - it is the day of Venus, the Goddess of love and pleasure, Freya in Norse mythology, and a great day to be born according to the old rhyme:
Monday’s child is fair of face.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving.
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good in every way.
(It used to be ‘gay’ but political correctness has intervened

What on earth did this harmless, innocuous day do to deserve such bad press? Most modern observers seem to agree that it is a media beat up, a popular press invention - in fact, it could even be termed defamation.

I suggest reclaiming this day. Let’s declare Friday 13 `Nothing Happened Day.’ Let us celebrate the fact that hardly anything ever happens on Friday 13, and revel in its ordinariness. It will become a national - nay, an international - day of non happening.

Of course, life being the contrary animal it is, sinking ships and exploding volcanoes are likely to start occuring on Friday 13 just to spite us.

13.07.07– Today at the the Bluestocking Lounge:

It’s Friday the 13th.  What does this day conjure up for you?  Write or create some art reflecting the mystery and mythos of this day……

Post to category 13.07.o7 Friday the 13th or comment below.

Or this is what I did on Friday the 13th!
Cheshire is away on the Lemurian tour so I decided to come to the Tavern tonight and have a good time! (And all this was accomplished without one drop of sangria, Lori!) Tonight’s performance includes the premiere of two new filksongs (Who #1 and Who #2) and the obligatory links for additional info. (I.E. anyone thinking what?? er-Who??) Those people may or may not want to read “Oh, Who Is That Doctor In The TARDIS?” (My fourth post.)   So, sit back, relax, sing along if you know the tune, and don’t forget to order the Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster special. Three sips of this and you’re in an alternate universe. Guaranteed.

D. Quixote Jones (aka the infamous RB)

For anyone not familiar with the British science fiction show called Dr Who, the following webpages will provide helpful information.

GENERAL DR WHO INFO

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Who
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_%28Doctor_Who%29

THE CURRENT DR WHO
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenth_Doctor

(Sorry, you may have to cut/paste the links.   I didn’t see the links become active when I posted this.)

THETA SIGMA (aka, The Legend of Dr Who)
(tune: Davy Crocket, King of the Wild Frontier)

Born on a mountain top on Gallifrey,
The greenest place there could ever be.
Raised in the wilds where he felt so free,
Killed him a Dalek when he was only three.
Theta, Theta Sigma!
Last of those old Timelords.

He fought the War Lord and his games of war,*
Till the Aliens were whipped and peace was restored.
And while he was doing this risky chore,
Made himself a legend, forevermore.
Theta, Theta Sigma!
Last of those old Timelords.

When he left Sarah Jane, and his grief was gall,**
In his hearts he wanted to leave it all,
And lose himself in a Vortex Fall,
But instead he answered the Council’s call.
Theta, Theta Sigma!
Last of those old Timelords.

Off to the Citadel and served a spell,
Fixin’ up the government and laws as well.
Took over Gallifrey, so we hear tell,
And patched up a crack in Rassilon’s Bell!
Theta, Theta Sigma
Last of those old Timelords.

He came to Earth, his politickin’ done,
The Slitheen plot had just begun,
Then he met his Rose and together they won,***
And lit out a grinnin’ to follow the sun.
Theta, Theta Sigma!
Last of those old Timelords.

Born on a mountain top on Gallifrey,
The greenest place there could ever be.
Raised in the wilds where he felt so free,
Killed him a Dalek when he was only three.
Theta, Theta Sigma!
Last of those old Timelords.

* Dr #2 in War Games
** Dr #4 in The Hand of Fear & Deadly Assassin
*** Dr #9 in Rose, Aliens of London & World War III

The question of blogging and whether or not it is a good thing for writing inspired me to write this series of vignettes about changes in publishing and writing over the centuries.

 Brother Thaddeus put down his pen and carefully capped the inks on the desk in front of him. The scriptorium was silent; all the other brothers had already left for dinner. Brother Thaddeus had wanted to finish the page he was working on. Father Jonas, the head of the order, would be pleased. The page was perfect and beautiful, each letter carefully and lovingly formed, the uncials uniquely decorated - it was a work of art, fit for the holy words written there.

Just as Brother Thaddeus thought of him, Father Jonas entered the scriptorium. He looked perturbed. “Brother Thaddeus - here you are. I need to talk to you somewhat urgently.” Father Jonas led the way into the herb garden outside the scriptorium door. “Something new has come up. I have hesitated to bring it to your attention - the attention of all of you who do the beautiful work in the scriptorium - but the time has come to talk of this.” Brother Thaddeus was puzzled. What on earth could the problem be?

