Turn of the Screw

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James, Henry. The Turn of the Screw. New York: Dutton, 1963.Turn of the Screw

Even though October is more than half over I decided to read something scary for the rest of the month…in honor of Halloween and all that. Turn of the Screw seemed like the most obvious choice. A novella only 160 pages long, I knew it wouldn’t take too long to get through.
Written in 1898 and republished numerous times Turn of the Screw has also been  adapted for the stage, television and the big screen. Someone told me it was even mentioned in an episode of “Lost” (I wouldn’t know).  James’s technique is to tell the story within a frame – one story within another. We are first introduced to a man at a Christmas party telling a tale of a governess. From there we are in the story, told from the point of view of the governess. She has been hired to look after two small children after their parents are killed and they are sent to live on an uncle’s estate. Soon after the governess’s arrival she starts to notice strange occurrences, shadowy figures stalking the grounds. She learns they are former lovers and hired hands, back to supposedly recreate their relationship through the children.
While James uses words like “hideous”, “sinister”, “detestable”, and “dangerous”, there is great debate as to exactly what he is describing as so terrible. He refers to evil again and again, but his ghosts are not the usual specters. They only hint at danger rather than taking action and “attacking”. The other great debate is whether the governess is insane (or goes insane while at Bly). Because no one else really backs up her ghost sightings you have to wonder.

BookLust Twist: Mentioned several times in Book Lust. Once in the chapter called “Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror” (p 113) and “Ghost Stories” (p 99). I would agree that The Turn of the Screw deserves ghost story status, but horror? Maybe I’m stuck in slasher movie mode where everything horrible has to end up in blood and gore.

Memories of MySpace

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One of my projects was to compile all the old MySpace blogs and put them in a book. I really need to keep them because they are the proof that this writing thing works for me. Looking back on the different blogs is like having conversations with myself. I thought I had finished the book, even called it a completed project until I found more entries…out of place and lost words with nowhere to go. The book is messed up now. Ruined. I can’t stick loose pages in where the dates are supposed to fall. Chronology is killed. So, here is my resolution, the solution to the dilemma. What was once over there is now going to come over here. For every old-day blog it will have new life here. October 23, 2005 will be my first…installment??

My next “problem” is to figure out what to call these there and then relics to keep them from becoming confused with the here and now realities. Suggestions? Here’s what has been thought up so far:
BOO – Blog of Old
Skeleton from the Closest
Kisa’s idea is to make sure the original date of the blog is clearly at the top – maybe as the title of the blog? I like that. Leave it to the logical.

Ode to Mickey Hart

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Everyone knows I love drums. I’ve certainly blathered on and on about the people who play them, the sounds they make, and the way they make me feel.
Seeing Mickey Hart & Planet Drum was no different. A performance on the UConn campus on a chilly, rainy night. Kisa was able to snag one pic of Zakir Hussain looking up at us while playing with Mickey. This was towards the end of the show – considered the encore – with security standing right behind us.
The whole show was amazing. When we first walked into the auditorium I was fascinated by the stage. Five different “pods” of sound with two curious looking sculptures front and center. It was obvious where Mickey would play but, not knowing the other drummers, I wasn’t sure who sat (or stood) where. But, really, to be honest, it was the interesting sculptures that held my attention. Gentle spotlights lit up twisted limbs. I saw dolphins in one, confusion on the other. They looked magical in the light. Their shadows created monsters on the floor.
Finally, the lights went down and the boys came out. The very first thing Mickey did was introduce the weird sculptures. Gnarled stumps pulled from the ground. Ever see the video by the Cranberries – the one where a bunch of women work a stump from the ground, take it home and after bathing it it becomes a man? It looked like that stump was on stage. The first stump was called “Squid” and was as old as the Civil War. That was the one I called confusion. The second stump was a giant Redwood called “Twin Dolphins.” I was pleased Mickey saw what I did. Then Zakir and Mickey proceeded to play the stumps. Using hammers, drumsticks, fingers…anything and everything, the show opened with the playing of trees. The sounds knocked and echoed, banged and trembled. Loud and soft. The entire auditorium was filled with the sound of drumming on trees. It only got better from there.

Getting Away

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For years I have wanted to make it to the Pumpkin Fest in Keene, New Hampshire. I can’t remember all the reasons why we didn’t; all the excuses for not going in years past, but this year we finally made it! I ended up taking nearly 100 pictures. For every shot a little stress melted away. For every sweet pumpkin face I relaxed just a little more. Only an hour away from home but miles away from the madness.

