Among the many, many reasons you should feel sorry for me is the fact that I never went to camp as a child. In Britain, people just didn’t send their kids off to camp. (They may today, but I’m not certain.) When we moved to the states when I was about 10, camp was a distinctly American tradition, largely saved for people who had the means and, I thought, didn’t like their kids so much. So while a handful of my friends trotted off to camp for weeks on end during the summer, I remained behind, largely puzzled and only mildly envious. I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy camp nor was I sure why kids would want to sleep in bug-filled cabins, swim in murky lakes and fashion macrame bracelets when they could stay indoors all summer watching sitcoms.
So you can imagine it was a little odd and, surprisingly, a little thrilling for me to shop for my trip up north to the Bear River Writer’s Conference at Camp Michigania last weekend. As I tossed bug spray into my basket at Target and mulled over the right flashlight to take (who knew there were so many flashlights?), Chris assured me that if I got lonely and the other writers made fun of me, I could come home at anytime.
As it turns out, the conference was a terrific experience. For the past few years, I’ve made a point of attending a summer writing workshop, saving my pennies and signing up for five-day sessions at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. But at the urging of the generous and lovely Nick Delbanco, I opted for Bear River this year — largely because the special guest was, as I’ve noted here, one of my favorite authors, Amy Hempel.
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June 5th, 2008
How can I tell, especially with temperatures still dipping into chilly-low places at night? Here’s how:
It’s the first Dirty Sheed of year, a summer tradition, a Zingerman’s concoction of espresso and Mexican vanilla syrup (sugar free, in my case) and half-and-half over ice. Like a cup of rich, melted coffee ice cream. Taken during our walk to Kerrytown last Saturday morning to the farmer’s market. Sipped from a prime people-watching bench from which we also spotted:
A couple with their hands full of doggies. And, out of the corner of our eyes, prompting an up-close ooh-ing and ahh-ing:
A riot of gorgeous bright orange poppies. Not a great photo, but you get the idea. Such a crazy, reckless kind of flower, no? All or nothing, putting themselves way out there. No wonder they don’t last long. It must be exhausting. Then, on the walk back home, with a sack full of fresh asparagus and overpriced home-grown lettuce, a few other oddities soaking up the sun:
Three random chairs catching some rays. (If this is a race, the one at the front has a considerable lead, it seems.) Also, this little fella:
I think we could all learn something here. This seems like an optimal position to avoid awkward tan lines. (I worried a little that this was actually the fallout from an unsuccessful attempt to fly, but I wanted to afford him some dignity and at least pretend that he totally meant to land there.)
May 28th, 2008
Roger Main, 1958. “Children, The Gorbals, Glasgow.”
On our trip to Glasgow earlier this month, I was seated on our Detroit-to-Amsterdam leg across the aisle from two Scottish women. Give a cheery smile to a Scots woman and you’ll likely wind up in conversation that covers everything but the kitchen sink, as I did with these two nice women — both of whom were from a small town outside Glasgow and had wound up in Fort Wayne, Ind. where they’d met through a mutual acquaintance. Our chatter about Glasgow included a mention of the Gorbals, the city’s infamous former slums internationally known for their poverty and violence , and one of them asked if I’d read the book “No Mean City.”
I hadn’t, but I largely forgot about our conversation until Chris and I visited the People’s Palace, a small museum covering Glasgow’s “social history.” Included in the compact museum were a few displays about life in Glasgow’s slums in the first half of the 20th Century and the book popped back into my mind. At the Glasgow airport, before we headed home, I happened upon a copy of “No Mean City” at a book shop and although I was pressed for room in my carry-on, I snapped it up.
The book, which I finished last night, was first published in 1935 and it tells the story of Johnnie Stark, a gang member in the Gorbals who gains his rise to fame as the Razor King, so called for his prowess with sharp weaponry. And it’s a terrible, terrible book. I mean, it’s a bad book — at least in terms of any literary merit. The plotting and pacing is wildly inconsistent, the language ricochets from nearly incomprehensible slang to overly flowery prose and the events are, at times, literally enough to make you laugh out loud.
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May 23rd, 2008
I’ll be missing not one but TWO shows over in Royal Oak this week — Rilo Kiley on Sunday night and Kids in the Hall next Friday. So if you have tickets and are able to attend either or (cruel Gods!) both, be sure to have a swell time.
