Practical Tip from the Clergy

(Gleaned while handing out parking vouchers at recent holiday performance for staff at local hospital)

Me to Lutheran minister, parent of two of the musicians: "Need a coupon for a discount at the parking ramp?"

Minister: "No thanks, I just got my ramp ticket stamped for clergy at the desk."

Me: "Oh, okay."

Minister: "You know, if you're ever in a tight spot, just tell whoever's in charge that you're clergy!"

Me: "Oh, okay."

Minister: "It works for freebies all over the place!"

Me: "Neat!"

Minister: (Thoughtfully) "Just be sure you have the name of a church all set--they'll ask where you work."

Me: "Oh, yes, I will."

pause

Minister: (Gesturing with empty Starbucks coffee cup.) "This was my third latte today!"

Atonement for What Now?

That Briony is such a sharp little thirteen-year-old. The moment her cousin Lola gets her two-years-older-but-light-years-more-sophisticated hands (and just look at Lola's fingernail polish--that chick is nothing but trouble!) on the play she's written, Briony realizes her stint as a playwright is over. She has lost control of the characters she created, to bad acting and grasping ambition. Furthermore, it dawns on her that she can't make actors or her audience see exactly what she sees. It is all too cumbersome. Back she'll go to story writing, where she can control entire worlds, unfettered by this one. (It's an issue Briony will struggle with her entire creative life, especially as regards the mysterious and passionate events she witnesses one hot summer evening in 1935. More on this later.)

It reminds me of being a reader at a movie. The movie industry is the silly, preening Lola who has snatched the story away from your Briony-like imagination and is doing all sorts of upsetting things to it. The horror is inevitable. Movies always end up as multi-million dollar, badly illustrated, bowlderized versions of the book they're based upon. I am not really complaining. It was my choice to go see "Atonement". And it certainly is a very nice movie in many ways. The sets, the costumes, the lighting--lovely. The screenplay--sharp enough, with a touch of humor not present in the novel. Vanessa Redgrave as seventy-seven-year-old Briony--we're lucky to have her. But, oh, so much is missing! There is no Robbie as a tall, captivating young man. (James McAvoy is nice, but altogether too medium-sized.) There's no Cecilia as one of those women whose beauty is not obvious until you know her (Keira Knightley is just undeniably too gorgeous.) The ginger-haired twins, Jackson and Pierrot, are supposed to be spindly lads, not great corn-fed hulks. (Being that they are gigantic boys, it seems a poor decision to adhere strictly to the novel's passing description of them being carried one at a time, on Robbie's thin shoulders. It was an upsetting sight--the twin's long fat legs hung down to poor McAvoy's belt buckle.) The house--far too grand. (Ninety rooms! No. The book's Tallis House was a size such that Briony could hear the front door being answered from her bedroom and Mrs. Tallis, perpetually bedridden with a migraine, kept auditory track of her family's movements throughout the day.)

It is all far grander and lots murkier than the way I imagined it while reading Ian McEwan's book. In sensibility it's both a scaled down and vulgarized version of the shockingly sensitive "Atonement". But what a daunting job, to try to distill the action and dialogue and meaning from three hundred fifty pages into two hours and three minutes. Why do we try?

Updates

With the sun shining so brightly the creek has lost that crazy, liquid-licorice aspect. Today its glassy surface reflects tall trees-- all the way from snowy base of trunk to bare black branch tips--and the clouds floating high above them in the palest of pale blue skies are mirrored, too. The ducks floating on this smooth, reflective water are more numerous than ever. More complacent too. They seem very sure of themselves and give no notice to those of us strolling by on the path--they bend their heads and crane their necks towards one another as though at a cocktail party. I wouldn't be surprised to hear them laughing and see cigarette smoke rising from their tangle of watery socialibility--that tinkle of thin ice crashing against the creek's banks could well be the rattle of cubes in a Scotch on the rocks. And look--there's a couple who've separated from the rest of the gang and they're drifting off in a dreamy way. Aw. Duck love. Hope it lasts.

As I walk I am reminded that I did attend the Annual Caroling Bonfire, after all--my jacket carries the smell of wood smoke. The neighborhood waited and waited but for the first time in forty-six years The Salvation Army Band didn't show up. But with noble spirit we passed a collection bucket for them anyway. In their absence we sang our carols accompanied by a karaoke machine set up in a driveway until an older lady, German and with a feeling for this event, made us quit. "Just sing!" she demanded. Oh and the bonfire was more of a comme ci, comme ca fire. Just a pile of four or five logs from all our various woodpiles. Lots of smoke. We were all pretty well kippered. I was gratified to see in attendance a woman from the faraway blocks, from one of the houses under my auspices. She was one of just two homeowners I met as I snapped flyer/invitations onto doorknobs. She wasn't at her best that day--her house had just been overrun with firemen investigating a mysterious noxious smell. She was marooned outside in anxious confabulation with the foreman of her construction crew, the man who had apparently called the firefighters. "Our eyes were stinging. I figured that couldn't be good." No, no, of course not, she fluttered. Poor lady. It was nice of her to stop by for the bonfire, although we had run out of hot cocoa and I noticed she didn't join in the singing--saw her making several empty passes at the cluster of thermoses, her back turned mutely to the chorus.

