tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48357354271957144652024-03-19T12:42:34.844-07:00I May Be Some TimeDavid Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-46416886776152425492024-03-19T12:42:00.000-07:002024-03-19T12:42:02.946-07:00Unfortunate Travellers: Notes on Memory<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrCcivF16c2Md07jeUZqmHzIMsAP5bA8RGmiBNGSJAv2VJ6trH965DG5kE5jE5Ztpiz6UbwFGKLqjujdEaxJDLgVvLjL8lG4XD6XYhl_K5BPMysglQZQvU1gkKwSzCogvRoFJmNP2uI6f-_dMzQPahUtnHk3qVP6JbeYuBQShHX4lbc-p9XHvUgsa4LB1/s4001/IMG_3774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2968" data-original-width="4001" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrCcivF16c2Md07jeUZqmHzIMsAP5bA8RGmiBNGSJAv2VJ6trH965DG5kE5jE5Ztpiz6UbwFGKLqjujdEaxJDLgVvLjL8lG4XD6XYhl_K5BPMysglQZQvU1gkKwSzCogvRoFJmNP2uI6f-_dMzQPahUtnHk3qVP6JbeYuBQShHX4lbc-p9XHvUgsa4LB1/s320/IMG_3774.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">When Garcia Marquez died in 2014 he left an unfinished novel, comprised of five drafts and nearing 800 </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">pages. He also left explicit instructions to his sons that it should not be published. Now, they have done so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Should they have?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Who is to say?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Did his instructions stem from his inability to write, or, as his memory failed in late years, his ability to read, to understand what he had already written before his memory began to fail? Again, we can’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I don’t intend to read it. But I do intend to read both <i>One Hundred Years of Solitude</i> and <i>Love in the Time of Cholera</i>again. Since very few books written in the twentieth century measure up to those two, I don’t know why we would expect the posthumous book to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Max Brod, Kafka’s literary executor, famously disobeyed Kafka’s wish to have all his unpublished work destroyed after he died. A cause for celebration in that case.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I am a compulsive keeper of my own<i> papers</i>. I couldn’t tell you why. Old syllabi, notes, journals, annotated calendars, rough and abandoned drafts of various projects. Lists of gear to be packed for climbing trips. Correspondence (from the analog era). The thought of leaving this mess to my wife or son after I’m gone is truly embarrassing. And yet . . .<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Was going through these (six bins) the other day, looking for the first decent piece of writing I managed to do. Something we would now, perhaps, call autofiction. It was a portrait of an old friend who performed an almost invisible heroic deed when we were sixteen years old.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The occasion for this search was that my friend, the subject of that story, is now suffering from some form of Alzheimers; I don’t know the exact diagnosis. But it’s heartbreaking to observe firsthand. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I saw him at an alumni gathering last in December. He could be out in public, with his brother and sister as handlers. He knew who I was and we were happy to see each other. A big strong hug ensued, and lingered. I could see that he was in there, but somehow access to his full self had been denied him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">When I moved off to talk with some others, he said to my sister, “I’m having such a good time, I just wish David could have been here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">When searching the bins I also came across a packet of academic essays that I wrote in graduate school, circa 1986 to about 1999. Even these I couldn’t toss. Not only did I not remember writing them, I did not remember reading many of the books (texts) upon which they were based.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I wrote down the titles, fourteen of them, including:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“A Recurring Moment of Negotiation: Odysseus’ Encounters with Nausicaa, Kirke, and Penelope” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“A Close Reading of the Text within the Text of Jim Harrison’s ‘Legends of the Fall’”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Problems of Closure in the Roman Farce: <i>Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy, Gargantua and Pantagruel,</i> and<i> Moby Dick”<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The one that was met the most approval from my professor was on Nashe’s<i> The Unfortunate Traveller. </i>Today, I couldn’t tell you one thing about either <i>The Unfortunate Traveller </i>or what I had to say about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">All writing contains aa mostly unwritten message: “I was here.”<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">During that same time I also wrote an equal amount of fiction, all of which I remember, and much of which would become my first published book, <i>Letters from Chamonix</i>, almost a quarter century later.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Last week we went to hear John Gorka, a singer songwriter of about my age. A couple audience members familiar with hi work shouted out titles of his songs they hoped he would play. “Those are pretty good songs,” he said, paused a beat and added, “But I don’t know them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In a graduate school Henry Staten was lecturing on literary theory, probably <i>deconstruction</i>. “It’s like, he said, when you go to the library, and you know where the book you’re looking for is, but when you reach for it, it’s not there. There’s a gap where you expected it to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I clearly remember Henry’s metaphor, but not the point which it was supposed to illustrate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">If you don’t remember something, how do you know that you don’t remember it? You must remember that you don’t remember. You must be aware of the <i>gap</i>, the hole where the memory was stored. This must be related to what Henry was talking about that day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">At the alumni gathering,in a quiet moment my friend, confided in me, “David I am fucked. I. Am. Fucked.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“We all are, my friend,” I said, “We all are.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-80559623724408113242024-02-15T06:29:00.000-08:002024-02-19T15:09:24.345-08:00 Godspeed my friend, David Johnston, with some mid-1970s mountaineering notes<p> <b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> </b><b style="text-align: center;"> </b><b style="text-align: center;"> </b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIdJ95cXm59S8QGckNa7e9LbA6dAbyjdO9kHG_6Uv0RRdGbOhgtSa7qb_SiJZFE-22JJhXKTzaB-aJTZpj7mguXK1Y02it8GmrU9ECniBpd2rRO1IJnrwZbiWbAHmiReuquor9L_XhPHWB8j4MZPgcfRFpMj5oVxJyrK97UlO1d6k7jUgy9XWeAhR6FuED/s3245/IMG_3695.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3245" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIdJ95cXm59S8QGckNa7e9LbA6dAbyjdO9kHG_6Uv0RRdGbOhgtSa7qb_SiJZFE-22JJhXKTzaB-aJTZpj7mguXK1Y02it8GmrU9ECniBpd2rRO1IJnrwZbiWbAHmiReuquor9L_XhPHWB8j4MZPgcfRFpMj5oVxJyrK97UlO1d6k7jUgy9XWeAhR6FuED/s320/IMG_3695.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p>My friend David Johnston passed away a couple weeks ago, alone in a small apartment on the 26<sup>th</sup> floor of a Chicago high rise. A few more details are known, but like most of the rest of his life, these are not my stories to tell.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">David was the brother/brother-in-law of my life-long close friends Margaret and Michael Schonhofen. In 1975 the four of us left our suburban Midwestern homes and drove to Seattle to start new lives. Shortly after arriving David became ill and drove straight back to the Midwest, where he mostly stayed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">David almost certainly could have lived longer had he taken better care of himself, but for whom among us is this not true? He declined medical attention in his last days. I believe he expected to muddle through, independently, as he always did. But not this time.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">I was remembering with Margaret and Michael a photograph I took of David and Mike after a day of skiing at Crystal Mountain in Washington. I couldn’t remember exactly when I had taken it. The day had been a spectacular and we had skied right up until the chairlifts stopped spinning. David held his skis in the air in a day-ending moment of exhilaration.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">I decided I would look for that photograph in my archives. This turned into a fairly deep dive.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">My photographic slides are only <i>somewhat</i> organized. They have been kept dark and dry. I confined my search to three boxes, labeled: <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"> • Mt. Rainier 1975–‘78<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"> • Pacific Northwest 1977–‘78<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"> • Dearborn pre–1975; Outtakes: Mike/Roy/John<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">While I searched through these boxes I would keep an eye out for two other photos from the era, both missing for decades: a photo of John McInerney traversing across a knife-edged section of the north ridge of Mt Stuart (summer 1975), and a photo of Denny Cliff dwarfed by an enormous serac on the north side of Mt. Rainier in winter (early 1977).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">After poring through these boxes I had some general thoughts:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--> On every single wilderness outing with Mike we were entirely alone and very very far from the cars.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->The photographs from the first winter attempt on Liberty Ridge (Mt Rainier) look forensic, as if trying to piece together how exactly disaster had struck: blurry, snowy, little-to-no visibility, crevasses everywhere. Disaster was averted, but you’d never really guess that from the photographic evidence.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->There’s a random photograph of me climbing a dark wet slab in mountain boots, a double rope trailing down, not a piece of protection in sight. No label. No memory of it. Just sheer dumbness captured on film.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--> Up to a certain point I was wearing cotton knickers. I shudder now to think of this.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->There were a number of photos of a winter climb Rainer Burgdorfer, Denny Cliff, and I attempted above the town of Darrington. I remember this chiefly because the three of us were packed into Rainer’s VW beetle and we left Seattle in the pre-dawn darkness and Rainier kept sticking his head out the window to stay awake, shouting “I was made for this!” into the void. We never really were sure we were even on the right mountain. I remember the climb as being an abject failure. But I was astonished by the photographs: they showed we had gained much altitude, the river valley far far below us. The landscape in the photographs is stark and foreboding. In those days we were summit-driven and saw anything less as a kind of failure. I look at the photos now and see wild untraveled country and an amazing experience. I see our youth. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Despite that during this era my friend Roy was my most frequent climbing partner, there are very few photographs of our days together. Not sure why this is so. We were so into the actual climbing that documenting it was somehow beneath us?