There is something magical about pumpkins. I know there is no way I could put this into words. At least sanely. In short, I see faces in the uncarved orange orbs. I see Jack way before he is born. Today, it was fun to see the creativity of others. The messages people want to put out there – through a pumpkin. We saw a lot of Greenbay Packers pumpkins (what’s up with that?), a few Patriots pumpkins, and lots of humor. I personally liked the puking pumpkins best. It’s all I can do to stay away from the bottle myself these days. Pumpkins in trees, pumpkins on cannons, pumpkins in fountains, on street corners, in flower beds, on people’s heads. Kisa got a funny pic of me with two such nuts.
Then, there was the food. We started with sampling spicy pickles. They start off sweet and end with heat. Perfect for hamburgers. (We bought a jar on the way out.) Then we went for the whoopie. Pumpkin, of course. Next, teriyaki chicken on stick and garlic bread. Yet another whoopie. Pumpkin, of course.
We blew off the crafts except for the food related items. Heidi Jo was there so, of course, we had to buy nearly $40 worth of her wares (we missed her at the Big E). It was all about the food.
And the pumpkins.

Cult of (multiple) Personality

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Someone really liked a picture of me that my brother-in-law took. He said “that’s so you” when he saw it. What do you mean? I was puzzled and didn’t get it. When it comes to me, myself and moi, I rarely get it. “You are awkward. Silent and awkward, waiting for the photographer to go away so you can go back to where you are comfortable.” Where is that I want to know. I cocked my head, trying to remember the moment for myself. “Behind the lens, on the fringe, out of view” my friend replied. Ah, yes. That’s me. Completely. Now I remembered my goaway attitude. Yet, when I went to add the pic to a disc for my mother “spaceball” was the title of the pic. Spaceball. One man’s idea of spaceball is another woman’s fear of you. Two personalities on one face.

The latest issue of Real Simple came with research on how to find your “right” scent. I love these quizzes that tell you what type of person you’re supposed to be based on how you prefer to socialize, spend your holidays, or how many times you let the phone ring. This time I let kisa answer everything. Kind of a HowWellDoYouKnowYourWife? stunt. I’m shameless. To my utter delight he answered every question “right”… even the ones where the answer is, “well, it depends. Is September considered Autumn? Well, then I think B” or “that’s a tough one…is it that time of the month?”
By the time we were finished I was across the board screwed when it came to picking a scent. It was a tie between woodsy, clean, and oriental. Floral came in dead last. Weird. The most popular scent was my least favorite…according to what drink I would order out with the girls, what piece of furniture I’d most likely own, and whether I prefer the smell of books over baking bread or the ocean. There wasn’t one scent that won out so I told my husband I guess that means I’ll buy a bottle of each!

Ask me how I like my eggs and true to Runaway Bride style I wouldn’t be able to answer you the same way twice. I want to be Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn and Ani DiFranco all at once. I’ll tell you I’m an orphan after you meet my Black Crow family.  I don’t think I’m the same person twice in one day.

RedSox Rudeness

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Mind games. I hate mind games. But, I’ll get to that later.
The Cleveland Indians used to be my favorite team. I know, I know. Don’t say it. I lived in Jersey at the time. I was a wayward soul. Lost without a baseball clue. Maybe it was the drum. I’ve always had that thing for drummers. I can’t explain it. Anyway, I’ve since left the dark side and pledged my undying love for the Boston Red Sox. Being from Maine and living in Massachusetts it’s the right thing to do…right? It’s hard not to love a team that call themselves idiots and piss in the Green Monster while still on the field. Calling myself a fan is definitely the right thing to do.
The wrong thing to do is fly your opposing pitcher’s ex-girlfriend out to sing the National Anthem. Hello? It should be all about the game. Since when did teams have to start thinking about psychological bullsh!t in order to secure a win? Like I said, I hate mind games. I know, I know it happens all the time. It’s the name of the game, so to speak. Next thing you know someone will posting big pictures of king cobras on the JumboTron because the center fielder has a problem with reptiles. Play the game, boys. Just play the game.

My Beautiful You

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Disclaimer: I am writing this for several people. Hopefully you will recognize yourself in the lines…or maybe in between.