Not saying the two are connected, of course.

Creek Report

Now that it's December, the water in the creek looks thick and dark. It's like glassy thin black jello or strange limpid molasses. Looks as if there's more ducks paddling around than there was most of the summer. They move across the icy water so smoothly and swiftly--could it be the chilliness has galvinized the crew? An icy wind is blowing snow into shallow drifts and I am aware for the first time that the dogs and I hike up an actual hill as we progress south to north on the creek path. With the leaves all gone from the trees and bushes I can see the creek winding below us, down a steep slope to the west. Daisy notices it too, and barks down at the ducks who respond in a most gratifying fashion--one or two quack and with some noisy flapping of wings make an attempt to fly away from the threat she poses. Yeah, that's gotta feel good to a small dog. The north wind ruffles Daisy's gray fur and she tosses her head and trots off, intent on leading us towards home. Nah, her quick, stiff-legged show dog strut seems to say. It was no biggie.

Overheard

*RING*

"Hello? Oh, hi! You found what? Yeah, sure, I used to do that for a living! Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay, now, how long has it been dead?"

Musings of a Pamphleteer

I got a call the other day from a neighbor--she had a couple of questions for me. The first was actually a question for someone else who lives here. Someone who could conceivably dress up like Santa Claus without reverting to use of a wig or a fake beard or too much extra padding. Someone who just needs a big red suit, red stocking cap with a white pom-pom, perhaps a touch of powder on his whiskers and hey, he's jolly old St. Nick. Except... type-casting can be a tricky thing, you know? Because although That Someone owns at least a dozen pairs of those old-timey-looking spectacles that could perch on his nose...and although he truly adores the hordes of neighborhhod children...and even though, come to think of it, as an inventor he really does make toys in a workshop ... well, no he'd just rather not dress up and make an appearence at the annual Christmas Caroling Party to hand out candy canes. Give a few HO HO HOs? Work that famous character's benevolent charm, his effusive spirit? Nah. So I nixed the proposition quickly (and pretty cooly, I thought). But then came the second question. Would I hand out flyers to invite the neighbors to the party? Oh, sure, I said. Great, said neighbor and then (so smoothly that I will have to congratulate her on her masterful recruiting technique), she gave me my assigmnent. Just the very last bit of the neighborhood. Yes, yes, I said. 42nd-46th Dupont Avenue, she said. Both sides of the street. I think I squeaked a bit at this point. 42nd? That far away? Yes, she replied, firmly. Then she brightly informed she'd stop by with the flyers later. Bye! Thanks!

I really wrestled with this. I never attend the Annual Caroling Party. It is always so very, very cold on the night of this (putatively) very charming tradition. This truly matters as the party is held outdoors, literally out on the street. That's so we can have a bonfire on a big sheet of metal laid out in the intersection! And so the Salvation Army Band can huddle around and play song after song, their sonorous tuba invariably drowning out the voices of the crowd. So why should I be out working in the bitter cold, trying to convince distant neighbors to join us for a cookie and kippered fellowship in the dark night? And as for my little assignment--well it was obvious exactly why that area was the last to be leafleted. It is an unusually long four blocks. With enormous houses set waaaay back on their lots. Grr. I felt kind of duped.

But good God, I wondered. What have I turned into? Am I too self-important to roll up some adorably-illustrated-by-a-child flyers and snap a thin rubber band around them? Am I too self-conscious to hike door to door affixing the hot pink paper cylinders onto doorknobs? Well, yes and yes. But alas, I had given my word. So Friday afternoon found me at my dining room table, filling a large canvas sack with several dozen of the rolled-up invitations. Oh, the sack. Emblazoned with the name of a groovy local children's bookshop on one side, that canvas bag, left at my house by a Thanksgiving guest, somehow became my talisman. I carried it in front of me, to show that I was no ordinary purveryor of super-cheap advertising. I trudged with head held high (oh,yes, kind of a tricky thing to accomplish) through snow and biting cold. Uncomfortably invading people's outer residential spaces, even as I admired their seasonal decorations. Trying not to read the return label on the UPS boxes waiting on the front porches even as I couldn't help noticing the grand piano in the front window, stacked high with...Hanukah presents. Hoping no dogs would bark at me as hard as my dogs bark at journeyman pamphleteers, those chilly-looking guys whose technique I sort of emulated. I prayed that I wouldn't be mistaken for a down-on-her-luck lady, making a penny or dime for every leaflet successfully wedged in the door. With not a soul to observe, I brandished my upscale canvas tote jauntily. All is cool. Especially me. See? The flyers are pink! So cheerful! And rolled with information on the outside, to entice y'all to actually read the damn things.