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">I found a couple other photographs I had thought misplaced. One is of Mike and me on the summit of Mt. Shuksan. There are also three or four “rejected” summit photographs, as well. These were self-timed, the camera balanced on a rock. A lot of time was taken to make these. It occurs to me now that these dallying moments contributed to our eventual descending in the dark, off trail in the Fisher Chimneys, rappelling from marginal gear and a prayer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">The other photo I hadn’t seen in a long time is a shot of me sitting on the summit block of Mt. Stuart. I’m wearing my white Peter Storm sweater, the kind that smelled like lanolin, that I wore for years, until it became riddled with holes, shrunken and misshapen. The way this photo later took on meaning was that my aunt had it displayed prominently in her house. After she died her possessions went into an enormous estate sale. I instructed my son, who attended as our representative, to find that photo. But the estate sale was nightmarish and everything in the house had been removed from their places in the home and laid out for sale to strangers. He could never find it. I didn’t expect to ever see the image again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">I found the shot of John McInerney on the knife edged traverse section on the north ridge of Stuart. The slide is damaged. He is wearing his gold and navy striped cotton rugby shirt. We spent an extra unplanned night out just below the summit, out of water, a small tin of mandarin oranges our only food.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">I did not find the shot of Denny Cliff below the huge serac. But I well remember the speed (and terror) with which we moved through that maze of ice.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Finally, I found the photo of David and Mike at Crystal. It was in the most unlikely of the boxes, “Dearborn pre–1975; Outtakes: Mike/Roy/John,” the most grab-bag-like of the group. The shot was a bit of a letdown, the memory far grander than the photographic record. It’s late afternoon and the scene is deeply enshadowed. We are in a parking lot. It’s Mike, not David, who is raising his skis in triumph, unrecognizable behind his ski goggles. David on his right, smiling contentedly. I’m very glad to have found it. Slides in those days had the processing date stamped on them: February 1979. This day at Crystal Mountain, then, was just days before I left Washington state for southern California where I would stay for the next seven years. In other words, a momentous occasion in a young life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">If I could hold fast to another single moment of my times with David it would be from when we were driving west, caravanning. David in his Pinto station wagon, me in my rusted-out Javelin, passenger door coat-hangar-wired together. We didn’t worry whether these were road-worthy: David could fix anything with an engine. Late in one of the days, Montana, let’s say, David ahead of me, pulls over to the shoulder, flashers blinking. I ease in behind him and he runs over and tells me to dial up a certain radio station. “They’re playing,” he said, “Rosemary, Lilly, and the Jack of Hearts.” We drove off toward the setting sun, while Bob Dylan told us a story as we unspooled down the empty highway into the rest of our lives. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR29XDfBNCkVtq8dBOAiQIAw5z4pmG60-uqQU_6UP2MPI0UCzgpU9ArFVan6pWARhIH-rWdQLbe6OmO609GjxfcMAZpTcQxEyi6MXateRsvv7Y59kuUv76d9VcmBDhuwsGOh7Lx40z0O0EkfUAOQqKz03dN-IgkqPJ2S3fE5QTd2SrNK9l8x0ABzrOa4y/s4032/IMG_3700.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR29XDfBNCkVtq8dBOAiQIAw5z4pmG60-uqQU_6UP2MPI0UCzgpU9ArFVan6pWARhIH-rWdQLbe6OmO609GjxfcMAZpTcQxEyi6MXateRsvv7Y59kuUv76d9VcmBDhuwsGOh7Lx40z0O0EkfUAOQqKz03dN-IgkqPJ2S3fE5QTd2SrNK9l8x0ABzrOa4y/s320/IMG_3700.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">The last time I saw David was back in Dearborn (Michigan) in 2012, the occasion, my father’s funeral. I had left the funeral home to get some air and David appeared unexpectedly, freshly shaven in a razor-nicked face, a gift bottle of single malt in his hand. I had the feeling he had been waiting in his car in the parking lot for me to appear.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">It’s a different bottle now, David, but I am raising this glass to you.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">`<o:p></o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-81420701496450315132024-01-04T09:59:00.000-08:002024-01-04T09:59:21.890-08:00An Origin Story: the Detroit Institute of Arts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmxo4leTfc092y9dJKY0rOU4YXns3LH2_6Q1vDuK7UC-5kr-oMkcPPTfpVhba8_xzIz-6i5F4O4kXDfgT4MeppdIWnKDQJ8wA6Xos7UdTy8UuBchnA4bWaCkfBAuUXbfIOn0V3zgod1rElEjLIRmQL-kgSVCUmhK_0-SJwq_YhOM30UH81eWKPZ4xV657Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmxo4leTfc092y9dJKY0rOU4YXns3LH2_6Q1vDuK7UC-5kr-oMkcPPTfpVhba8_xzIz-6i5F4O4kXDfgT4MeppdIWnKDQJ8wA6Xos7UdTy8UuBchnA4bWaCkfBAuUXbfIOn0V3zgod1rElEjLIRmQL-kgSVCUmhK_0-SJwq_YhOM30UH81eWKPZ4xV657Q" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; text-align: left;"> </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I was born in Detroit. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Although I left there almost fifty years ago and the house I was raised in has been out of the family for decades, I still think of the place as home. As Neil Young said, of “a town in north Ontario:” “All my changes were there.” In my case, not all, but many, the typical changes one might experience by the age of twenty-two. When I go back to Detroit, at least once a year, it’s to see the people. But two places, <i>sacri loci</i>, my sacred places, call me back: Sacred Heart on the corner of Military and Michigan Avenue where I went to school and mass and the Detroit Institute of Arts where I experienced the wonder of art for the first time. On this recent trip COVID dashed most of my plans, but I did make it to the DIA. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sosH_HxyeTcex5Df4B2bgevq_KoreZpWaVyxc0aziEr-G1lpfs6QLlfTeYbtPpVEIvyS7BHuNm5CK9gE9WNzIgMJBKHT4bAyrdm-ynurXIVLU9FzuXNfhBPuBJVCYrHcsFN25fxD7u0-rTHFrbQxVgm9jjiyBh597EGkwEqGs1i00XKr1qPFDUgR2kUW/s1262/0-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="1027" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sosH_HxyeTcex5Df4B2bgevq_KoreZpWaVyxc0aziEr-G1lpfs6QLlfTeYbtPpVEIvyS7BHuNm5CK9gE9WNzIgMJBKHT4bAyrdm-ynurXIVLU9FzuXNfhBPuBJVCYrHcsFN25fxD7u0-rTHFrbQxVgm9jjiyBh597EGkwEqGs1i00XKr1qPFDUgR2kUW/s320/0-1.jpeg" width="260" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p>Though I had tested negative for days I was tired and spent more than a few minutes sitting on a bench in the Great Hall, an enormous room, mostly empty, that leads to another great hall that houses Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry Murals.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I’ve never seen the DIA overly crowded the way the Met and the Art Institute of Chicago always are.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">This despite that admission is free for residents of three counties.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">As I sat there I watched the families taking advantage of this great gift.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">From my seat at the bench I see a young girl, six years old maybe, a waif who has escaped her parents and sister. She is attired in a faded print dress over colorful, albeit dingy, tights. She is skipping down the center of the hall. Suddenly she stops and stares at the art high on the wall. She is literally transfixed, awestruck, the thing on the wall has stopped her in her tracks. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> The thing on the wall looks like an enormous piece of fabric, textile, a kind of Golden Fleece. But actually it is composed of aluminum bottle tops and copper wire. It’s called “Amemo (Mask of Humankind)” and was made by a Ghanaian artist, El Anatsui. Foe scale: if it were squared it would be about 25 feet by 25 feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> I am grateful to have observed this epiphanic moment. Later I pointed the child out to my wife. Cute little ragamuffin, she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The first time I went to the DIA I was with John McInerney (with whom I would share a lifelong friendship.) I remember being stunned, my ragamuffin-in-awe moment, to see Frederic Church’s “Syria by the Sea,” an enormous painting of dramatic golden light and ruins. It’s still in the collection, but somewhat overwhelmed by another smaller, more famous, Church painting “Cotopaxi,” which was added to the collection in 1976 five years after our first visit. Cotopaxi is also full of light and fire, kind of portrait of the earth being born. Aside: at some time in the last decade John made an attempt to climb Cotopaxi, turned back, as I recall, by altitude sickness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7OyTugMNn5RIexsPoCsTY0b5j4uxKQZSk16FPQ4ABH6zhMBUVZCGnkExjB1Y31VOFrZn6uqcYoi79YQ4GhwLPwx79GMJQn4xKb2tBiud7eW5zy3prsYqL1MNr0JJ5O-_bkGjkvXeECeLa_h3tlHE9H1JY1nRa9XuyH2md4vbXHSSeWiUWrD7JfBjbxFiO/s1262/0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="946" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7OyTugMNn5RIexsPoCsTY0b5j4uxKQZSk16FPQ4ABH6zhMBUVZCGnkExjB1Y31VOFrZn6uqcYoi79YQ4GhwLPwx79GMJQn4xKb2tBiud7eW5zy3prsYqL1MNr0JJ5O-_bkGjkvXeECeLa_h3tlHE9H1JY1nRa9XuyH2md4vbXHSSeWiUWrD7JfBjbxFiO/s320/0.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">A work I had never seen before was “<em>Family Album (Blood Objects) Exhibit F: Shirt</em>, 1993, Yoko Ono, American; bronze with blue and red patina, on hanger.” I should first state that I was never really a Beatles fan, and certainly not a Yoko Ono fan. But inarguably Beatles’ music would be feature hugely in the soundtrack of my life. As with Kennedy’s assassination and the Challenger debacle, I remember clearly where I was when I heard the news that John Lennon had been murdered. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">This sculpture is a facsimile of the denim shirt Lennon was wearing when he was shot, complete with bullet holes and blood. At first I thought it was <i>the</i> actual shirt, then I thought no, a kind of copy. I was stunned to realize it was made of bronze. I would have sworn it was cloth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Looking around for a potential witness and seeing none, I actually, furtively, touched it. Bronze. It was like touching the hem of saint’s gown. Incredible. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Finally, I made my way to the Rivera room. If you’ve never seen this, I recommend a visit to Detroit for this sole purpose. The murals, 27 of them, fill four walls of a large room, so that when you stand in the center it’s as if you have been absorbed into Rivera’s universe. Rivera painted these in 1932–’33, financed controversially by Edsel Ford. It’s hard to summarize as its messages are many: a celebration of the worker, a critique of capitalism and the war machine, an alert to the poisoning of the environment. It contains multitudes, as Whitman would have had it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">A large part of my love for these murals has to do with the fact that I, like the factory workers Rivera portrayed, worked at “the Rouge,” or, more precisely, Ford’s Dearborn Stamping Plant, at the time the largest factory in the world. My job on the assembly line was similar to the one portrayed here:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLFY_kheynJMHf4RHzSpJcnD2TrD1C22zQck03OxNiEKBgdzeqlgpPtyehyphenhyphen_9UUWk7dC7SyRtKb0ywc-OsS0leofS3azXVy0RNz4gzNPnqokXjOo5v9cMjX2LhwAkEyJUTzko8krY1rV_tdCjK9xVD4Xib-vroCsD0QMy5kJ6qDzrnI9pXvwcHuJKWTeK/s4032/IMG_3569.