Just don’t go tellin’ me all about it.
p.s. I will also be missing the Magic ’80s Prom featuring John Waite, apparently, but I’m not exactly broken up about that. (I think it’s ironic that this show is 18 and over…considering that no one under the age of 18 has any idea who John Waite is. In fact, using that standard, it should be 35 and over.)
p.p.s. I suppose the bright side is that I can put off figuring out where the hell Royal Oak is for a while longer…
May 22nd, 2008
Because I don’t. Because it’s totally, totally beneath my massive intellect and discerning cultural standards. But if I did watch it, and let’s say I watched most of the season for the first time ever, then I would think it worth remarking that America seems to have made a fine choice. David Cook seemed from Day One like a truly nice, mostly humble, root-for-able fellow. And not in the on-the-verge-of-creepy way David Archuleta did. So, in other words, if I did watch it, I’d be thinking how nice it is to see a nice guy win.
May 21st, 2008
Is it just me or is this blog slow to load lately? I don’t know if it’s a function of my internet connection, but it seems to be taking a long time. Same with the Word Press dashboard page where I pen these entries. Slow, slow, slow. I’d assume it’s just that my hosting site sucks but I haven’t changed it and I don’t think it was this bad before. Maybe I‘m just growing more impatient . But if you’re having problems with it, I’d like to know. Comments, please!
Let’s see, where were we? A little update, since it’s been a while since I last blogged…
Chris and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary on Monday, although the official observation was last night, when we headed into The Big City (Detroit) to see Eddie Izzard at the Detroit Opera House. The venue is really beautiful, incredibly renovated, absolutely gorgeous in that over-the-top sort of way. It’s also pretty huge, which becomes overwhelmingly evident when a sole figure takes the stage and the entire sold-out crowd goes mad with applause.
Izzard was incredibly funny although, sadly, not in cross-dress for this tour. Not that it would have made much difference, since our seats were way up in the balcony and he could have been wearing Kabuki masks and we wouldn’t have been able to tell. It’s a credit to his literate, rapid-fire style of comedy that he was able to hold us all rapt, keep us doubled over, alone on a stage without set, even when we couldn’t make out his facial expressions.
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May 21st, 2008
Our trip to Scotland was scheduled so that we could enjoy two celebrations: the wedding of my oldest friend Deborah and my Grandma’s 90th birthday (a few days early.) Deborah and I met when we were four years old and we’re absolutely the worst when it comes to staying in touch with each other. Still, we have that kind of friendship where even though we go months without emailing, we have enough history that we know the other is floating out there in the universe and will be there for the asking.
And so Chris and I were thrilled that we could be there on her big day, which took place at the lovely Shieldhill Castle, about an hour outside Glasgow. (That’s Deborah & her husband, Patrick, below, in case you hadn’t put two and two together.)
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May 12th, 2008
I’ve added a new plug-in for my blog, which uses PicLens Lite to create slideshows of photos posted here. If you wanna give it a whirl, click the link at the bottom of the post. It’s a very cool thing.
Below’s a shot of Cleveden Crescent, the Glasgow West End street we stayed on our first night in town this trip. There are a number of these crescent-shaped streets around Glasgow, redolent with the Victorian architecture that is the city’s hallmark.
One of my favorite things about the Victorian architecture is the details… like this beautiful period doorbell below. Why don’t we make things this simple and lovely anymore?
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May 11th, 2008
It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a book and been so entertained I can’t wait to steal away, if only for a few moments, to devour another page. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, the Pulitzer-winning first novel from acclaimed short story writer Junot Diaz, is the kind of book you fight through sleep to read, a flashy, heartbreaking, funny, intelligent family saga about a Dominican family in New York. Unapologetic in its refusal to cater to those unfamiliar with Dominican slang, astoundingly original in voice and scope and dishing out devastating foot-noted history lessons about the Dominican Republic with irreverent flair, this is a gem of a book.
In other words, you should read it. (Check out this New York Times review for further proof.) And while this tour de force is enough to make an aspiring writer chuck aside her ambition in defeat, Diaz’s honest recounting of the “dozens of times [he] had quit this novel only to restart it” in this Wall Street Journal profile proves ultimately endearing and inspiring. Diaz claims to still be scared of writing but says, of his life post-Pulitizer, “what’s changed is now I have hope I can write something else.”