Dear You,
I chose you first because we are strangers, yet I like you. I do not like you for reading me, but what I read of you. When your writing is silent I worry. Yes, I worry. I do not know you, but you read right. I care. I may not know how you take your coffee or cook your steak, but I know you are human – of flesh and feelings – and that alone, my friend, makes me care.
Dear You,
I got your call the other day. I am sorry I missed it, sorry I didn’t return it. I don’t dial the digits because I’m afraid of sounding dumb. I’m a broken record. I miss you. Last night I dreamt of red, red apples cut in half and lime green thongs on a sleeping girl. Art as art does. Know that I prefer your now to then.
Dear You,
Thanks for being you. I don’t say it enough. You. Thank You. You. I reread a diary entry. We stood outside a closed ice cream shop. It was late, late, late yet you weren’t going home. I walked you to his apartment above a sweet store. You broke into a perfect British accent – so perfect I had to write it down. I don’t remember why you were imitating a Brit but I told my diary you made me laugh so hard I cried. To this day I can picture that night perfectly. Standing on a sidewalk, chatting as if we had just bumped into one another, you saying something to make me laugh… some things never change.
Dear You,
I’ve been meaning to ask you…been meaning to tell you…yet I don’t have the words. I step on toes to say I love you. I don’t know what that means to anyone but me.
Dear You,
You confuse me. I’ve backed down from friendship because nothing seems related to me. At least not where you are concerned. I don’t know where I fit in so I edge myself out. I wasn’t important enough to have the forwarding address or the latest news and I have accepted that. I’ve moved into a different space of being. At least with you. We’ve talked about this before so nothing’s new. Don’t mind me if my mind is not on you.
Dearest You,
You alone have all of me.
Love,
Me

Black Dog of Fate: a memoir

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Black Dog of FateBalakian, Peter. Black Dog of Fate: a memoir. New York: Random House, 1998.

I must have started this book four or five times. I don’t know what it was about the beginning. I’d pick it up, read for a few pages and put it down again, never getting beyond the first chapter. By the time I’d return to pick it back up I had forgotten what I had read and needed to start all over again. Page one. Finally, I took Black Dog of Fate home with me Columbus Day weekend and read it from start to finish. When I was finally able to devote the time and attention to it I couldn’t put it down.
There are very few books I try to push on other people. Very rarely do I try to tell people what I have read and how I feel about it, urging them to see for themselves. This story was different. From the moment I put it down I found myself struggling to put into words what had moved me so yet I needed to say something.

Here’s what I wrote within seconds of finishing it on Monhegan:
It’s the history you don’t commonly read about. It has the facts everyone would like to wish away; a genocide too horrible to imagine as real. The Armenian Massacre wasn’t a standard topic in my history class. As a rule I think we, as a society, want to sweep all and every horrific moment under our subconscious. This is a memoir about a boy’s growing knowledge and deeper understand of his heritage. True to adolescent ambivilance Balakian doesn’t understand the importance of his ancestry. In his youth all the stories his grandmother wanted to tell him were lost on him. It’s only after he is ready does his grandmother’s words mean anything to him. “I came to find out more about the arid Turkish plain when I picked up a book at a time when I was prepared to read it” (p 147).  

Other lines that struck me:
“…she would pass me the salty green nuts so we could celebrate with our teeth” (p 13). I think food is always the most appropriate way to celebrate.
“Hokee, soul. Hankids, rest. The soul’s rest: a memorial” (p 140).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “A Geography of Family and Place” (p 97).

Big Sun Smiling

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BigSun

What happens to a person when she has reached the point of laughing for no reason at all? Giggling because there’s no turning back? Stirring stirfry on the stove I answered the phone as if I never left work. My husband giggled on his end and brought me back home. Woops. I mean…hello? Too late. He continued to laugh at me. There was no taking back the slip, nothing left to do but laugh along. The ingredients for Pad Thai were in front of me but I was miles away from my kitchen. Hopeless and pitiful. Yes, I admited, I was still thinking about work. Obviously. I could hear kisa’s eyeroll over the phone coupled with his gentle sigh. He knows where I’m coming from even if he’s not from there. Cutting limes and chopping peanuts I was thinking about a mouse.
There is a mouse in my office. He (?) has broken into my packets of hot cereal and crackers, strewn crumbs across my desk. The sad thing is I knew this before I moved in, even before I ever dreamed the office would be mine. I simply moved in without memory of the mouse. Now, I’m reminded and all I can do is sigh. It’s just one more thing.
Last night I dreamed of a cruise ship. My family on a cruise and me waving goodbye from the wharf. According to my new dream book that means my family is either going to die or I want them to go away. Well, since they are nowhere near me I have given myself worry. I resisted the urge to call them all day. What would I have said? How to explain my latest neurotic dreamscape? I have to laugh at myself for how ridiculous it all seems.

  

Yellow Raft in Blue Water

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Yellow raft in blue waterDorris, Michael. A Yellow Raft in Blue Water. New York: Warner Books, 1987.