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLFY_kheynJMHf4RHzSpJcnD2TrD1C22zQck03OxNiEKBgdzeqlgpPtyehyphenhyphen_9UUWk7dC7SyRtKb0ywc-OsS0leofS3azXVy0RNz4gzNPnqokXjOo5v9cMjX2LhwAkEyJUTzko8krY1rV_tdCjK9xVD4Xib-vroCsD0QMy5kJ6qDzrnI9pXvwcHuJKWTeK/s320/IMG_3569.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I operated a spot-welding machine. It was mind-numbingly repetitive and dangerous work. With every weld a stream of sparks, much like the ones Rivera painted, shot out from the weld points, once nearly blinding me and more than once lighting my hair afire. At the time I was not yet conscious of living inside the Riveraian universe, but when I look at the murals now they seem highly <i>personal</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">With the money I made on the assembly line I travelled to Mexico City (the Rivera murals were not part of this decision-making process yet) where I gathered material for a book that I, for some unfounded reason, thought I would write and where I discovered Rivera in his homeland. I did not write <i>that</i> book. But decades later I would write a novel that was set in Mexico City in which the main character inspired by the Industry Murals is a student researcher studying Rivera’s works. The murals function as the <i>occasion</i> that launches the plot of the story.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSN6lulckoMwNkOOV_R4CR_SEamtXItfpQzqkx6Inq0FE0LXiFrNxLw1J0zXQ3DviP9z1QeRxo1Qr_rSuk-dnnmSGBMZUxQVVtELZYn99fRJ2S4aWQ4IPZ30PTt4F5krPFmiARRtzeua3qwkPDjsXx2HhGY4MjyjR4iOhS0dPVFBZdg4UqnZH0DwKRLOC/s4032/IMG_3573.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSN6lulckoMwNkOOV_R4CR_SEamtXItfpQzqkx6Inq0FE0LXiFrNxLw1J0zXQ3DviP9z1QeRxo1Qr_rSuk-dnnmSGBMZUxQVVtELZYn99fRJ2S4aWQ4IPZ30PTt4F5krPFmiARRtzeua3qwkPDjsXx2HhGY4MjyjR4iOhS0dPVFBZdg4UqnZH0DwKRLOC/s320/IMG_3573.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">On this visit I focus on the scene, high on the east wall, of an unborn infant in utero, being nourished by the earth. That’s me, I thought, I was born here.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-87805121098248202592023-11-09T15:25:00.000-08:002023-11-09T15:25:07.402-08:00Notes on Accepting the Banff Mountain Book Award<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCGyzu4dTu7v2eN8yP72X7Gnm_KtyFHpezHwaV4Es4tbp1B3tKIBxcSyPVOFfGktDZ9eKWLzoNn7iGSHPVcbtOs2PZ5dPHemwNb9Ugx4mOSAZ08k87dm4UZHq3M2WAxVm_Fvr7WKBPmYeGyAaiJUcrpftBZn3GBYQWBf3CWdmWcucIm0c3h9pGMf_OAE1/s3839/IMG_3451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3839" data-original-width="3005" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCGyzu4dTu7v2eN8yP72X7Gnm_KtyFHpezHwaV4Es4tbp1B3tKIBxcSyPVOFfGktDZ9eKWLzoNn7iGSHPVcbtOs2PZ5dPHemwNb9Ugx4mOSAZ08k87dm4UZHq3M2WAxVm_Fvr7WKBPmYeGyAaiJUcrpftBZn3GBYQWBf3CWdmWcucIm0c3h9pGMf_OAE1/s320/IMG_3451.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Thanks Amy Jane (Rab Athlete who presented the award) and thanks to Rab for their continuing support of mountain culture and for sponsoring this award.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">It is very humbling to walk through the reading room and see all the books submitted to this year’s festival. One also senses the enormous logistical task of the judging process. Thanks to everyone who participated in that process, from the volunteer readers on the front lines to the members of the jury, Jennifer Lowe-Anker, Kate Harris (gestures toward Kate at the podium) and especially to Tony Whittome for his kind words about my work, which mean the world to me.<a href="applewebdata://BBD8DBC1-916B-4D6C-9AD7-1BB0D816D815#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Thanks to everyone who works so hard to make this festival happen, especially the people I’ve worked with personally: Karolina, Margaret, and Kenna, and of course Jo Croston who makes this whole world spin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I’ve been going to the mountains for over fifty years and I realized that although I’ve roped up with dozens of people, I’ve done most of my climbing with just three partners, John McInerney, Jim Pinter-Lucke, and Charlie Sassara. Very grateful for their good judgment, friendship, and shared laughs. Also grateful for my friend Ralph Baldwin, who I haven’t been out with a lot, but when it counted, his cool head definitely saved my life when things looked pretty bleak.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">My wife has the double misfortune to be married to a climber and writer. The climber lives in the mountains and the writer, this one anyway, spends a lot of time in his own head. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I was born and raised in the American midwest, lots of brothers and sisters. They don’t quite get what I do in the mountains and are generally . . . disinterested about what I have to say in most of my writing. There’s little evidence they read any of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">One day my wife got a phone call from my adult niece. She said that she had just read my book of climbing essays, <b><i>Warnings Against Myself</i></b>. “Oh my God,” she told my wife, “I had no idea. I am so sorry.” So perhaps I owe her an apology myself. I love you, Aisha.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">There’s a line from the great writer Leonard Cohen that I’ve taken to heart ever since I first encountered it: “I always considered myself a minor writer. My province is small, and I try to explore it very, very thoroughly.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Of course, he is not a minor writer, just a modest one. I, however, <i>am</i> a minor writer with a small province. But I believe that if one pays close attention to the specific, works hard, loves language and loves one’s subject, with a little luck we may approach the universal.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Thank you~<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcAnWnNLA8BVzqLmczH-v9w8S1N2XKXPmmPwLZ2MC5gA2ZZ_mGoivoVw8rtKkplCSmGcr8Xo3go4sbJRgApXq2gGFtPZXEpimTg00M0AEvHKI04XUu8JZ92g0lYR-IpYybaqWjfLUkYILRFuLQwIobnu2FsNlxSvjRA_XP0DaiG8BZOstQYF0BcR9usnO/s3334/AntlerLaurels_2023_book_Mountain_Article_Reverse.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="3334" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcAnWnNLA8BVzqLmczH-v9w8S1N2XKXPmmPwLZ2MC5gA2ZZ_mGoivoVw8rtKkplCSmGcr8Xo3go4sbJRgApXq2gGFtPZXEpimTg00M0AEvHKI04XUu8JZ92g0lYR-IpYybaqWjfLUkYILRFuLQwIobnu2FsNlxSvjRA_XP0DaiG8BZOstQYF0BcR9usnO/s320/AntlerLaurels_2023_book_Mountain_Article_Reverse.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><div><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 7.9pt;"><a href="applewebdata://BBD8DBC1-916B-4D6C-9AD7-1BB0D816D815#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> “</span><span style="color: #404040; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">This powerful, exact, and beautifully written article explores the relationship between photograph, subject, and observer in a series of images of climbers who have died in the mountains. Its spare prose and flattened affect at first recalls art criticism, or even the forensics of an autopsy, but this is not the whole story: it soon modulates into something questing, passionate and deeply personal which will remain in the mind of the reader. In short compass this is an extraordinary literary achievement.”- Tony Whittome, 2023 Book Competition Jury<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div></div>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-80183453095374891232023-09-17T11:21:00.000-07:002023-09-17T11:21:07.064-07:00Follow Your Nose: Some Notes on Audience<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0--R2qJGFaCr1-TIa6Qz0bGbxc8FvaX-T0r-6dBeNtA9f8P8DwU0PxcerdmfEsRnAPcDCBzTp4lDWiq3u1DKZmzr_0bkX1R53mm1OHNK88OBUa3A_k80o0cg2T2pvmq8zRP22nA6Hanezkmr8HvNlgZA08cNfGKCHz5tQwn5okHNTCVI5j6N8L3xhncVe/s4032/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0--R2qJGFaCr1-TIa6Qz0bGbxc8FvaX-T0r-6dBeNtA9f8P8DwU0PxcerdmfEsRnAPcDCBzTp4lDWiq3u1DKZmzr_0bkX1R53mm1OHNK88OBUa3A_k80o0cg2T2pvmq8zRP22nA6Hanezkmr8HvNlgZA08cNfGKCHz5tQwn5okHNTCVI5j6N8L3xhncVe/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I read from my work in a bookstore last week. First “in-person” event since pre-pandemic times.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> Eleven people in the audience.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Five really, once you subtract the bookstore clerk </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">(who was wonderful!), the two friends who came with us, two little kids who were soon let loose, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">and my wife. So, five.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">When I taught composition courses one of the guiding principles we were supposed to imprint on our students was the importance of <i>audience</i>. As in, knowing who your audience was so that you could convince them of whatever it was you were trying to convince them of.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I don’t think very much, not at all really, about who my audience is, who might be reading whatever it is I’m writing, or what I’m trying to convince them of, beyond continuing to read. I follow my nose.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The one novel I wrote took more years to write than can accurately be counted. Maybe twenty years between when I started and finished. My son Macklin read it. For many years he was the only one who read it and I considered him my best, and only, reader. Possibly some of the editors sent I it to read some of it, but it was hard to tell. Ten years after I finished it, it was published. Not many people have read it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">One anecdote I always take comfort in comes from Terry Tempest Williams. She told about the time she had a reading in New York City (if I am remembering this correctly) and not one single person showed up. As she was walking out, down a grand staircase, a man appeared for the reading. Possibly he was homeless. But he had come for the reading. She sat down and read to him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Once my climbing partner and I climbed Longs Peak in Colorado but were to descend by a different route, on the trail which we had never been up. A guy we met near the top told us that there were little spots of paint that looked like fried eggs that marked the trail. <i>Or not</i>, he said, <i>just follow your nose</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Aside: when my wife read my novel, she asked, “Who wrote this?” Which I took as a compliment.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Another aside: The difference between teaching composition and teaching creative writing is that no students want to be in a composition course. In a creative writing class all the students want to be there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Once Macklin told to me not to worry, that after I died, he would take good care of my library of mountaineering books. <i>Predeceased</i>. What a shitty word that is.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I suppose my ideal audience is someone who shares my interests, but is actually a little smarter than I am. That way I can aim higher. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">But a triumph in writing is when you win over the reader with whom you have absolutely nothing in common with. I don’t know anything about playing video games, much less designing them. Yet, I absolutely loved Gabrielle Zevin’s <i>Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow</i>. The bottom line is that it was about humans.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I have friend who was inviting “friends” on social media to ask, just ask, for a free copy of his recent book. Which is a really, really fine book. <i>Wonderless</i>, by Shelby Raebeck.