Sigh.

I firmly believe that door-to-door activity of any kind will be completely illegal within ten years.

November Metapost

around art bag being bg bird bit book bowl brown butter calls cat children chocolate coffee comments cook course cup daisy damn days deep dillard dinner drink eat evening ever everyone exactly family feel fight four frankie free glass going gravy group harriet heidi hostess hours institute lake leopard less links lives love lunch maytrees members minutes month museum nonsense novel offer open oven overheard pan paper path people perhaps platter popcorn post quite real really red rest roasting room roz size something stop story stuart stuffing sunday table thanksgiving think thoughtful turkey turned usually water wine works year yes

created at TagCrowd.com

TagCrowd

TagCrowd is an application for texts that creates a graphic or visual based on criteria such as frequency of word use. I fed it all the posts from November. It arranged one hundred of the words alphabetically, enlarging the ones used most often. It's a simple way to see what's really on a writer's mind. Cool!

Birds

Confession--Fun's Not the Word is not my first online journal, although it is the only one I've kept up for more than a month or so. The others--three or four of them--have been desultory writing activities, lacking the fun (well,hey... it IS the word!) here at blogspot. Just recently I found some posts I had made in a Live Journal almost four years ago. I was really pleased I was able to track down that journal... I had very nearly forgotten its existence and when it did spring to mind I had only the sketchiest memory what I had named it. After mentally clawing at my brain for a day or so I remembered that that blog was inspired by the writings of E.M. Delafield, (whose "Diary of a Provincial Lady" contines to reassure me that the trivial and mundane can be amusing and eminently readable). Anyway, most the the entries in that old journal were written in a sort of prissy manner, a tongue-in-cheek imitation of Delafield and her Britain-between-the-World Wars world. In lieu of the landed gentry and the dim and fussy vicar and the hearty village souls who populate her books I found myself describing encounters with my Volvo-driving, Golden Retreiver owning next-door neighbors. (ZZZZZZZZZZ.) Clearly, the highlights of the journal are my accounts of several visits I made to feed and water the pets at the chaos-ridden house of my pal, Ellis. At that time she had dogs and cats and birds and hamsters and bunnies and screech! Wait! Birds, you say? BIRDS? Back it up, back it up!


Yes, yes, I know! Birds! I am so very surprised to read my blase description of the birds at Ellis's house. It seems I walked right by their cages, limiting my observations of their existence to an avian head count (five) and the state of their feeding dish (full). I yammer on about the pink, hairless infant hamsters and the three excitable and amusing dogs and of course Ellis's cats are weird and mysterious (not even sure where they live--basement? outdoors? Or which one is named Whisper or what the other one could possibly be called. Plus, do we feed them cat chow or do they live on mice and spiders?) But I pretty much ignore the canaries, which is odd because I really love birds. Didn't I always? Or did it start one day in August three years ago when Ellis came walking down the street holding a cage and behind her came her husband holding a cage and bringing up the rear of the procession was the oldest girl, age five, also carrying a cage. All three cages housed birds. Destination? My living room. Acccording to Ellis I had expressed interest in the birds. (See, at that time I had no memory of anything like that. And the journal entries seem to corroborate that.) But Ellis (well, actually, Bob...) needed a break from the birds (Bob later managed to rehouse two of the dogs, as well. Then the hamsters met the inevitable hamster fate. It is kind of quiet down there these days. I mean the South American turtle and the two bunnies don't make much noise, at all.) So I agreed to take the five birds in for awhile, to provide foster care, as it were.

I'll never be a bird freak. I don't open the cages and let the birds fly around the house or encourage them to walk on tables. I don't carry them around on my finger and make kissy-noises before urging them to hop onto guests' fingers. And I've never stretched out on the living room floor to get a good night's sleep covered with roosting cockateels and brooding canaries as, I was fascinated to learn so long ago, The Linden Hills Bird Lady does. But I've grown to love my little aviary, especially the Java Rice Finches, who look like tiny puffins. Gray and white with black cheeks, Javas are chill--none of that showy plumage for the boys schtick. The males wear exactly the same demure little outfit as the females. Afternoons when the sun pours in the south windows is the time the birds splash in their white plastic water dish (formerly a pate terrine from the deli) and self-importantly shake and fluff their feathers . Clean and refreshed, they enjoy shredding arugula and can power their way through a miniature red or yellow bell bepper like tiny jack hammers, spewing bits of bright vegetable flesh at least a yard or two as they search for and devour the seeds. Practice a piece or two on the guitar and they'll vocalise with you, singing up and around the melody, pure and clear. Never stealing the show. Hey, they seem to be saying. Play that again, would you?

Overheard

*RING*

"Hello? Oh, hi Mom. How are you? Oh. Uh huh. Your computer's doing what? Oh. Well, what color is the smoke?"