This is high school to me. I remember being holed up somewhere reading this nonstop. Hot off the press, freshly published and oh so new I couldn’t put it down. I reread it and reread it until finally I could move on to other Michael Dorris creations, which somehow were never quite as good. Nothing compared to A Yellow Raft in Blue Water back then and it is still a faovrite to this day.

Someone described this book as an onion, reading it was like peeling back the layers of a story, and while that imagery is accurate enough, I like to think of Yellow Raft as a game of telephone. First, there is Rayona. She tells the story from her perspective. She is all of fifteen years old…at that difficult age where rebellion against your mother is the easiest thing to do. As she says, “when mom and I have conversations, they mostly involve subjects not personal to our lives” (p 26). She tells her story like it’s the honest truth. Then, there is Christine, her alcoholic mother, and her story. In the beginning you want to hate her for how seemingly unfair she had been to Rayona. But, learning about Christine’s heartbreak you realize Rayona’s reality is only her perception. The wires of communication have been crossed and in some cases, completely disconnected. Christine had her reasons for everything she did (and didn’t do). “I never had been good company for myself” says Christine (p 185). Finally, there is Ida, Christine’s mother. Her story is, by far, the most revealing and tragic. Everything you heard whispered from Rayona through Christina is trapped in the warped truth of Ida. All three women are stubborn, flawed by fate, and determined to make the best of life as they know it even if it means coming off as cruel to others. Being on the inside, privy to their hearts, makes you want to shake each one screaming, “talk to your daughter!”

Favorite lines:
“Ghosts were more lonesome than anything else. They watched the living through a thick plate of glass, a one-way mirror” (p176).
“A bath brought me peace, made me float free” (p340).

BookLust Twist: In both Book Lust and More Book Lust. In Book Lust Pearl mentions A Yellow Raft in Blue Water early; on page 23 in the chapter “American Indian Literature.” In the chapter “Men Chanelling Women” (p 166) in More Book Lust Pearl adds A Yellow Raft in Blue Water because Michael Dorris does an amazing job setting the voices of three very different women free.

Donuts in Heaven

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Grief is not confined to a date, or an anniversary marked on the calendar pages, and yet I am safer handling the details & confronting the stories after September. Funny how that works out. The birdman confronted me with a story: Your father, he shook his head…Your father was clinically dead at the wharf. Did you know that? I knew that. I’d heard it before from somewhere. Still, hearing it said outloud n o w, standing before me, made the words sound so much more serious. They echoed in my head. Clinically clinically dead dead dead. Birdman continued. They revived him. He waited for your family to get there. He waited. Waited. I pondered that statement, that detail. Waited. Wait! I was the last to get there. Does that mean he waited for me? Does that imply he held onto life for me? No. I don’t think so. I don’t think he held onto life for anyone but himself. He kept death at bay for himself and his life.

Mom relived The Day from her point of view – even though I didn’t ask her to. “I was making donuts for Mary. Your father said SaveMeOne. He’d have it when he got back. He worried about not having a cage on the boat. It was still dark. He was concerned about not being able to see the buoys. He mentioned it more than once, no cage. I listened on the radio because I never went back to bed.” She never went back to bed. I handled details and let the words wash over me. I washed them down with wine. While the sentences the words formed were not new to me I wasn’t used to hearing them from someone else’s mouth. We never talk about this. Clinically dead. She never went back to bed.

Later we looked at pictures. My grandmother, done up in ribbons and smiles, before life got hard. Too hard. Before she died. Did she wait for someone? Did she hang onto life and kept death at bay for the sake of someone else? I don’t think so. Much like my father, I think her life meant something to her and her alone. Her smile tells me so. I hope they get donuts in heaven.

Minimal

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Kisa took this picture of serenity while I wrestled with chaos. I was thinking about something my sister said and was arguing with her (vehemently) in my head. She wasn’t there but I could hear her voice. She has tried to direct my direction before. In the past I’ve come close to giving in, letting her guide me where she thinks I should be going. This time it’s a directive as simple as “you should say something” but the fear in my heart gives it complexity and chaos. So, while a sailboat sails silently over the seas I wrestled this stupid struggle to the ground. I felt as though I was winning… but before I could pin it and really claim victory the triumph was lost in self doubt. More confusion. Maybe she is right. That thought alone keeps me questioning. You should say something. So I do. Later, I do.