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3gPzChHR9YmJgZ09EgSHqiGc2wJ8CBEwYzYTwMWLmSV4hBqpBI9GaMmp11XlBjvy9p9ELPtKSPA5y6LPJNdJWC1V7niVZujHQKHnKo6CEz7xaKU3iv_ayc0Z3BD9zrwEizNfRXgUGVVwK-viIGJUWnaPUarZ3kmEeBeg3cRUqHACTnpHLG5XTU9XIVge/s4032/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS3gPzChHR9YmJgZ09EgSHqiGc2wJ8CBEwYzYTwMWLmSV4hBqpBI9GaMmp11XlBjvy9p9ELPtKSPA5y6LPJNdJWC1V7niVZujHQKHnKo6CEz7xaKU3iv_ayc0Z3BD9zrwEizNfRXgUGVVwK-viIGJUWnaPUarZ3kmEeBeg3cRUqHACTnpHLG5XTU9XIVge/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">One time I agreed to do a reading at The Eagle River Nature Center. The day of the reading there was a heavy snow. The center requires a twelve-mile drive down a two-lane that wouldn’t be plowed. I drove out there, a fool’s errand. My friends Andrea and Ben and their infant child, Uly, showed up, and I read to them, and only them. After the reading was over it was almost dark–afternoon in Alaska in the winter–and still snowing, but I skied out to the bench that commemorates Macklin and shared some quiet moments with him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Steve Almond once wrote an essay, “Camoin Among the Savages,” about one of my mentors François Camoin, who was giving away his books out of a cardboard box in the trunk of his car. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">After he died I went to his apartment to retrieve some of his things. I found three of my books there: <i>Physics and Philosophy</i> by Werner Heisenberg, <i>Cuchama and Sacred Mountains </i>by Evans-Wentz, and <i>Already Dead</i>by Denis Johnson. The Johnson book gnawed on by some dog or other.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">One of the very best literary events I ever attended was a reading by Terry Tempest Williams at the Capitol Theatre in Salt Lake City upon the publication of her masterpiece, <i>Refuge: an Unnatural History of Family and Place</i>. The Theatre is elegant and historic and seats 1,800. That night overflowing with adoring fans. There was feeling of shared exhilaration and celebration. I was happy for her. I was happy for art.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">We lost my friend Ben this summer. I have read three of his novels, all unpublished. One was contracted to be published, but the publisher folded before it could happen; one was just too bleak. The last one just too crazy, although may be his best.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Steve, we’re all among the savages. Steve! We <i>are</i> the savages.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Last week I read a great essay about returning to old work. The author had written a novel and he couldn’t get it published; eventually he salvaged a part of it as a short story. The rest he abandoned and the essay was about living with this choice. I looked up the short story collection in which the salvaged story ended up. The collection was published in 2015. It had exactly zero Amazon reviews/star ratings. I wanted to weep. I ordered the book immediately.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Following your nose only works if you already pretty much know what you’re doing. In mountaineering and writing.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">So, I had a very close friend in grad school who I inexplicably lost track of. Completely. No one we might have known in common had any idea where he was. In the acknowledgments at the end of my first book, I thanked him and parenthetically pleaded, <i>Where are you, man?</i> I was fairly sure he had given up both academia and writing. Like me, he has generic whitebread name. I googled him twice a year. For thirty years. He has zero on-line presence. Two weeks ago I got a snail mail letter from him. It may as well have come from outer space. We are reunited after thirty years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>How did you find me? </i>I asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Instead of just entering your name</i>, he said, <i>I added the word “writer,” and there you were. </i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m admitting to you now how happy this made me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">And those five people who came to my reading? They were lovely. I am so grateful for them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-8189110532773715082023-08-25T09:22:00.004-07:002023-08-28T07:01:28.856-07:00My Old Man, a work in progress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDH5FrRJxycJvjLKR0D0DTvHf_o2Dvi7iBuVP0IwmCwGvKA3H7GurT3mhR2DOJgN6E8-ctzkl79wAyAkiq2lMTcf4Se8svkP2N1maSMjRdKAYuyj9NTTc8nE3UcyQtVwdgJ-kPz2VmKx63L-xEdSI5j0AMXBx4hfF5FRtjhaO-V7ecZErqPDXDHCIS7HsL/s2473/IMG-3254.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2473" data-original-width="2459" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDH5FrRJxycJvjLKR0D0DTvHf_o2Dvi7iBuVP0IwmCwGvKA3H7GurT3mhR2DOJgN6E8-ctzkl79wAyAkiq2lMTcf4Se8svkP2N1maSMjRdKAYuyj9NTTc8nE3UcyQtVwdgJ-kPz2VmKx63L-xEdSI5j0AMXBx4hfF5FRtjhaO-V7ecZErqPDXDHCIS7HsL/s320/IMG-3254.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif">If there’s one thing you should know about my father, it’s that he left college when his father </span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">died, his mother was in the tuberculosis sanitarium and my dad had to support his younger sister </span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">and brother so they wouldn’t be put in foster care.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">My father worked at Ford and he had a friend from work, Hal Erickson, who lived in our neighborhood. One time we were visiting their family and the oldest son, Craig, who was at least five years older than me, and who I really admired, showed me a snub-nosed revolver. I was never sure if it was an authentic-looking toy or if it were real. He also showed me a toy model car, a Ford of course, that you blew into through a long flexible tube and it floated on a little layer air. The future.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">After school there was four a o’clock movie that came on the television and featured classic horror films. This is how I saw <i>Frankenstein, Dracula, The Wolfman</i>, and <i>Creature from the Black Lagoon. </i>But the movie that really scared me was called <i>The Day the World Ended</i>, which featured an atomic blast that killed almost everybody on earth except a group of people who survived in an isolated box canyon. Radiation poisoning and mutations ensued. I was in about fifth grade and somehow I knew that radiation and mutations were actual things in the world. I became obsessed by this to the point of losing sleep. I asked my dad, very adult-like I thought, if “we could please please please dig an underground fallout shelter in the backyard.” I laid out my argument, but to my great disappointment, was unable to convince my father of the imminent danger. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he said. But I did.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">Or, maybe the one thing you should know is that when he was child his father burned his mother’s heirloom furniture in the furnace to keep the family warm in the winter. You should know he was a true child of the depression and later he would be very careful, tight-fisted really, with his money.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">My father was going to a funeral. Craig, the son of his friend Hal had killed himself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Why?</i> I asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Apparently</i>, my father said, <i>he was involved in some kind of cult.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>How?</i> I asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">S<i>hot himself</i>. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>What did you say to his dad? <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>What could I say? </i>My father asked me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">Neither of my parents spoke much of their fathers, both who died young, before I was born. Once, I asked my father what his father died from. <i>He was just</i>, my father said, <i>worn out</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">The year I turned sixteen my father gave me two Christmas presents that surprised me: a stopwatch and a three volume, red-leatherbound set of Shakespeare. Until then I hadn’t been aware he understood me so well.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">One time I was visiting at Blue Lake where my parents had a cottage and where my mother now lives year round. Early in the morning I took my coffee down to the dock and dangled my feet in the water as the mist rose off the surface. My dad wandered down and sat next to me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>What are we going to do today</i>? I asked him. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>We’re doing it</i>, he said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">Or maybe this, maybe, this is the one thing you should know. At my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, I asked my father, <i>Could my earliest memory be right?</i> My earliest memory being the car spinning on ice, someone’s arms reach in to pull me out. My mother under the car on her back, her face, looking up at me, smiling, <i>Don’t worry dear</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Yeah</i>, he says, <i>I lifted the car up with one hand and slid her out with the other. </i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Why haven’t I heard that story before?</i> I wonder aloud.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I never told anyone. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">My father drank too much for a while, late in life. Vodka, straight, so we thought it was water in the glass. Really cheap vodka, too. When I turned fifty he bought me a bottle of Glenmorangie, a good single malt Scotch whiskey. I figured this cost was about four times the amount he would ever spend on his own liquor. That was exactly twenty years ago. And he’s been gone eleven, now.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">My father gave me a pair of very thin silk gloves. He had worn them as a pallbearer for a friend’s father’s funeral. <i>Did he know the man well?</i> I asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Not at all. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Then how did you end up carrying his casket? <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Most people</i>, he said, <i>don’t have six friends left when they die</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">He thought the gloves might be useful for mountaineering. But no way, bad juju. The really important things he gave me weren’t things at all. If it’s not too much a cliché to say so.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">From the train window I could see my father walking up a stairway toward the platform exposed to the wind and snow. He looked small and hunched-over, inarguably old. On the short drive home, he said to me, <i>When you got off the train I didn’t even recognize you. You looked like a tiny shrunken, old man.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">One Alaskan morning I was out shoveling the driveway at 5:30 a.m. Quiet. The snow, which continued to fall, muffling all sound. I was thinking about my father and what a comfort he had been to me when our son died. Then I remembered, whoops, he wasn't there, he had already been dead for three years when our son died. And then, I thought, but yeah, he was a comfort to me then.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">I still have the gloves. And, everything else.<o:p></o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-6985035804509386142023-06-19T11:04:00.001-07:002023-06-19T11:09:17.283-07:00Some Notes on Descent<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGjwE0kjXr54eSvkcqNGK8bJxEF9Me7qbO7LuP-VirNx09H8d08VM8u03VjuyGmRPoTNia1jP9tnzcF6BAytcpyUUOuxWzwuvTm1hzqL2XgZMpjVOKhKbyzJoXx99RYcjqaVC0KXgzQi32bGS65IBEfPKkReJjVNYm69njtYLyveg1FEYgv87PTxdujpE/s4000/P1010119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGjwE0kjXr54eSvkcqNGK8bJxEF9Me7qbO7LuP-VirNx09H8d08VM8u03VjuyGmRPoTNia1jP9tnzcF6BAytcpyUUOuxWzwuvTm1hzqL2XgZMpjVOKhKbyzJoXx99RYcjqaVC0KXgzQi32bGS65IBEfPKkReJjVNYm69njtYLyveg1FEYgv87PTxdujpE/s320/P1010119.