“There has been a new invention. You know the printing press has been around for a bit, but it has been mostly used for images, as carving a page of words is difficult, to say the least. Now someone has come up with moveable type. Men arrange individual letters to make the page they want and print them, then move the letters around to make a new page. It is nearly effortless. It will enable thousand of books to be printed at one time. What it could do to us, well, is inconceivable. The holy words of God and the saints, reduced to mass printings, without the care and love we put into each page! And what could be printed! Men could print blasphemy with no effort at all! Any one who can tell a story can have it printed! This will ruin us, ruin the world with a flood of thoughtlessly printed garbage!”

Brother Thaddeus shook his head in shock and horror. “Father Jonas, I don’t know what to say! This is a tragedy indeed!”

******************************************************************************

The Duke of Sandcastle paced through the little village near his home. “Matthew!” he called to his secretary, “Make a note!”

The secretary scurried up behind his master and tried to juggle the pen and ink and the little writing board he carried with him. “Yes, sir. What did you want to say, sir?”

“I wish to dismantle this ‘school’ the people have begun here in the village. Teaching the common people to read and write like their betters! What is this world coming to? Teach them to read and write and they will be discontent with their lot, and think they can be as good as those of us born to a better life! And they are even teaching their female children to read and write! Just imagine what could happen if one of them should decide they can write as well as a man! This could be disastrous!”

Matthew the secretary, uncomfortable aware of his own bourgeois background, duly noted all of his master’s concerns and then shook his head. “Just terrible, sir, just terrible!”

*******************************************************************************

“What on earth is this thing?” the publisher yelled as he slapped the cheaply printed digest down on his desk. “Pulp? They’re calling it pulp? I’m calling it garbage!”

“Yes, sir, I totally agree, sir!” answered his secretary. “This stuff is cheap to print, and now everyone is going to think he can be an author! We’ll be swamped with all kinds of people thinking they can write, just because they get published in this ‘pulp’ stuff.”

“Everyone can get printed in this junk!” raged her boss. “Who the hell is this Isaac Asimov fellow in this issue anyway? Next thing you know he’ll be knocking on our door, wanting us to publish some book he’s written! This is a disaster!”

********************************************************************************

Every few generations we have new advances that allow more and more people access to writing and publishing. Rather than being the disaster that has been predicted each time, the new advance has sorted itself out and instead we find that our world is all the richer for a new group of writers gaining the attention of still more people. Blogging is simply the latest advance in the system.

