Give Me Your Answer, Do! by Brian Friel

Ah, Friel is so good at making his audiences uncomfortable.  This play follows a respected but not terribly successful Irish author Tom and his alcoholic wife Daisy, parents to a disturbed, institutionalized young woman.  They have an uncomfortable dinner party with a commercially successful author and his wife, Daisy’s parents, and an academic interested in buying Tom’s papers for a university.  Discomfort ensues, of course. 

I don’t know if the play works quite as well for folks who haven’t spent all that much time studying contemporary Irish literature.  I do know that we writers can’t help but write about writers–we’re not terribly good at remembering that most people don’t actually find writers all that interesting, sadly, and that none of us is actually at the center of the universe.  Sigh.  But, if you like Dancing at Lughnasa or Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf then it’s certainly worth a gander.  Remember, plays are quite short, and make for great metro reading.  Also, I want to be able to talk to more of my friends about Irish drama.  Because I, like all of my kind, think the rest of you just need to realize how fun this Irish stuff is already.

The Known World by Edward P. Jones

This novel won the Pulitzer in 2004 and the National Book Critics Circle Award in 2003, so I had to read it.  It was like a homework assignment from the literary world. 

The novel is set in antebellum Virginia.  The protagonist is a free black man who is also a slave owner–and the novel studies all of the themes one is used to reading in a book about slavery, but delves further into questions of human rights, religion, morality, love, freedom, gender relations, Virginia’s history . . . Jones pokes every wound. 

Jones could give a number of publishing historians some important lessons in research, style, and drawing connections between events.  He dances elegantly between Virginia’s history; the invented history of his invented county of the novel; and the past, present, and future of his characters.  It’s a tough read, but it’s rewarding throughout.  Every bit of cruelty is paired with some hope, and the prose itself is lovely. 

At the Bottom of the River by Jamaica Kincaid.

This is an exquisite little book of short stories, most of which revolve around mother-daughter relationships.   Many in the collection were originally published in the New Yorker, and many are reportedly auto-biographical.  Most importantly, the stories dance along the line between prose and poetry from the first page, and Kincaid’s language is gorgeous and evocative and powerful.  I don’t think one reading suffices, at least not for me.

When you study the ancient world, you study the concepts of curses.  When you watch every minute of extra material on Rome DVDs, you think about them even more.  And then, if you mix in some really good adolescent lit about a fantastical array of universes with lots of magic in them, and you maybe have a few cocktails now and again, and you have some trouble with knitting, well, you can see where logic might get twisted.

I ran into trouble with some socks.  That’s a big deal for me, because I’m a touch obsessed with socks. I learned to knit specifically so I could knit socks.  I have trouble accepting the fact that my darling husband doesn’t particularly want socks, and my wonderful Mom, who loves hand-knit socks very dearly, reacts badly to most wools and thus needs me to make her socks out of yarns I’m not always very fond of.  I think about socks a lot, and I want socks-in-process to behave themselves.  And they did, until they didn’t.

First, some experimental socks knit out of Wildfoote in the colorway Bluegrass.  Ruadhan wasn’t wild about the yarn, so she gave it to me.  I wasn’t in love with it, so I figured I’d half-ass my way through a really plain pair of longer than usual socks with some calf shaping and see how it went.  That was a year and a half ago.  The problem was casting on the second sock.  I couldn’t make it match the first–the same number of stitches on the same needles in the same yarn and the same ribbing pattern didn’t match–the second sock was much bigger.  Frog, start over, cuss; frog, start over, cuss; frog, start over, cuss; frog, start over, cuss . . . You get the point.  So I set them aside.

Then came the kilt hose.  I like the first one a lot.  I started on the second, things seemed odd, I ignored it.  And then I noticed it was much bigger.  Sigh.  But knitting these has always seemed like a slow project, because of the vast number of stitches  and the general  slogginess of such plain ribbing.

Then came the third problem.  I wanted to make some lovely socks, I thought the original swatch was too drapey to wear very long.  I fudged some math and got started, thinking I’d make a pair of socks either for my Mom or for Ruadhan, both of whom have small feet.  Well, I went too far with the downsizing–these puppies don’t fit the smallest adult feet around.

So I cast around for some options.  Friends suggested corn dollies, fire, denial, tested patterns, actual real math, etc.  I decided on a combination of drudgery, yarn sacrifice, and lovely distractions.

Exhibit one:

Drudgery.  Finished, fraternal twin Bluegrass socks.  The one on top is smaller, and obviously different in the color-patterning.  It’s fine.  They’re wearable.  And not on fire.  Socks are significantly less wearable when they’re on fire, from what I’ve heard.

Exhibit two:

Sacrifice.  These puppies are done with.  Socks too small for Ruadhan are just too small to bother finishing, because kids’ feet are differently proportioned than adult feet, and I’m no masochist.