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">The descent beckons, as the ascent beckoned</i><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">~ William Carlos Williams</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>There are only three people I trust to set up rappel anchors</i>, pauses, <i>AND I’M ALL THREE OF THEM</i>.~ Charlie Sassara<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Descent seems to be very steep and dangerous. The ascent is always laborious, yet it is on a well-trodden path. But the downward path is new. Many have gone down, but they have usually slipped, so it has a slippery surface. One finds wrecked cars, trousers, shoes, and skeletons, perhaps of people gone to smash on that path. This is the path of danger.~</i>C.G. Jung</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">Outside the hut, clouds roll by at speeds that appear induced by time-lapsed photography with plenty of blue sky between them. Typically, the day you tag a summit in the Alps is a long one, mostly because it starts so early. We had spent our first night sleeping (not) under a dining room table in the Tête Rousse hut. And that was <i>with</i> reservations. Now, without reservations on the return, we have no choice but to descend all the way to Chamonix.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> We plod downward past the spot where we had met the lightning-struck Brits–“So I says, ‘Wot’s that smell?’ And then I realize it’s me hair!” Soon we are at the bottom of the ridge where the death couloir must be crossed. On the ascent it had been frozen in the dark; now it is late and sloppy. Here a number of people are bottle-necked, gathering up the necessary courage to sprint across the shooting gallery. They are clumped in sketchy silence like boys deciding who will be the first to jump off the bridge in the water. The couloir itself appears like a runway down which large rocks tumble sporadically in huge slow-motioned leaps of space. So far as we could see there were never two rocks falling at once and though they tumbled mostly in silence, a thrumming in the air usually announced their approach.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> The actual danger zone may be only forty feet across, though better measured probably by the number of seconds it will take to cross. But if it’s not <i>really</i> dangerous then why do so many people die here? They are slow, thrashed, inexperienced, we rationalize, creatures so very much unlike ourselves. Unlucky.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I watch a large flat rock arc downspinning, a stone thrown to skip on water, frozen and tilted. It builds speed as it descends, but it’s hard to believe you couldn’t dodge it, even in crampons on the slope. That’s what we tell ourselves.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> We sprint across and begin the long hike out to the train station, the caveat being that if we don’t catch the 5 o’clock we will have to spend another night out, this time without the arguable benefit of the hut’s dining table to lay under, as we had on the ascent. Without the train and the <i>telecabine</i>–newly-acquired decadent Eurohabits–the walk to Les Houches is unthinkable after the length of our day, now approaching fifteen hours.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> We make our train and not too long after that we’re seated at a sidewalk table at the Café de’ L’M where the placemats match the view of the Aiguilles–the needles–and as our exhaustion sets in, the alpenglow brightens, and fades, leaving the ridge to the Goûter hut, the Dome de Goûter and the distant summit silhouetted against the night sky. Lucky indeed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">Photo: Charlie Sassara casts off for the glacier below Peak 11,300</p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-43726009551631311882023-05-30T08:27:00.004-07:002023-05-30T09:31:02.726-07:00 In the Clouds with Charles: Random Climbing Notes from My Journals<p><br /></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8Np_S_iv29cPJvv6P9NNyQAcuwJDBtWXigRybYF3RavHWyFiFRvHbdU9ai7Jqeb5gKXyCTpbFef4evCnT6sK06w6huK5msxu-RWvuOV02wc94FmaHqdA3_-wLCuqXgwJ6i0Dqwdp9fcqu-I8PhnZcgClS7sX7Ykjk9sijQFcZLYKX-sP-hoPPV8b2w/s2142/Charlie%20in%20Clouds.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1602" data-original-width="2142" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8Np_S_iv29cPJvv6P9NNyQAcuwJDBtWXigRybYF3RavHWyFiFRvHbdU9ai7Jqeb5gKXyCTpbFef4evCnT6sK06w6huK5msxu-RWvuOV02wc94FmaHqdA3_-wLCuqXgwJ6i0Dqwdp9fcqu-I8PhnZcgClS7sX7Ykjk9sijQFcZLYKX-sP-hoPPV8b2w/s320/Charlie%20in%20Clouds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">i<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">“We live by accidents of terrain, you know. And terrain is what remains in the dreaming part of your mind.” Said Hemingway in <i>Across the River and Into the Trees</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">ii<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Brian Hall (in <i>High Risk: Climbing to Extinction) recalls</i>: “Al [Rouse] would arrive at my doorstep wearing his mother’s disheveled fur coat and [Mike] Geddes in a threadbare army greatcoat.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">This is resonates with my memories of the 1970s. When our mutual friend Drago Archer passed away during one of the pandemic summers, the poet Pat O’Neill recalled one time that Drago and I randomly arrived at their house at three or four in the morning, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I reminded him that the house was full of people, all of whom were awake and partying. I really miss Drago being in the world.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">iii<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Hall also tells of his and Al Rouse’s attempt of a climb on the Gogarth sea cliffs in Wales. It was winter and they ended up in the water, had to abandon the rope and now had to climb out, wet, unroped, hypothermic, exhausted and about to become benighted. They barely made it. Hall recalls this conversation amid this epic:<br /> <i>Wish I’d brought a torch, I said.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Did you tell anyone what we were doing?<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>No.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Did you leave a note on the car windscreen?<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>No.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">This, to me, somehow epitomizes the state of climbing in the 1970s. I don’t think we thought we were immortal, or that we were particularly careless. We were just naive, and sometimes fatally so. Drago would call bullshit, claim I am playing word games.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">iv<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">“Climbing and mountaineering have never been sports. They are adventures with a level of danger and an uncertain outcome.” So said Reinhold Messner, with which I agree.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">v<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Sometimes I make notes but don’t provide enough context to recall what the actual point of writing it down was.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">This one was written into a book that I was planning to discard and I transferred it into a notebook, hoping the reason for originally noting it would miraculously appear.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">As recorded: “Charles [Sassara], <u>shaking my hand</u>, after telling me the story about using stuff sacks filled with snow as rappel anchors on University Peak in the Wrangell St Elias Range (an audacious ascent with Carlos Buhler, that probably has not seen a repeat).”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">The shaking of my hand, underlined in the original note, was apparently the key, but whatever the meaning held for me has not miraculously reappeared, although <i>placing your life in the staying power of a bag of snow?</i> You had to be there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyA-QuixfMsG-WK1fMS3o0y4VR_GoKjti42mvK9gjvgoAKm1ArX7ttfE0YlPxcLLi2APtyu-1FV2QmeVAIOyNPQ2DtHDSO7p1XyyIqV9k_TQQW-Z8ZO73R88mmXXLU--yA-gnzCDlFFqspSg4H6OSvHmKXL_rSecRG2AMEkHhzU8t-XBl9pJy0kqABXg/s4000/P1010202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyA-QuixfMsG-WK1fMS3o0y4VR_GoKjti42mvK9gjvgoAKm1ArX7ttfE0YlPxcLLi2APtyu-1FV2QmeVAIOyNPQ2DtHDSO7p1XyyIqV9k_TQQW-Z8ZO73R88mmXXLU--yA-gnzCDlFFqspSg4H6OSvHmKXL_rSecRG2AMEkHhzU8t-XBl9pJy0kqABXg/s320/P1010202.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">vi<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">In the 1980s I lived in Southern California and my regular climbing partner, was Jim Pinter-Lucke, ten years my senior. Many of my favorite climbs from the Sierra to the Cordillera Blanca were done with Jim. Although we usually switched leads, he was stronger and most likely the lead-switching was calculated so that he lead the hardest pitches. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Recently I returned to Joshua Tree, where Jim and I had often climbed, after an absence of over thirty years. I was mildly surprised to not be able to get off the ground on routes I knew I had easily climbed all those years ago.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Although Jim had recently suffered a stroke and had various other physical ailments, his wife drove him out to the desert to have lunch. The sight of Jim, one of the strongest persons I’ve known, struggling to walk, was very sobering.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">We sat in camp chairs in the desert sun and summoned our shared past to the surface–we both remembered the guy who fell forty feet to the ground and had to be helicoptered out. In my memory he had died; in Jim’s he survived. Not sure why I believe Jim’s memory was likely more right. In either case, the sight, more like the sounds, of the fallen climber rendered us disinterested in climbing for the rest of that afternoon and we wandered around the desert for a while and called it an early day. That part we agreed on. When Jim left I was worried I wouldn’t ever see him again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p>But, I am happy to report, I have seen him again. He’s holding on.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">vii<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">“Hanging on for dear life to the side of a mountain so you feel alive deserves some questioning.”~Jeremy Jones, <i>The Art of Shralpinism: Lessons from the Mountains</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p>viii</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Charles and I head up to McHugh Peak and reach the cloud ceiling rather quickly. From then on we are walking in the cloud and sensing that we are not going to rise above it. We catch and pass a couple of old guys, <i>old,</i> you know, like about ten years younger than ourselves. Chat amiably before moving on.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">There’s a high plateau before you reach the cockscomb summit crag of McHugh Peak. It’s a remarkable place, an enormous expanse of nearly flat land. At that point the trail basically ends. We pass a cairn, but after moving on a few steps we can’t even see it. We pull out our compasses, but with visibility at about six feet there are no landmarks to aim for. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">We decide to head down, passing the other two old guys who are soldiering onward, mostly due to the fact they had been shuttled to the trailhead and had a car stashed to which they had to complete the hike to arrive at.