- She Wolf (c)2007

Due to a sinus/allergy condition, my head is not in the best shape today to think very coherently but I’ll talk about some things I’ve observed/experienced. 
Re: The book/publishing industry.  It seems to have backed itself into the same corner as the movie industry.  The “blockbuster movie” goal has overtaken the movie business and that’s all the major studios seem to be willing to invest in.  So we are getting fewer and fewer movies from the major studios and what we do get are mostly “sequels” of those “block-buster” movies.  Ad nausem.  On the other hand, the indie film industry is growing.  (With support from folks like Robert Redford, etc).  The lower budgets and non-hollywood actors make that possible too.  But the indies don’t have the distribution network that the major studios have so they make less money, etc.  You probably won’t find an independent film playing at the average Regal Cinema in your neighborhood, for example.  It might be available on pay/cable tv or you will have to travel a significant distance to your nearest large city (30 miles one way and frequently more) to see an indie film.  Along with the decline in the number of movies produced per year by the major studios, also came a decline in the number of people going to movies and a narrowing of the focus of the movie industry upon one age segment–the 18 to 34 year olds, supposedly the ones who want the blockbuster movies and will go see the movie multiple times, and buy the DVDs, etc.  The studios just have to get back quadruple the amount of money they invested in the original movie, you know.  It’s a vicious circle and it won’t last forever, but while it does, some people will become very rich.  The only decent thing that has come out of this escalating spiral is that people like Speilberg and Lucas have re-invested their money into improving movie technology. (Note: the major studios did not do this.  Individual film-makers did!)   The same process has/is happening in the book industry.  The bookshelves are full of sequels, and new authors (to get published) almost have to be clones of already published authors.  Because the publishers want big sales numbers and sequels.  I stopped reading a lot of fiction about 10 years ago because I was tired of sequels.  I appreciate the classics of my preferred genre (science fiction) but I am way more selective about any new books to read.  Which is sad, because it means I read less, not more.  There are more published books on the shelves than in my youth, but the variety in the authors is gone.  The creativity and imagination which makes sf a creative field is being stifled.  It’s become a corporate McDonalds–where one book is very similar to another.  Oh, the names of the characters are different and the settings are different, the authors’ names are different but in the middle of the books I have a terrible feeling of deja vu!  I know what’s going to happen in the story and I know there will be sequels.  Akk!  So I am reading more non-fiction.  And writing it as well.  Which brings me (via the long way perhaps) to blogging.  If the quality of some blogging is better than published material, than this may be why.  Writers who don’t want to be part of the pressures of professional publishing are turning to the internet and blogging.  For both self-publishing and promoting books they have published.  Traditional publishing, like the movie industry, certainly won’t disappear but they need to consider something other than profit/sales in the way they manage their companies.  Or like the great railroad companies they will become all but extinct.
Now in regard to quality and the sheer numbers of people posting, etc.  Yes, the internet makes more “dreck” possible.  (Dreck being unpolished, awkward writing.)  I’ve watched it happen in the area of media fan fiction.  When stories were printed in paper fanzines (and sold basically at what it cost to print them), there was an editor (or two) working on the stories.  Stories were revised and proofread.  Art was added, etc.  It required at least a year if not two years to create one large (100+ page) fanzine: from the editors’ announcement of the issue, the gathering of stories, the editing/revising, the layout/printing, and the mailing/selling.  It was indeed like publishing a book.  And if the quality was near to professional level, it was because of the editing and the fact that the writers were adults and often experienced writers (i.e. continued to write on their own after completing their education, even if they had not sought formal publication).  When fan fiction met the internet however, so much of this changed!  Good fanzines are still being produced, but I can’t say the internet has improved the quality of fan fiction.  The only thing the internet has done is increase accessibilty for the writer and the reader.  The editing/revising that is typical of fanzine printing is almost non-existent online.  And I suspect that the “bad writing” which is so prevalent online (poor grammar/characterization/plotting, etc) is a result of the age and inexperience of the authors.  In some fandoms, the majority of the people posting are between 14 and 21 years old!  They get an idea, write some or most of it in paragraph form (sort of), and then post it on a blog/website as fan fiction.  They simply want attention for their ideas.  They are not writers, they do not want to edit/revise their work, and they have no intention of becoming writers.  They are simply doing something fun for right now.  The internet gives them an immediate way to “put their stuff out there”.  And to be honest, what I was writing at 12 years old probably wasn’t much better than what I have read at some sites.  Fortunately, writing usually does improve with experience, age, and feedback.  So it takes time/effort to find the really good fan fiction online.  It’s like panning for gold.  You go through a lot of dirt to find those gleaming nuggets. (My anology falls apart here–unlike gold nuggets, fan fiction won’t make you wealthy!)  But I’ll be a miner anyway.  Because in the fan fiction, I can find the kind of “what ifs” and creativity that has been largely stifled in published fiction.
As to new writers being “over-looked” because of the sheer quantity of bad writing (Julia Keller), well, it probably does happen on occasion.  But I think the internet has an advantage in this area above the traditional publishers’ “slush pile”.  In the publishing field, although a writer may have several different manuscripts making the round, it’s usually one per publisher.  One young adult story to this publisher and a different young adult story to that publisher.  And that one manuscript is one of hundreds in the slush pile or one of hundreds from agents.  And two or three “readers” are selecting a dozen manuscripts to be considered for a chance at publication.  Six will be published.  Does a new, first-time writer have a chance of publication?  Maybe.  Let’s switch to the internet now.  Yeah, there can be dozens, even hundreds of posts per day, in a fandom or on blogging sites.  Welcome to the “slush pile” of the net.  But, unlike the publishing company, there are dozens, if not hundreds (sometimes thousands) of people a day looking at/reading blogs and websites.  Like readers of published fiction, readers online have established favorites but they are also on the lookout for new reading.  And since so many! are looking/reading, I think the new writer is found faster (and certainly promoted faster!) than the new writer in the slush pile.  In established fandoms (those with a history and good communications), someone can go from “newbie” to BNF (Big Name Fan) in a month or two!  The BNF doesn’t get the financial rewards of the published author, but in terms of attention and expectations (encore, encore!) they are the same.  And I believe the quality of the online writing can be as good any professional writing.  The person who writes, who learns the process of writing (how to feed & grow ideas, how to write dialogue, how to revise, etc), who is open to feedback from readers, will become a good writer.  I do not define a “writer” as someone who has published something or earns his/her salary by writing.  A writer is someone who writes.  An author is a writer who is published.  And a professional writer is someone who earns his/her salary by writing.  The writer, the author, and the professional can all do quality work.  Or not.  I sometimes look at that online “slush pile” and groan.  The majority of it is dreck.  But I think I would like it less if it didn’t exist at all.  If people weren’t writing I would be more upset.  There is something–very human about writing, about making art, about singing & music, etc.  I think it would be a disaster of immense porportions (for the human race) if people stopped writing, making music, etc.  So, yeah, “bad art/writing” is preferable to no art/writing at all.  It means that people are feeling connected to, involved with, or passionately in love/hate with something.  Involved enough to communicate about it to their fellow humans via writing/art, etc.  And that impulse is what I would like to see encouraged.  Make art, not war!  (Whoops!  My idealism is showing.)  But sometimes I have to wonder, if our schools wouldn’t be safer if we allowed angry grafitti to be sprayed on the school walls.  If frustration and destructive impulses were guided into expressive mediums (instead of being shamed and repressed), then fewer children (12 year olds, 17 year olds, etc) might go looking for guns to express their hostility.  Well, I have wandered way off topic!  Back to blogging.  In summary, I think the advantages outweigh the disadvantages.  And its potential has barely been explored.