The kilt hose?  Well, I haven’t worked up the gumption to frog yet–that would be a lot of knitting wasted. So that’s where the distractions come in.  I’m drowning my sorrows in a good project that hasn’t betrayed me and a lovely gift from a friend.

The good project: The sockyarn blanket, of course.

I know it doesn’t look very different, but that’s because I put the leaf in the table.  I’ve added a few more rows of blocks to it, just because I can.  And because most people are taller than I am, and I want my visitors to be cozy too.  We will not, however, be discussing the edging until I’m in a safer place, knitting wise.   ‘Nuff said.

And the gift?  Brogan sent me two whopping warrior CDs of Momus and the Fomorians as a lovely surprise.  An embarrassment of riches, that is.   If nothing else, I can listen to Dig It while burying tricksie knitting in the back yard.  That’ll learn it.

The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, and The Amber Spyglass  by Philip Pullman

A dear friend of mine loaned me these books a few years ago, and I have no explanation for why it took me so long to read them.  But when I was waiting for the last Harry Potter book to be delivered, I read a book jacket, saw the word "panzerbjorn," and dove right in. 

I have a love-hate relationship with fantasy novels.  Several of my favorite books are fantasies.  But the genre as a whole is so full of trash.  Trash,  I say.  So I’m wary of most fantasy, just as I’m wary of most historical-fiction.  And critics are generally no help, because they don’t take the genre seriously. They trot out comparisons to Tolkien or Lewis, apt or no, and call it a day without really thinking about how successful the author was in developing a decent plot or engaging, robust characters. 

Right, so, screed over.  These books are amazing.  Pullman obviously loves writing for adolescents, and genuinely likes kids.  He doesn’t pander or condescend.  And his language is gorgeous.  I like the Harry Potter books, truly, but it’s refreshing to see such a brilliant writer create this sort of material.  Lyra, Will, and the rest of the major characters are all engaging and lovable, but also believably flawed.   And, of course, the books are page turners.  But it doesn’t feel like Pullman just packed in the plot points to keep the story moving. 

I know some readers have been offended by the negative light the books shine on the Church, but I’ll stand right up and say it’s about time.  So much fiction written for kids and teens is saccharine, overtly religious, and leaves no room for atheists or kids of other faiths.  And you know what?  Most major religious have done some incredibly nasty things throughout human history, and teens are capable of seeing negative portrayals of Religious characters without abandoning their faith or turning against their neighbors.  I grew up with Narnia, and loved it, but I also knew I was never going to make the guest list to Lewis’s version of heaven.  Kids like me need to feel embraced by literature too. 

Tracks by Louise Erdrich

I’ve obviously fallen for Erdrich’s books.  I love her quasi-series set among Ojibwe, and how you can read any book at any point and watch the web of connections reveal itself.  This particular novel is one of her best.  It follows Nanapush, Pauline, and Fleur Pillager.  Fleur is a bit of a specter in many of the novels I’ve read previously, but here we get her more fleshed out, but no less intriguing or mysterious.   The novel tackles questions of belief, motherhood, conservation, loyalty, love . . . most of the big stuff.  Erdrich’s language is particularly beautiful this time around.  I’m sure I’ll read it again.  Maybe, one day, I’ll even read the series in the order they were written. 

The All of It by Jeannette Haien

This lovely little book was a Christmas gift from Scott’s Aunt Shirley and Uncle Bill, the keepers of the llamas-in-law.  They’re readers.  I love to get books from readers.

The book is set in Connemara, that bastion of sean nós dance and fine ponies.  The main character is a priest/fisherman, who is pondering some salacious and tragic news he’s learned from one of his parishioners.  The characters are engaging, and the story is tragic but plausible.  The dialog sways towards caricatures here and there, but not too terribly and not for too long.  It’s a good novella.

Look at all of the sewing I did in that three crazy weeks of sewing.  4,365 inches.  Nearly 364 feet.  Noice.  And then I barely bothered to clothe anyone.  Because of the weather, and the lazy. 

I took terribly few pictures on vacation this year.  I blame the weather–first it was so hot that we couldn’t finish all of the big work as quickly as we usually do, and I don’t like to take pictures of the encampment with her slip showing, if you know what I mean.  We had a good time, despite the weather, but it was really subdued this year.  We were much smaller than usual and the extra work taking care of rain troubles made us sleepy and a touch cranky, as a group.  Though there were certainly bright spots, particularly involving Etaine, Ruadhan, Bran and I rewriting a Gilbert and Sullivan song for Scott the V’s benefit, and then singing it many, many times and slaying huge crowds of people with our wit.  Yay that. 

I did remember to photograph Scott’s new fighting del before we left though.