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">“Read about us in the newspaper,” they laugh as they disappear into the void.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p>We sit down to eat our peanut butter sandwiches. Another couple approach. They have enormous handguns strapped to their chests, but are without a compass. After talking with us, they turn around and head down.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p>When we pass them on our way down, the couple has stopped and just opened a couple bottle of beer.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">We make quick work of the descent, piercing the cloud ceiling only a couple hundred feet above the parking lot.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewinYH_WCwb-MI-1x97COlVtA55iY5UmK9SL2jPLlfLrtoakGZed8KDqJ0ooIy-9ghBTUN8_k0eXfUXp0iskIYC6EUaxIV8EOzVS9gDAjne3qd3ZUEpCL3k9HMoUjXMSfu7Brgt3Nfi_vkmenTmO6UDLDzgS4R68D_1YMduqT5Xi0oDJ2SfchVqR4eQ/s4032/96C31AC6-B40B-4BB5-B355-B7BFE2D9E71E.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewinYH_WCwb-MI-1x97COlVtA55iY5UmK9SL2jPLlfLrtoakGZed8KDqJ0ooIy-9ghBTUN8_k0eXfUXp0iskIYC6EUaxIV8EOzVS9gDAjne3qd3ZUEpCL3k9HMoUjXMSfu7Brgt3Nfi_vkmenTmO6UDLDzgS4R68D_1YMduqT5Xi0oDJ2SfchVqR4eQ/s320/96C31AC6-B40B-4BB5-B355-B7BFE2D9E71E.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">ix<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Our last morning in Joshua Tree and Sweeney and I set out to climb The Blob. Here are the reasons we told ourselves as to why that did not happen:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Super windy and cold;<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Can’t find the start;<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Scary down climb from summit that we do not know the location of; <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->My fucked-up fingertips;<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Sweeney’s anxiety about driving home and his need to get on the road.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">x<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;">Drago was the one of the smartest, sometimes I think <i>the</i> smartest person I have ever known. He rarely, almost never, left Michigan. He believed that mountain climbing was the stupidest activity humans had ever conceived. He missed very few opportunities to remind me of this. We agreed to disagree. I really miss that dude.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px;"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-51136994409180681392023-05-02T14:09:00.004-07:002023-05-04T08:26:32.666-07:00From the Notebooks: a Baker's Dozen<p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I fall asleep nightly to the sound of the Pacific crashing into the shore. When the tide is low the sound is distant and soothing; when the tide is coming in, I can hear the individual waves, violent and insistent.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAixuD55mwsn_TwhXG-dcFcVEICboQbA-oL5RvWrfiLPombUh37JUMLYHIbrQNbih7GiAjDqNans6pEEnmNDbw7dKr9QR_QHcmzmTycHXbQ-Ia-A_2zwNbT7o8bOicZ58ZN3G5FbZfEGqglmNBSrZtP724ECs1G2o5RBBXQZxp2a-FSskgSAp25qIbw/s4000/P1010147.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAixuD55mwsn_TwhXG-dcFcVEICboQbA-oL5RvWrfiLPombUh37JUMLYHIbrQNbih7GiAjDqNans6pEEnmNDbw7dKr9QR_QHcmzmTycHXbQ-Ia-A_2zwNbT7o8bOicZ58ZN3G5FbZfEGqglmNBSrZtP724ECs1G2o5RBBXQZxp2a-FSskgSAp25qIbw/s320/P1010147.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“All problems about writing have one solution: you had to, you said you would, it was contract you made with yourself, it was your life.”–– Elizabeth Hardwick, as told by Pinckney Benedict<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">A recurrent dream is of a particular bookstore, in a particular neighborhood, in a particular city. It’s a happy place for me. But I recently realized that the pace does not exist in “real life.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“Of this I am certain, that we are not here in order to have a good time.”––Wittgenstein<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I found this note-to-self scribbled into the flysheet of my copy of <i>Midnight’s Children</i>: “What was it that was analogous to the arsonist removing materials that are personal from the building, that he, and only he, knows will burn?” Remains unanswered.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Lately I have had an uncanny feeling that there’s third person in the house secretly listening to Aisha and I talk.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In 1980 on the summit of the Tour Ronde I took my favorite mountaineering photograph: a French climber sounding his barbaric yawp directly into the statue of the Virgin Mary that adorned the summit. Something about that photo I just loved. But I lost it over the years.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Summer 2022. Stopped at the red light at Tudor exiting Old Seward a tall long-haired kid on a skateboard glides by evoking such a profound memory of our son that I burst into tears, until the car behind me taps its horn, and I make the wet-faced turn.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Hardwick, I think, was right. But Wittgenstein might be exactly wrong about that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Reading <i>The Rings Around Saturn</i>, the book of new friend, poet Maria Maggi. Noting her diction. It’s certainly not<i> elevated</i>, and yet I am conscious of never having used many of her words: <i>isinglass, ingot, paperskin, poultice</i>. Maybe poets are allowed to use more words than mere prose writers. So many ways to say it, as my dear friend Eva once observed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Before we moved from Alaska I organized my photographs, slides, for storage. I go through all the 1980 slides one-by-one. I realize that the “photograph” of “The French Guy Barking at the Virgin Mary at the Summit of the Tour Ronde,” was never a photograph, only a memory.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“But above all you averted your eyes from the ones who were in hard grief, whose mouths were open like caves with ancient painting inside them.”–– Patricia Lockwood<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The sound of freeway traffic awakens me. So many cars on the road. Sirens, too. But we’re not in Anchorage anymore. The road here is very far away and mostly empty. It’s my dreaming brain mishearing the Pacific. I am home.<o:p></o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-51046192833610159972023-04-27T12:06:00.000-07:002023-04-27T12:06:39.432-07:00Writing in Books: Inscriptions and Marginalia<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3ripLj3ajvgLy7r8oPkAfTEjGRHKGy03z2J6TaKm7JiCydpgyi3iYZ-_mIfZ-6eKB95NI9kzUjpIqxAkuQ2_WsMj37mdoMPKQJWtIuc60YKCD_pbBgUnVsKB_CYCQ_61b3X8FlWe8I5QXIR726bmKQk2NasSHciJcqbd-TXlX4H-36ubKD1F2ERrrw/s4032/IMG_3008%20Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3ripLj3ajvgLy7r8oPkAfTEjGRHKGy03z2J6TaKm7JiCydpgyi3iYZ-_mIfZ-6eKB95NI9kzUjpIqxAkuQ2_WsMj37mdoMPKQJWtIuc60YKCD_pbBgUnVsKB_CYCQ_61b3X8FlWe8I5QXIR726bmKQk2NasSHciJcqbd-TXlX4H-36ubKD1F2ERrrw/s320/IMG_3008%20Copy.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In our house books were sacred objects and our parents taught us to not ever, not ever, write in them. We didn’t have a lot of books in the house, but we went to the library often and our grandmother, a children’s librarian, brought us a steady flow of “discards,” book that the library had given up on, often, indeed, because they had been written in.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In undergrad and grad school this dictum became much relaxed. These were, after all, our own personal property. Nonetheless, I tended toward bookmarks, notecards and eventually, sticky notes. Sometimes I fold a page corner, an imprecise method often leaving me to later wonder why I had done so.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I buy a lot of used books now. (Supposedly I am operating under the requirement that for every book I bring into the house, one must exit.) One of my little pleasures is reading the inscriptions or marginalia of previous owners.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYKJc1t70aSUdDXhYM0W6GqwXsynxujX8HpfM3-xVamwtqJYz-JOYoEzfXpJJcIpEHdo7RoamOr5ct-AVnAPzwbO8212o4EB9yrCd6nGarQGExjxJ56Bfd8fypwVvRwdpPu2tc8XKdspkM8h8V1ggLlJ2gO0VDB8c0ji0dW5jvowi47WFpzIkzkSmIg/s3905/IMG_3007%20Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3905" data-original-width="2965" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYKJc1t70aSUdDXhYM0W6GqwXsynxujX8HpfM3-xVamwtqJYz-JOYoEzfXpJJcIpEHdo7RoamOr5ct-AVnAPzwbO8212o4EB9yrCd6nGarQGExjxJ56Bfd8fypwVvRwdpPu2tc8XKdspkM8h8V1ggLlJ2gO0VDB8c0ji0dW5jvowi47WFpzIkzkSmIg/s320/IMG_3007%20Copy.JPG" width="243" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I recently reacquired a copy of John D’Agata’s essay collection, <b><i>The Next American Essay </i></b>(2003). I don’t know at what point in my various moves I lost my first copy of it; loaned out and never returned probably. But now I have acquired another, used and very inexpensive. An obviously unread edition. And yet it had been inscribed, as a gift, as follows:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">Dear x, Please write “The Next American Essay”! I need to read it. Merry Christmas 2017, Love always, y<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Yet, at sometime during the next six years x had let the book go, without having read it. Perhaps x and y were in a relationship that ended. Perhaps, it was lost in a move, donated in error, stolen. Perhaps, x, like myself, wonders for years where that book went and finally rep[aces it with fond memories of y.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Interlude: back when I had the best job in the world one of my duties was bringing writers to town. I had the practice of going to the used bookstores and buying up any used copies of their books, often inscribed, so that the writers would not see them and feel sad.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Last week I found an antiquated mountaineering book in a used bookstore in Pasadena. I had not known of the book and passed on acquiring it. <b><i>George Yeld, Scrambles in Eastern Graians 1878-1897 </i></b>(published 1900). A couple days later I had been thinking about the book and when my wife called from the same store to ask if I need anything, well, I did. She uncharacteristically bargained with the clerk and we got it for two-thirds the asking price. The book as an object is beautiful: gilt edges, deckled pages, a tad yellowed and the photographs and maps were printed on a different paper than then text; these pages are in pristine condition. Yeld was an early president of the Alpine Club, which almost guarantees that he writes well, if not with a lot of formality and . . . words.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I am very glad to have it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">But I didn’t at first realize it was “inscribed by the author,” as follows: “Mifs[?] L.M. Nicholls, with the author’s best wishes. July 1924.” I thought it odd that he did not sign his name. After spending more time with the book, it became evident that the author had made little notations throughout, on the order of “correcting” <i>requiescat</i>to <i>resquiescant. </i>Which seems really odd as <i>resquiescant</i> is more archaic and far less common, even in 1900.