What do people look for in blogs? Topics that interest them, naturally. But that’s a lesson on its own.

I did an interesting blogging experiment over the last few days. I ran a blog on the artwork created by Jonathan Harris, who took the most common 86,800 words in the English language, and put them in order, by amount of use. You can search by number or by word, and you can get caught up in looking at the word for your birthday, and play numerology games.

I also ran a story about Sophie Calle, a French artist whose boyfriend dumped her via email; she subsequently turned the email and the dumping into an artwork.

And, because it is the topic of the workbook I’m writing, I included an article on another creativity lesson my bike taught me.

I began to watch which blog got the most views–words, getting dumped, or the creativity story. Of the two word-as-art posts, Calle’s getting dumped got more views. That was understandable. When the creativity story shot to popularity,  I first felt vindicated and *knew* my book would be a hit. . .until I check which words people searched for to get to the story.

Ah, the disillusionment! The agony! The incident in the story was a rainstorm, and I pointed out that with a teardrop-shaped gas tank and a round helmet that drips down on the gas tank, you get wet. The specific phrase I used caused the post’s popularity-”wet crotch.” It was a good comeuppance, but that makes me wonder if popularity is the only measure that should be considered when talking about blogging.

In my morning newspaper, I read a commentary by Julia Keller entitled “From Vanity Press Era into the Blogosphere.” In this article, Ms. Keller examines the impact of blogging on the publishing industry: “Personal computers and the Internet’s ability to fling information far and wide have furthered the idea of Everyday Shakespeares.” She ponders the positive and the negative results of the blogging phenomenon. She argues that because of the economic imperative of publishers to produce “guaranteed hits” ala “Stephen King or Mary Clark Higgins”, it is virtually impossible for most writers to get published and whose works may only be read by way of the blog. In addition, she states that “Many blogs are better than many published books.”

However, she counters by stating that “the sheer blizzard of undifferentiated stuff out there will ultimately work against, not for, new voices. If everyone’s a poet, then nobody is.”

Since all of the regular writers and artists for the Soul Food Cafe make their works known via blog posting, then I think most of us would agree with her positive statements about blogging. But, do you think she might have a point with her counter-argument? Or not?

How would you respond to Ms. Keller’s observations about publishing on blogs?

Write your comments below or create a new post and file under the category “BS 15.06.07 Blogging.”

Lori Gloyd

Source: “From Vanity Press Era into the Blogosphere.” Julia Keller. The Los Angeles Times. Friday, June 15, 2007.

Beltane is one of the two great Celtic Pagan festivals (the other is the Celtic New Year festival of Samhain, or Halloween).  It begins the evening of the last day of April and continues through the night till the dawning of May Day.  The Great Goddess and her young consort have consummated their union.  Fertility and new life are celebrated with bonfires, maypole dancing, bouquets of flowers and offerings of eggs, milk and honey. 

We’ll celebrate Beltane with a bonfire, if the weather permits, like the one above.  We’ll plant seeds, transplant our seedlings, and cut flowers to decorate our house with.  We’ll eat poke, a wild plant that grows abundantly here, and strawberries I bought at the farm market, and asparagus from our garden and the farm market.  We’ll give thanks for the return of the sun and the warmth and for new life.

Here’s a link to more information on Beltane:

http://www.thepaganweb.com/beltane.html

Posted by Mari with Beltane Blessings

Red Hallowed
Autumn,
Leaves turn,
combust into new energy,
letting go of the old,
delighting the senses,
reminding of evolution,
freeing,
transforming souls.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2007.)