It’s much more swank on a person, of course, but Scott is nigh impossible to catch with a lens.  He’s agin’ it.  It’s all linen, and I’m very sad to think of what Scott and his brutish friends will do to it over the next couple of years.  Sigh.

Nuala came out for her first event, post birth

We saw her in utero at Beltaine.  Here, she’s sitting in Mora’s lap, being pretty darn cute.  Nuala was an impressive camper–very sweet tempered, she didn’t seem to mind either extreme of weather (soaked in rain or soaked in sweat–we had two settings this year).  And her folks seemed to have a good time too.  That’s a feat, in and of itself, when you’re living in mud and tending an infant.  Yay you three!

So, between storms, Otuell taught us a new historical game, called ha’penny prick.  Go ahead, make an asinine joke–we all did.  Ok, to play, you force a small stick into the ground, vertically-that’s the prick.  And then you balance a small coin on top–like, say, a ha’penny.  We used a coin Otuell made himself, of course.  And then you throw knives at the coin, and there’s a scoring system. 

Nice tunic on Otuell, eh?  I made him that as part of the payment for my wedding ring.  Because he made my wedding ring.  He’s that kind of friend, and that kind of awesome.  Also, I should point out that we’re up on the hill here.  It doesn’t look that high, but the main camp is off to the right, and we’re at least 100 feet higher than most of our friends up there on the crassy knoll, which means we provided a bit of a sanctuary.  I think Scott and I were some of the only ones to stay almost completely dry, and we set up on a platform.

Also, ignore the truck, and look what Otuell made:

Iron chains, copper exterior–it’s a really good repro of one dug up in . . . I would look it up but I’m feeling lazy right now.  Anyway, it’s gorgeous.  He also made a carnyx.  Which we played a bit too much to be, um, decent neighbors. 

Sorry neighbors.

Here, look at some mud.

Terrible picture, I know, but that water is over a foot high and I had to record it.  Guh.

What else, what else.  Fighting, of course, though I didn’t film any this year.  Scott’s camera decided to focus its efforts on making pink blobs, and only pink blobs, rather than useful pictures and films.  Grumble grumble.

Let’s not think about that.  Instead, let’s think about how cool it was that we all got to sit around one morning before the fighting while Richard made us waffles on his antique cast-iron stove-top waffle iron.  Yum.  We made sure everyone ate lots of fat so their coats would be glossy.

That’s basically it.

t

Thou Harp of My Music: Love Songs from the Gaelic edited by Alexander Carmichael and C. J. Moore.

Hey look–my reading list is taking over the side menu . . . sort of like my books are threatening to take over my house. 

Right, so, this is one of those books I had to have once I found out it existed.  Carmichael was born in 1832 on a little island in Scotland called Lismore–it’s near Oban, where they make very good single-malt.  He was a traveling civil servant who loved to collect songs and poems.  The title is a bit misleading–only a few of the poems are actually love songs in the modern sense.  The book is divided into actual love songs; waulking songs (my fiber-artist’s heart sings!); curse songs; laments, and invocations of saints/gods, particularly Brigid/St. Brigid aka St. Bride.  Also, "Gaelic" is one of those words that stymies people–unless you’re really into philology or Celtic studies, you probably think "Gaelic" is synonymous with "Irish."  It’s not, unless, ironically enough, you’re speaking Irish ( "i nGaeilge" translates to "In Irish," not to "In Gaelic"  I could explain, but I’m pretty sure I’ve already lost most of you.  Also, my tea is getting cold).  In this instance, the poems were transcribed from singers and tellers who had learned them through the oral tradition in Scotland, Cornwall, and Ireland, and then translated from Cornish, Irish, Scots Gaelic or Broad Scots into English.

The poems, dear reader, are fabu.    I fell so hard for the first one I was hesitant to read the others too quickly–I didn’t want to burn through these little treasures.  But I did, and then just reread them over and over.  Here’s a taste. 

Brigit of the mantles,
Brigit of the peat-heap,
Brigit of the twining hair,
Brigit of the augury.

Brigit of the white feet,
Brigit of calmness,
Brigit of the white palms,
Brigit of the kine.

Brigit, woman-comrade,
Brigit of the peat-heap,
Brigit, woman-helper,
Brigit, woman mild.

We packed.  Packed packed packed.

We drove.  Drove drove drove.

We built.  Built built built.

It was hot.  Hot hot hot.

We had fun.  Fun fun fun.

Then it rained.  Rained rained rained.

Still, we sang.  Sang sang sang.

And we laughed.  Laughed laughed laughed. 

And then water (of all things) gave me hives.  Hives hives hives.

And then we packed.  Packed packed packed.

And we came home.  Home home home.

And I found a dead terminal server.  Terminal terminal terminal.

And a big new firewall.  Firewall firewall firewall.

So I’m stuck being non-communicative.  Comm-