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YEm4G5ahRDcUQLjZlbGN_6-c-SxIHqYnluW_NfJwlK1u2NPHrwL1MFTAQrqnK4hJLImsoIYA_g6-4UQ4UflTUGDxieVFuTJNfjDm1zw9nzhENhKO1A9PpQe84IofRQqSnWUgxYP9bRre_HjdIIfoEO_EuwbIc7tIqdFsjhWZytXVg9WmOqduEsQndQ/s3832/IMG_3006%20Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3832" data-original-width="2849" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YEm4G5ahRDcUQLjZlbGN_6-c-SxIHqYnluW_NfJwlK1u2NPHrwL1MFTAQrqnK4hJLImsoIYA_g6-4UQ4UflTUGDxieVFuTJNfjDm1zw9nzhENhKO1A9PpQe84IofRQqSnWUgxYP9bRre_HjdIIfoEO_EuwbIc7tIqdFsjhWZytXVg9WmOqduEsQndQ/s320/IMG_3006%20Copy.JPG" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In grad school I was lucky enough to spend a couple days with James Salter, who had written a fictional book, <b><i>Solo Faces</i></b>, based somewhat on the life of the climber Gary Hemming, an international legend based on his role on a famous rescue in the Alps. When I presented my copy of the book for Salter to inscribe, he turned immediately to page 132 and made an emendation: the word “here” abutted the left margin. He added a t, so that the heinous misprint “here” was restored to the author’s intention: there.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">This is how the sentence is supposed to read: “There is something greater that the life of the cities, greater than money and possessions; <u>there</u> is a manhood that can never be taken away.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">He then handwrote the sentence in his inscription to me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNFkBeYG4I5z1ghT3XW94MNYsak0ktJfqnmj-tjaJ0YkvRm60ZwmKWAbQn24xUofamccOrXbpuLNtTFXZ-jv8eXWH_1dW7Wlk3GGiw4w2-xpFfNaFXo0N6bJIK6cRtMVdpQPfjYOqBxQylJLHhPnIBEgLXnG36XGy3z9IqFU6tjTrF8y70Lc6LjZt7A/s4032/IMG_3005.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNFkBeYG4I5z1ghT3XW94MNYsak0ktJfqnmj-tjaJ0YkvRm60ZwmKWAbQn24xUofamccOrXbpuLNtTFXZ-jv8eXWH_1dW7Wlk3GGiw4w2-xpFfNaFXo0N6bJIK6cRtMVdpQPfjYOqBxQylJLHhPnIBEgLXnG36XGy3z9IqFU6tjTrF8y70Lc6LjZt7A/s320/IMG_3005.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">My friend and mentor, the writer David Kranes wrote about a relationship based on handwritten margin notes in his book <b><i>Margins</i></b> from 1972. A premise I am greatly sympathetic to! His first novel, I think, and a very good one.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">My favorite marginalia in a used book is in my copy of </span><b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>Fernando Pessoa & Co., Selected Poems</i></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">. All the notes are printed in a youthful hand, occasionally embellished with a hand-drawn flower or shining sun. In this way it is similar to the little hand-drawn heart and shining sun in the inscription in </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><b style="font-style: italic;">The Next American Essays. </b>So . . . </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">endearing. At the end of a long excerpt from one of Pessoa’s favorite heteronyms, Alberto Caeiro. “Consciousness,” the marginalia reads, “is a problem.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Yeah, it is. And it was so nice to see evidence of the moment a young mind awakens to the fact.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-32601841693072461412023-02-03T16:41:00.002-08:002023-02-03T16:41:26.727-08:00 Voices in the Dark and Other Misreadings <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4W2ztkYmXDIvLh-P1r7uVkO1y1TkMpQ0I9uwEE0imifsxbwFKuaklVlJkMRMMHJe9VO80ouWU4DqCGvXkDD8Lq22G6CTEz8sU7xM6PXiTh0v186KJiGPqHAtV5F22U2E7RNCmO6lxNSG_CXZjNUnR_9tv4mTGW-xsT7frtcztVJj8qgEqhAxZjSY3Q/s4032/IMG-2830.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2652" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4W2ztkYmXDIvLh-P1r7uVkO1y1TkMpQ0I9uwEE0imifsxbwFKuaklVlJkMRMMHJe9VO80ouWU4DqCGvXkDD8Lq22G6CTEz8sU7xM6PXiTh0v186KJiGPqHAtV5F22U2E7RNCmO6lxNSG_CXZjNUnR_9tv4mTGW-xsT7frtcztVJj8qgEqhAxZjSY3Q/s320/IMG-2830.HEIC" width="210" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I have just reread Jennifer Egan’s</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The Candy House, </i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">which came out last year</span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">.</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The first time I read it I was much dazzled.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">But the first time it’s really hard for the reader to precisely connect the characters in the individual chapters to characters in another chapter.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">This does not detract at all from the reading experience: you hold the individual chapters together as you read but you can’t quite make all their tendrils connect.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">But you have confidence that they do connect.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">When you read through the second time, more of the connections do</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">connect</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">and the reading experience is even richer.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsydkgqvO1o07uPApHQFHhsG36gBget0-ePW3XNFbGL0kCXAak5po_CUYSndtNN_ZFQ9xkJgG3uz1L6vGaUYLxgHkXwWilv_LdSrkc9gs7L6fvWm8j8tXyG3QMz83dolL70FpQEc4-qQ5ssF2MLLnnaYyty3v3Ek3FNESnrnsK5ixQZnJsvvcMYKdSw/s3891/IMG_2831.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2580" data-original-width="3891" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsydkgqvO1o07uPApHQFHhsG36gBget0-ePW3XNFbGL0kCXAak5po_CUYSndtNN_ZFQ9xkJgG3uz1L6vGaUYLxgHkXwWilv_LdSrkc9gs7L6fvWm8j8tXyG3QMz83dolL70FpQEc4-qQ5ssF2MLLnnaYyty3v3Ek3FNESnrnsK5ixQZnJsvvcMYKdSw/s320/IMG_2831.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I was convinced that Egan had incorporated into <i>The Candy House</i> one of Edouard Levé’s ideas from <i>Works</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“11. The friend of an artist selects descriptions of artworks from press reviews of exhibitions. The accompanying photograph is cut out and the text sent to the artist to draw the work based on its description. The final work is a triptych composed of the drawing, the description of the work, and the photograph accompanying the article. There are four authors, direct or indirect, voluntary of involuntary: the artist who created the referenced work, the writer of the article, the friend who chose it, and the artist who drew it.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 0.25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXe4F0NcqGV-1LDWmI_-C2ZxrN42cB2nOJh7fPfG0Abz8a2xr8AMAoGY9MG_iO_vj-sLw7wMibQuN8p5TM5scTQ2kko9d4XlQNxoDeIqS-rH1zJTJRn_MqnHIw8pEf0jZT6F0OvWM2O05t5Lnw4uZAMeqI9lRUGawstRkYCTVoREzvDkQ_gWUUeZiPJg/s4032/IMG_2832.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXe4F0NcqGV-1LDWmI_-C2ZxrN42cB2nOJh7fPfG0Abz8a2xr8AMAoGY9MG_iO_vj-sLw7wMibQuN8p5TM5scTQ2kko9d4XlQNxoDeIqS-rH1zJTJRn_MqnHIw8pEf0jZT6F0OvWM2O05t5Lnw4uZAMeqI9lRUGawstRkYCTVoREzvDkQ_gWUUeZiPJg/s320/IMG_2832.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I knew that the Levé <i>instructions</i> had a similarity to Robin Kelsey’s exercise in <i>The Photographer’s Playbook </i>(Aperture):<br /><br />"Captions<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">One student makes four photographs of different subjects.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">A second student, knowing nothing of the four photographs, makes four captions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">A third student matches each of the four captions to each of the four photographs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond;">4.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">A fourth student designates one photograph/caption pair a successful work of art and one pair a failure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond;">5.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The students meet and discuss."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I was convinced that Egan had written something similar, but apparently I was wrong. I couldn’t find it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMvMmuaNkuWrBN73xGXN14j3F0m3CYiVePpBUEp34TDXzPTDryokQ5329g4cTZ3ZI3jAKs6e1BJ8Eh66L4lGa26HbwaGcaNaIJdktk3nb_FeOvdDYtecuWgLQ1jxoMRPVbUbX7KDCtE-dTUbZ7L_GcG04wJuAYhcw8Fj2djWLee6cwycRRrPe5P8T2g/s1600/Starry-Night-canvas-Vincent-van-Gogh-New-1889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMvMmuaNkuWrBN73xGXN14j3F0m3CYiVePpBUEp34TDXzPTDryokQ5329g4cTZ3ZI3jAKs6e1BJ8Eh66L4lGa26HbwaGcaNaIJdktk3nb_FeOvdDYtecuWgLQ1jxoMRPVbUbX7KDCtE-dTUbZ7L_GcG04wJuAYhcw8Fj2djWLee6cwycRRrPe5P8T2g/s320/Starry-Night-canvas-Vincent-van-Gogh-New-1889.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Possibly I had been thinking about a passage early in Egan’s book in which a character has written a book <i>Van Gogh, Painter of Sound</i>, “which found correlations between Van Gogh’s types of brushstrokes and the proximity of noisemaking creatures like cicadas, bees, crickets, and woodpeckers, whose microscopic traces had been detected in the paint itself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">This may have resonated with an article I had read about how Van Gogh’s “The Starry Night” sheds light on the concept of turbulent flow in fluid dynamics. Basically, <span style="background-color: white; color: #262626;">scientists figured out how the concept of luminance gives the impression of motion, the swirling effect of Van Gogh’s stars, for example. The scientists digitized, in other words quantified, the painting to undertake the examination. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Garamond, serif;">This is very much one of Egan’s big thoughts in <i>The Candy House</i>: the quantification of all natural phenomena, particularly human beings.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Garamond, serif;">Read about Van Gogh in Maria Popov’s article here:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #262626; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.themarginalian.org/2014/11/13/van-gogh-starry-night-fluid-dynamics-animation/"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">https://www.themarginalian.org/2014/11/13/van-gogh-starry-night-fluid-dynamics-animation/</span></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Another thing I discovered about <i>The Candy House</i> was that I stole a couple of its sentences.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">My wife has a habit of remedying her insomnia by having her telephone tell her a story, such as a TED talk, a fiction from <i>the New Yorker</i>, or a book on audible.com. Usually I am not awakened by this practice as the volume is very low and comes to me as a quiet indecipherable murmuring.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">One night I woke to a couple of haunting sentences speaking to me out of the void and I wrote them down, in the dark, in my already illegible handwriting.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Days later I would discover the sentences, but could not locate their source, knew only that I had written them down in the night when mostly asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The sentences resonated with me because of an enigmatic (even to me) character I was writing in a story and I wrote them into her dialogue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">This is one of them (in my words): “My work is to be forgotten, but still present.”<a href="applewebdata://3488A142-9469-4718-BAE7-633854D74E99#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Later still I was reading <i>The Candy House</i> and I realized that these sentences were from one of the strangest chapters in the book, “Lulu the Spy, 2032.” This chapter is written in brief aphoristic statements and is unlike any other chapters.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I would have mentioned this indebtedness in the Acknowledgements of my book, had I known who to acknowledge. I’m mentioning it now.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">My favorite chapter in <i>The Candy House</i> is called “The Perimeter: After” and it is narrated by Molly, as a child, and it serves as the introduction of Lulu and their very sweet afternoon with Chris Salazar, an important character, and his friend Colin (who dies young). The voice is amazing and sweet. This is very much a polyvocal (is that even a word?) work with lots of different speakers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I add (only because I noted it) that Egan uses the word judder (or a form of it) three times. That seemed like a lot to me, in a 342 page book. Note to self: use the word <i>judder</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Note to you: read <i>The Candy House.