It’s been a tough Spring. Reluctant. Secretive. I tried to escape the East Coast and went to Sedona, Arizona, only to discover that it sleets there. In April. But slow as it is, Spring is being dragged into my yard by the bulbs I planted last fall. The grape hyacinths popped up purple and are now dropping seeds. The magic narcissus unfolded, one green blade at a time, and greeted me when I came home with a ring of white around the crepe myrtle, which is setting leaves. The lilies are coming up like bush green gnomes. In summer, they will burst with color and scent.

The lavender I planted too early is tough and is sitting in three little separate mounds, waiting for next year to grow bigger. (According to garden lore, the first year it sleeps, the second it creeps, the third it leaps.)

The mint is up and fighting for space, a sure sign that Spring won’t be held back.

The backyard pear tree is showing tiny green pears, the size of a pencil eraser, except on the edges of the branches, where a late, hard freeze froze off the blossoms.

Nature is a school for me. The lessons are not always soft and gentle, but they are always worth learning. I love being outside this time of year. Nothing is boring. It is all so alive.

Right now, life feels like a prayer. Everywhere I look, I feel grateful for surviving the winter. And in my tradition, there is a blessing for that: Blessed are you, creator of the Universe, for having kept us alive, for sustaining us, and for having us arrive again at this season in the cycle of the year.

It is Samhain here in Australia. I have been thinking of Darryl constantly over the past forty eight hours in the hope that I might get a sign, some small reassurance that he has found the light and is flying free. Now you have to understand that although ravens are often nearby they rarely come in to my yard. So when I heard the call, knew it was close by, I looked up through my kitchen window and saw the most beautiful Raven perched, in the rain, on my Silver Birch. I rushed for my camera and caught the moment.

Suddenly a feeling of calm spread throughout me. My beloved has let me know he is free and safe.

When I was young, on Good Fridays my family would go riding in the country. A California spring can be glorious! After the winter rains, the golden hills turn green and are sprinkled with orange poppies and all manner of wildflowers. We would pack an ice-chest with a picnic lunch and head up or down the coast or into the mountains. Some years, when Holy Week came early, it would still be wintery. Once we had our picnic in the back of my dad’s camper because the snow had not melted yet in the mountains. Another year we had lunch at an old Mission because it was pouring rain outside.

Our family has gone with the four winds but I still try to preserve that custom even though I now observe a more traditional Good Friday. I still feel nature calling on that day and I try to do some sort of outdoor activity. This past Good Friday a few weeks ago, I went to Madrona Marsh preserve, not far from where I live. This is a 20 acre vernal marsh surrounded on all sides by urban sprawl. The goal of the preservists is to replant the area with indigenous plants and to remove any non-native plants and animals.

This year we are in a severe drought. Because Madrona is a vernal marsh, it relies on the winter and spring rains to keep it wet. Normally, we have about 15 inches of rain during the winter. To date, we’ve had less than 3 inches. The marsh is so dry. I almost wept when I walked through the dried and drooping tule rushes. I started mourning in a way that seemed so appropriate for the Good Friday holiday. It all seemed so hopeless.

I wandered over to the Nature Center at the edge of the marsh. I began talking to the docent about the condition of the marsh. Then she said something surprising. “Yes, we are in a severe drought, but the tree-frogs don’t seem to notice. There are coming out each day and calling for their mates.”

I pondered this. Even in the most hopeless situation, life goes on. The tree frogs were singing. This affirmation of life in the midst of such aridness was stunning. How so very appropriate for Holy Week!

Text and Image: Lori Gloyd (c) 2007

From where I stood to take this photo of the rushes, I should be waist deep in water if we were not in a drought!

As autumn wraps her cloak around Melbourne and Carnforth’s garden
Samhain approaches
and I stop to reflect and meditate

Samhain, better known as Halloween, the Celtic Festival of the Dead is celebrated at the end of October in the northern hemisphere. In the southern hemisphere we honour the Spirit of Place by celebrating this festival the end of April when we are at the mid point between the Autumn Equinox and the Winter Solstice.

Samhain is the eighth and final sabbat in the Great Wheel of the Year and marks the time when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. It is a time of endings, releasing and letting go in preparation for the new life and new potentials that await birthing with the Sun at the Solstice. It is also the time to honour the dead and that which has died in our life. Samhain calls us to release the dead wood of the last cycle so we do not carry it into the new cycle that will begin in several weeks when the Sun is reborn from the darkness at the Winter Solstice on June 21.