It strikes me that the last two writers I’ve posted about here, Diaz and Lahiri, are both writers who speak frankly about how hard this business of writing is — but, ultimately, that it brings hope. I like that. I need that. It makes me feel not so alone in my struggles to put words on the page and reminds me that there is a reason for doing so.
May 8th, 2008
It shouldn’t, but it always seems to take me by surprise just how exhausting these pilgrimages to Glasgow are. I think because, no the surface, it looks like a grand holiday, I never seem to adequately prepare myself for the toll it takes both emotionally and physically. It is, frankly, not a relaxing endeavor; in fact, it’s anything but. Which is not to say that it isn’t enjoyable, as it is, but it’s also extremely difficult.
The travel alone is, of course, taxing for someone with fibromyalgia. The discomfort of sitting in planes for hours, sleeping in strange beds with wonky pillows is very disruptive. But I don’t seem to feel that as much until I get home, perhaps some delayed survivalist tactic my body performs subconsciously, so that I can function while I’m there. What I feel most is the overwhelming grip of emotion and nostalgia that tightens around me before we even leave the states and squeezes relentlessly until long after our return.
Every time I return to Scotland it is a strange set of contradictions for me. I am, in one way, returning home, to a place I left when I was ten, a place I didn’t choose to leave but was whisked away from as my father’s career took him to the states. There is an unbelievable amount of emotion, mostly in the form of an intense melancholy that kicks in as soon as our plane descends through the clouds and the green fields of Scotland appear below the wings, fields dotted with sheep and cattle. I’ve never been able to put my finger on why, exactly, but I feel overwhelmed by a dull aching, an inexplicable sadness that bubbles up and sort of simmers below the surface the whole time I’m there.
Unquestionably, that feeling has intensified for me since my mother’s death nearly five years ago. How can a child possibly go home, to a place where nearly every memory, every person, every street, is tied so deeply to the past in general and her mother in particular? How can I walk those same streets, pass our old flat, our old playground, visit my grandmother and my uncle (on my mother’s side) without that constant reminder of loss? And beyond that, even is another sense of loss — of this other life that I might have lived, of a connection to my childhood.
There is the strange dichotomy of feeling as though I am coming home yet, at the same time, to a place I no longer fit in or belong. It feels a bit like being a pretender, a party crasher into the past. Whatever it is, it is always — that is to say, that the entire time I’m in Glasgow, I am feeling things with full, relentless force. It is difficult and it is exhausting. It is wonderful to sit in my Gran’s flat — the same one I came to on lunch hours from our primary school just a half block away, almost completely unchanged over the years — and talk about memories, but it also means constant awareness of the loss of my mother, a fresh wave of grief that is tough to escape from, unlike when distracted by the tasks of my everyday life back home.
On this trip, I also attended the wedding of my oldest friend, Deborah, and again the conflict of emotions presented itself. On the one hand, it was good and nostalgic to see her get married and hard to believe that this was the person I’d met first when we were four, when we lived in flats whose back greens sat just across the alley from one another. But it also highlighted the fact that, although we’re still in touch, we aren’t in touch very often and we don’t know each other that well anymore. Another thing from the past that is both strong and present yet somehow distant and tenuous at the same time.
And on this trip we met a few Europeans who didn’t make any attempt to hide their contempt for the US. Again, a conflict: while I certainly understand the negative view the world has on our nation, and agree with many of their concerns, I wasn’t clear why criticizing the country I live in was appropriate opening small talk. It seems European contempt for our country’s international actions supercedes a sense of hospitality (at least) and manners (at best), as well as the realization that we individual Americans are not the actions of our government. (I may blog more later about how deeply over-simplified the European understanding of US politics seems to be, but it might just upset me again to revisit it right now.) It both angered and saddened me at a time when I was already feeling extremely vulnerable, a bit out of place.
But that wasn’t the balance of my experience in Glasgow. These trips are both good and important in the grand scheme of things. I’m sure I’ll get around to posting more photos and more specifics about the trip, a few tales of our time in the motherland. However, for now, I am just feeling sore and tired and a bit overwhelmed by the experience. And glad to be back in my home, in my own life, which distractions and routine and one thing I don’t feel in Scotland: ease.
May 7th, 2008
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