Here’s the thing: Confessions are like closets. You never know what’s behind their doors or how deep they’ll go. To say something is to open that door and wait for whatever comes out. Or what wants to enter in. I made a start by admitting to something small, miniscule. I opened a tiny confessional window instead of that big ugly door. Untrusting, I was testing the temperature of acceptance, if you will. I had a right to be worried. The reception was chilly. Borderline bitter cold. I offered up an open window and it was slammed shut with “oh…that’s not what happened!” An exclamation of denial in a condescending tone to something in my life, lived by me, myself & moi. You’re telling me my confession is clueless. You’re telling me my memory is all wrong despite my living it. You can’t get much colder than that. If I could raise the dead and make them speak I would prop her up and make her tell you how it happened. Someone to back me up. Someone to say that’s how it happened. I need a witness.

In the end I wrestled chaos and confusion. I went to the depths of anger and came back resigned. As a result of the window I will never open the door. I will never share the secrets. It’s bad enough I know.

Recognition

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I walked through town wearing a bright red Camp Kawanhee t-shirt. “Camp Kawanhee?! Now there’s a shirt I wouldn’t expect to see here!” A woman’s shrill voice called out to me. Turning around, she was impossible to ignore. L.L. Bean hiking boots, jeans tucked into socks practically up to her knees, a down puffy vest over a sweatshirt emblazoned with a chickadee, a huge pair of binoculars slung around her bandana’ed neck. With a smirk on her face she nodded toward my shirt. “I live in Farmington.” As if that explained everything. I wanted to tell her her point of reference and recognition was off. Way off. If she visited Monhegan more often she would have known ‘Kawanhee’ is just as common as the word lobster or artist. She wouldn’t have been so surprised.

Later, it was my face that was a source of reference and recognition. We were watching the bonfire, staring at the burn and hypnotized by the flames when a woman asked me if I am my mother’s daughter. Yes, I am. It’s in my eyes, the shape of my face. I am a walking testimony to my heritage and proud of it. The compliments flowed and I answered with “a force to be reckoned with…” Nods of agreement. Yes, indeed. A force to be reckoned with.

It’s a strange state of affairs. I go home to be ignored. I like walking by someone I’ve known all my life and barely acknowledge each other with a passing hello, or the smallest of greetings – a nod. We acknowledge one another with an understanding that goes deeper than small talk and chit chat. We don’t want time for either. That’s just the way we are. So, when perfect strangers recognized something in me and wanted to talk about it, it threw me off guard. Yes, I could tell you of my connection to Camp Kawanhee. I could go on and on about the tents, the boys, the dinners at the Yew. I tell you of my connection to my mother that goes beyond my face. I could tell you stories of how proud I am of her, how amazed I am by her, how she frustrates me to the point of fury, how much I love her. I could. I really could. Instead, I would like to stand before the fire and see you through the flames; I would see you and recognize you. If you saw me I would acknowledge you through the smoke with just a nod. That’s just the way I am.

Obsession

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If my stomach was writing this, this would be the mother of all blogs, singing the praises of the perfect burrito while bowing down to the perfect partner.

If the items in this picture look at all familiar to you, you might be asking yourself, “Self, is it possible she’s in Colorado or New York and not Maine or even Massachusetts?” I would have to answer you with a voice full of glee and giggle, “It is true! I am not in Colorado, nor New York. Chipotle has come north of all that! North of Close Enough to ME! Chipotle has invaded Massachusetts and it’s about time!” There is only one restaurant right now with two more “coming soon.”
Kisa had the trip planned from Day 0. Keeping the plan a secret from me for four whole days must have been difficult because it meant getting me off the island on the earliest boat…on the last day. Getting me off the island can be a chore in itself if I’m not ready to leave. Luckily for him (and ultimately, my stomach) I boarded the 9am without complaint. It had been a long weekend.
TomTom told us the way to go. I have to admit I forgot all about The Secret Plan. Still having post-parting pangs I sulked as route 1 flew by my window. Moody’s was enough to distract me, work me out of my depression. Whoopies were just been whipped together. I bought the first of the batch. L.L. Bean only distracted me further with disappointment. I couldn’t find anything I liked (believe it or not). By the time we missed the exit for 495 South I remembered “the plan” and how secret it was.
616 Fellsway should be the name of my next pet. 616 Fellsway, Medford is the address to heaven. Heaven in a burrito. When we pulled into the parking lot I could barely believe my eyes. True to design, true to color scheme and true to chrome, there before my eyes lay the greatest place to eat my stomach has ever known. Chipotle. In all its glory. I heard a choir singing. Chipotle in all its aroma.
We ate our standards. For those of you in the know:
Rice: yes
Meat: chicken
Beans: black
Salsa: medium (corn, of course) & hot
Cheese: yes
Sour cream: yes
Lettuce: no

Drink: lemonade with a splash of sprite
Chips & salsa: yes

When we were finished gorging we went up again. To go.