A Samhaine Supper

Traditionally a midnight supper was held at Samhain to honour the dead. A place was set at the table for the souls of the dead and lights were left burning in the windows to guide the souls of those who had died in the last year in their journey to the Otherworld, found in the Aurora Borealis, home of the Great Goddess Arianrhod. The veil between the worlds was envisaged by the Celts as a turning silver wheel and Arianrhod was the keeper of this wheel. It was said she wove the fates of humanity as she wove her magical threads. At Samhain the veil opens and Arianrhod calls home the spirits of those who have died in the last year so they can await rebirth when the time is opportune.

You may conduct your own special supper with a place set for loved ones who are no longer with you. At some point in the meal everyone present will speak the names of loved ones who have died and share any memories that come to mind. Or you may choose to have a few minutes silence to each remember those who have moved beyond the veil into the realm of Arianrhod. Light a candle for each loved one that has passed away. If you are comfortable you could

• Encourage recently departed loved ones to move forward into the light and release the ties that may keep them earth bound.
• Open to memories and messages that may come through from beyond the veil. Samhain is a time for medium-ship and you may find a loved one communicates with you via your intuition or your dreams around this time.

from Astrology Newsletter by Christine Rothwell

The seasons are changing.  In the northern hemispheres, we are mercifully emerging from an abnormally severe winter; in the southern regions, we are breathing a sigh of relief as scorching heat gives way to autumn.   How do you respond, if at all, to the changing of the season?  How is your response manifested?  For some the response is spiritual, religious, or cultural through the celebration of Beltane, Easter, Passover or Earth Day.    For some it is practical–raking autumn leaves or planting flower gardens.  For some it is creative– capturing the movements of nature in photographs or haiku. 

Share with us how the seasons are changing for you by commenting below or posting to BS 27.04.07 Seasons.

I have thought long and hard about the subject of gifts. I have been given many, many precious gifts over the years, both material and spiritual or emotional, and it has not been easy to single out one to write about. However, one early gift set me on a road I am still going down.

The summer after second grade, my mother ordered a surprise for me. It came in a large box, which I found was full of large books- seven of them to be exact. They were seven of L. Frank Baum’s Oz books, hardbound. The selection was a bit random- the first, second, and fourth, but not the third, etc. I was certainly intrigued, and paged through them, but they were a little bit daunting for a little girl who had only just finished second grade.

My mother proceeded to cuddle with me on the couch and read the first chapter or two of the book. That was all. Then she left me with the book. Naturally, I wanted more. She wouldn’t read any more. So I picked up the book and started to read it for myself. I worked my way through all seven of those books over the next few months (I was still reading them when school started.) When I finished one, I would beg her to get me started on the next. I learned to read chapter books and was completely captivated by reading- and still am. We even went to the library to try to find some of the books we had not been sent. (I have collected the rest of them since.) I read those Oz books over and over again through the years, along with almost anything else I could get my hands on. Interestingly, I didn’t read much fantasy, except for my beloved fairy tales, until I was in college although then it became my favorite genre.

 My mother’s gift of those books and the restraint she showed in not just reading them to me, but enticing me into reading them for myself, gave me a lifetime passion for reading and later for writing. I consider that a truly fantastic gift.

My parents gave me two very special gifts. One was the love of all things related to words, foreign languages and reading, this last much aided by a fertile imagination. By the age of 7 when I transferred into junior school I had already read all the set books we were due to read in the coming year and I was bored stiff in the reading lessons. We didn’t have a TV in our house until I was 11 and my grandparents came to live with us, bringing with them their black and white TV. Up until then our entertainment came from listening to the radio and I can well remember being ill one day, lying on the sofa in the living room, listening to a radio production of The Hobbit. It was the episode where the hobbits go through Mirkwood and, in my fevered imagination, I could see faces in the uneven surface of the plaster in the ceiling. It was terrifying….

The other was a love of natural history. Given the opportunity I would most certainly have had one of those cabinets of miracles as I was always a magpie of a collector and hoarder. I learned the names of all the wildflowers to be found in the woods and hedgerows. My mother had a book of black and white illustrations of wildflowers which she had started to paint, including annotations of when and where she had found them. I carried on this interest and later insisted on having my own copy of the book. At weekends our family would go on geological forays to disused coal tips where we would find fossil ferns or to the
Dorset coast where we would find ammonites, fossil flowers, sharks teeth and devils toenails on the beach at Lyme Regis. I collected shells, abandoned birds eggs, etc. etc and could identify all the birds that came to our garden. At the end of our garden I had my own flowerbed and learned the names of all the garden plants. I spent hours in the greenhouse with my grandfather where he regaled me with tales of his childhood.

Nowadays, I am still a collector, but only of the photographs I take of all things fauna and flora. Perhaps I should add that I collect books as well. But you probably already guessed that …

I volunteered with a community center years ago, and this story is pretty much what happened. Of course, the names were changed to protect the innocent.
*****

Bits of dust particles floated in the morning rays that lit the room. Some came to rest on the wooden work table which was a little rickety but serviceable nonetheless. The long streaks of sunlight decorated the red canvas work, which were placed around the table, with shadows of stripes.

“Look, you guys! There’s a circus cage on my canvas thing,” said Joey, his voice quivering around the edges with unbridled glee. “Funnnnny!” The other seven at the table, six men and me, looked up from working with our clay. A few of the men laughed and poked fun a bit. “Hey, Joey. Need new glasses? Been takin’ your meds?” I shushed the on-lookers and looked to see what Joey was seeing. Sure enough. His work square looked like a striped circus caravan, the cage that carried the tigers and lions from town to town.

“It absolutely does, Joey,” I said. “It’s great to see you sharing your wonderful imagination with us.” Joey blushed at my praise, so deep a blush his face remained red for quite some time. Then we all then returned to our activities. The men’s artwork was in different phases of creation. Tony and Ray and I were smushing our unwieldy mounds of clay; Nick was painting his vase. Richie and Ted were arguing a bit over a crossword puzzle and Jeff was simply gazing out the window, his mind far away. During the class, almost anything was a go. Just as long as my guys didn’t weave out of control and crash, I was fine with anything.

***

I applied to the city’s Mental Health Center last October, shortly after its’ opening. A recently vacated school had been turned into a community based center offering a variety of services for mental health clients. I thought maybe I could assist an art instructor or play games with some of the drop-ins. When I called the office, the woman I spoke with said to come in the next day.

So the next morning I arrived for my tour and interview exactly on time, but the main door was locked. I rang the brass buzzer, and waited, shifting my weight back and forth from one leg to the other. I was nervous. It began to rain so I pushed my body against the door, trying to avoid the large droplets. Just when I decided I had come at the wrong time, someone unlocked the door and opened it wide.

“Hello, my dear. Come in. Come in out of the rain.” A tall, striking woman, who surely was a beauty 30 years ago, motioned for me to follow her. She strode down the hallway talking nonstop, and I tried to keep up and listen simultaneously. “So glad for you to come. I’m Marion Pole, director of activities here at the Center. We’re always thankful for any volunteers we can get; we’re very short staffed at the moment. Oh, I’m sorry, but your name is…?”

“Lydia. Lydia Fahr.”

“Well, yes of course. Liddy. You don’t mind me calling you Liddy, do you? Lydia is such a formal name.”

Before I could say I didn’t use that nickname ever, she continued her monologue. “So here we are. The pride of our rough and tumble building, the arts and crafts studio.”

Marion Pole opened the door and let me pass into a large room. As I looked around, my inner artist gave a silent groan. The walls were painted a color I’d never actually seen before. A depressing institutional green with streaks of an odd shade of muddied yellow. Paint chips were flaking from moist spots on the walls, and ten gallon buckets were strategically placed about the room to catch dripping water. Four tables were spread around the room, with a variety of metal and wooden folding chairs shoved in disarray around each workspace. The room’s only redemption was its old-fashioned windows, lead glass panels which stretched from ceiling to floor and a spattering of artwork taped to the walls. A middle-aged woman sat at a small metal desk near the door and she was mumbling into a phone.

“This is JoyEllen,” said Marion Pole. “She’s our receptionist and does all the office work, plus she’s specially trained. JoyEllen’s always in the room when classes are in session. You have any problems at all, you let her know right away.” The woman at the desk gave me the briefest of smiles and returned to her phone conversation.

“Problems?” I hesitated. “There are problems?”

“I wouldn’t worry. Now the classroom, as you can see, is plenty big for our arts program. You’ll be in charge of the clay table.”

She seemed so pleased with this idea I hated to interrupt. Even so, my words tumbled out. “I don’t want to be in charge of anything. I’m not really qualified. And I don’t like to work with clay. I mean, I don’t know how. Uh, it’s really not my medium.”

“Medium. Schmedium.” Marion Pole clucked her tongue as she looked me up and down. “Why, I’m sure you’ll do fine. I know people and I can tell. If you wish, I’ll write out a few instructions and tape them to your table.” Her enthusiasm cut off my objections. Even when I heaved a big sigh of desperation, it didn’t faze her.

“Now, Liddy. It is Liddy, right? We’ll spread the word immediately. JoyEllen can call a few people at Beacon House and I know of two men who are interested. Your table will probably fill up in a few weeks. The men at Beacon House are hungry for any kind of activity if it provides some relief from boredom.”

“Men?,” I asked. ‘Just men?” I had imagined myself chatting with a circle of women as we sat sewing or sketching. I don’t know why, but that’s what I’d had in mind. Not men.

Marion Pole answered with a nod and gave me a puzzled glance. “Mostly men. Many of our clients live right next door in the high rise. It’s a half-way home for men who have a few problems. The building once housed the YMCA and most of the town people still prefer to regard it as such. You know. Ostriches with their heads in the sand.”

I was growing wary. “Problems. Problems?” I asked. It was suddenly hard for me to speak in coherent sentences. I seriously thought of leaving, but Marian Pole was blocking my way.

“Yes, Liddy, a few problems. I’ll explain, but this is confidential. We must always protect the privacy of our clients. They have rights, you know.”

Now my throat was tightening. “Uh.” I swallowed hard, but couldn’t say any more.

Marion Pole continued, not sensing my discomfort. (She said she knew people, but she apparently didn’t know me very well.) “Yes. These men do have their problems. All of our clients have a mental health challenge of some sort. Some have a history of schizophrenia; others are bipolar or psychotic. Some are chronically depressed. And then we have quite a few men with dual diagnoses. You know, mental illness coupled with an addiction of some kind. But remember, our clients are provided with the support they need at Beacon House. Meals and medicine, social workers and nurses. A very progressive outfit, and about half the men stabilize enough to go on to live independently.”

Finally I was grasping the scope of the program, and my racing heart settled into a clip-clop.

Marion Pole walked me over to the clay area. “Now, clay class is held from 9 to 12 on Tuesday mornings. Go to JoyEllen and she’ll will give you a parking pass. The main doors open at 9:00, but just buzz if you come early. And it was nice to meet you, Liddy. Very nice, indeed.”

***

So here I am. For almost a year, I’ve enjoyed meeting with this group of companionable fellows. We all get along famously. As we share our stories, we shape the gray clay into objects, paint them with under glazing, and send them off to be fired in the university’s kiln. It becomes very routine.

Then one day, half way through this morning, there is a hardy knock on the door. Randy who is an art student from the university comes in carrying a large box of fired pieces. Everyone comes to attention. It is an event of some importance to my men when the university makes a return delivery.

Joey and Earl stand up, anxious to get to the box. “Hey,” shouts Joey. “Open the box!”

Earl shakes his head, but gives Joey a kind smile. “Joey, what d’ya know. The box!” Then he turns to me. “Open the box, Lydia. Here. Use my pocketknife.” Earl rummages in his pants pocket.

Immediately I am distracted by Earl’s movement. “Don’t take that out of your pocket, Earl. You can’t have a knife in here. You know the rules.”

Joey still can’t wait. “Come on, Lydia,” says Joey. “Please hurry and open the box.”

“You guys, you’ll have to wait. Earl and I need to see JoyEllen for a moment.” It is times like this, when I must be a disciplinarian to these adult men, that I wonder how I became qualified to do this type of volunteering.

I escort Earl to JoyEllen. Earl is angry and he pounds his fist on the office desk. The metallic sound reverberates throughout the room, and everyone turns to watch him. “I got rights, JoyEllen. You know that. I ain’t getting in any kind of trouble. And I paid for that knife out of my own money.” His words carry throughout the room.

Marian Pole appears from nowhere and assesses the situation. “Earl, just take the pocketknife back to your room. Don’t bring it back to the Center. Why don’t you come back, though. There’s still an hour left of clay.”

As I watch Earl stomp from the room, Joey calls my name.

“Lydia, Lydia, do you smoke cigarettes?”

“What? Mm-mm. No, Joey. I’ve never smoked.” He looks so interested in my answer that I continue. “I don’t really like the smell. Do you smoke?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, not me. I don’t like smoke, either.” Then Joey starts grinning wildly. I notice he is holding something secretively behind his back. “Lydia, here. I made this for you.”

The other men have stopped their activities to watch Joey and me. I can see by their expressions they are in on this surprise. There are whispers and furtive glances at the package. They seem pleased by the unfolding event.

Joey extends a newspaper bundle towards me. “Here, this is yours.”

I unwrap his gift and hold a flat piece of ceramics in my hands. There is a bit of a rim around the plate, glazed in a beatiful cobalt blue. I am unsure what I should say or do. Then Joey helps me along.

“Lydia, it’s an ashtray. I made it so you can give it to company. Like to a friend who comes in your house with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.”

I am delighted by his words and touched by his gesture. “Thank you, Joey. It’s a wonderful gift, and it’s especially wonderful because you made it for me.”

While the other men hoot and clap, Joey gazes at his special creation. “You’re right, Lydia. It is pretty wonderful.”