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghu_0TjIva2ySqdkrjTKzHxRqNsVcR6tR68-RMsm6v5alAMcpZ894DfyaKWRS7bNHyxS3woL0NB6fKMg2Miiye_bPbxF_U3apYb7HlTJ-12e3OF0hT9At6JmpK0D92npqR-SAL6LTss1PlfKH8fQOHLxsw7zJ9TAs-cg0g0RYIhBsFO6O0QQCbyh1Tug/s4032/4EDFF8E4-62F5-4C27-8964-A7E4DC0B3440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghu_0TjIva2ySqdkrjTKzHxRqNsVcR6tR68-RMsm6v5alAMcpZ894DfyaKWRS7bNHyxS3woL0NB6fKMg2Miiye_bPbxF_U3apYb7HlTJ-12e3OF0hT9At6JmpK0D92npqR-SAL6LTss1PlfKH8fQOHLxsw7zJ9TAs-cg0g0RYIhBsFO6O0QQCbyh1Tug/s320/4EDFF8E4-62F5-4C27-8964-A7E4DC0B3440.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="applewebdata://3488A142-9469-4718-BAE7-633854D74E99#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a> The story is “High Heaven: A Kind of Love Story,” in the book <i>Points of Astonishment: Alpine Stories</i>.<o:p></o:p></p></div></div><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-71071350662502266432022-12-05T10:12:00.004-08:002022-12-07T09:23:45.877-08:00Random : My Untitled Documents<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLm1aGoXElxCn0OHqVxs5k3j2RPKFXXvH3QRQw_DSkjnR32EKo8AdTTQjZ3qTjTFwHrjvm7DArcRL3srs-1uOgsCcRKRSFwIhNrjdlylMUoKDd-ww6i0kdOMyafyXRPfpt5fT2jolKSqnQ9aO_XfpepoXpFT3SKEl8hkd9d3SSeCYWzgHEL_kEN0Gngw/s4032/unnamed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLm1aGoXElxCn0OHqVxs5k3j2RPKFXXvH3QRQw_DSkjnR32EKo8AdTTQjZ3qTjTFwHrjvm7DArcRL3srs-1uOgsCcRKRSFwIhNrjdlylMUoKDd-ww6i0kdOMyafyXRPfpt5fT2jolKSqnQ9aO_XfpepoXpFT3SKEl8hkd9d3SSeCYWzgHEL_kEN0Gngw/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I have a folder on my desktop labeled “Random” in which none of the documents were given titles and instead were automatically “titled” by Microsoft with the first line of document.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Here are the “titles”:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• We saw a farmhouse burning down 5/4/21<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• Hiking into Eklutna Canyon we were passed on the trail by a couple 2/28/21<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• So many of us come to Glacier Bay to be overwhelmed by mountains 1/22/21<a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_edn1" name="_ednref1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• Last September I had a single day at the Chicago Art Museum and chanced into a small theater showing <i>Les Goddesses</i> 8/25/20<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• I came in from out of state with a brief window in which to find 3/11/20<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• I believe that cornices are dangerous 2/18/20<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• Kanchenjungma in the Himalaya is widely known as a sacred peak to the Nepalese 8/3/19<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• Twelve years later I saw Julio Cortazar in from of a crowd in a park in Managua 2/12/19<a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_edn2" name="_ednref2" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[2]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• The temperature was eerily warm for late January 1/28/19<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• In 1500 the world population is approaching 400 million 11/24/19<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• On Sunday walking Powerline Pass I see a couloir on the north side of Peak 2 that looks really skiable 5/12/17<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• At the end of 2016 the photographer Mitch Epstein visited the work spaces of artists who passed the previous year 5/12/17<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• One wants to tell a story like Scheherazade in order not to die 7/8/16<a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_edn3" name="_ednref3" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[3]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• A Reader’s Guide to Warni<i>ngs Against Myself </i>as a book about Macklin 4/1/16<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• I was driving the two-lane 9/29/15<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• What does this look like? 9/25 15<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• Transcription of a hand-written letter from Jeff Long accompanying a copy of 5/14/15<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• First sentence of Larry McMurtry’s <i>Walter Benjamin and the Dairy Queen</i> 8/14/14</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• I am late to fly fishing and rushing to set up my line 7/30/14<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• For the most part we are not where we are 7/10/14<a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_edn4" name="_ednref4" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[4]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; 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margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• From the train window I could see my father walking up a stairway expose to the wind and snow 1/24/13<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• Could my earliest memory be right? 7/20/10<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;">• I’m in the backcountry above Turnagain Arm skiing with my sons 3/4/10<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div><br clear="all" /><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="edn1"><p class="MsoEndnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_ednref1" name="_edn1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a> Sherry Simpson<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="edn2"><p class="MsoEndnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_ednref2" name="_edn2" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[2]</span></span></span></a> Gabriel Garcia-Marquez<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="edn3"><p class="MsoEndnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_ednref3" name="_edn3" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[3]</span></span></span></a> ibid<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="edn4"><p class="MsoEndnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://D0342C1A-6A3C-4556-A4B3-F4CA8EE69264#_ednref4" name="_edn4" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[4]</span></span></span></a> Thoreau<o:p></o:p></p></div></div>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-43318519675269795622022-09-08T11:52:00.000-07:002022-09-08T11:52:46.514-07:00In Praise of Long Sentences<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrm63W6rz3RUwDDHAlPYNSShiMhHO-ID7dTNcRsDR_KEccuIwpnd05wiYUtxTuGOxy5V_REnZpt_VPOfxtmIl8YlenGT2cpMHaIoA1Wo-9zky-A9vcd0OBVuWJ9rLK7e2lryKVVJ3gAg_tjT8Gn9yvsq5m5T9i3Vcc9lyNqN-tQk1eh5hJd2ON0nu_AA/s4032/9643B520-03D9-461A-B949-2337DF2DDC9D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrm63W6rz3RUwDDHAlPYNSShiMhHO-ID7dTNcRsDR_KEccuIwpnd05wiYUtxTuGOxy5V_REnZpt_VPOfxtmIl8YlenGT2cpMHaIoA1Wo-9zky-A9vcd0OBVuWJ9rLK7e2lryKVVJ3gAg_tjT8Gn9yvsq5m5T9i3Vcc9lyNqN-tQk1eh5hJd2ON0nu_AA/s320/9643B520-03D9-461A-B949-2337DF2DDC9D.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I’ve heard it said that typing out a whole, admired, book is a good exercise for writers.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I’ve </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">never done it.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">But I have typed out a few long and admired sentences. Sentences, as Blake had it, that “see the world in a grain of sand.”</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Although, these are pretty large grains.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">If you read them out loud, don’t forget to breathe.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Enjoy.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Around the great stadium the tenement barrens stretch, miles of delirium, men sitting in tipped-back chairs against the walls of hollow buildings, sofas burning in the lots, and there is as sense these chanting thousands have, wincing in the sun, that the future is pressing in, collapsing toward them, that they are everywhere surrounded by signs of the fated landscape and human struggle of Last Days, and here in the middle of their columned body, lank-haired and up close, stands Karen Janney, holding a cluster of starry jasmine and thinking of the blood-storm to come.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"> <span> <span> </span></span>––Don DeLillo, <i>Mao II</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Did he go back to the river behind our house, one late May day earlier that year, in which we bolted from the school bus and rushed into the house, changing into our thrift store swim trunks and beatdown, fire-sale shoes, running across the land our broke parents could just afford to rent, across the beaver dams that created bridges over the swamps, and through the towering cattails, diving headlong into those green waters, surging underwater, the bottom lit by a blazing sun, and up the shore on the other side, scrambling in the mud and loose stones, up under the bridge, where the big rocks were, and climbing up together, he and I, laughing, and jumping right back in, into the deep, and both swimming down side by side, holding the biggest rocks we could find to stay at the bottom, trying to outdo each other, our legs caught up in the current, flailing loosely behind us, not unlike, I imagine, his legs currently flailing after catapulting off of that Lincoln, and did he land there in that memory, a nice place to be for anyone, looking at me underwater, me looking at him, two brothers together, almost one person, him somehow knowing in this memory as he is flying through the air above and then impacting face down in a silty dry ditch, facing the same breathing issue under that bridge in that water in this death memory as he was now, roadside, hidden in that ditch by sage and crunchy tall grass, and back there in the river with me, inside his bruised and dying brain, as the electrical signals fired more and more details so that he could forget his body was ravaged and busted and dying and pushed down into that dust exactly like the victim he was, that of an automobile massacre, and there, in his memory, does he look over and say goodbye to me, as I never will get to say to him, me, still dreaming about him all these 25 years later, getting so angry with him because he’s not here to see how beautiful and terrible this world is, but mainly it’s that I’d like to tell him in this maybe-memory that he’s having as he dies in this ditch that it’s not the big stuff that I want to show him, it’s having a beer and talking about nothing, fucking nothing, on any day of the year, just to see his face again, and maybe hear him laugh, a laugh, which 25 years later I have completely forgotten, and that’s okay too, that’s what happens, right, you forget things, change things, but I can’t change that he has died, will die, will always be dead in that ditch and even though I know it’s impossible because we burned his body up like fucking cordwood and buried him in the backyard, I hope that his synapses are still firing somewhere out there and he’s under that water, reaching over to poke me in the ribs to try to get me to let go, and I’m poking him back, and he’s glorious, like the glow of halos in stained glass from European churches and that he’s never dead, not dead, never could be dead, no not this kid, this fucking beam of pure light. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"> ––Nicholas Dighiera, “The Tree,” forthcoming soon in<i> Riverteeth<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;">Needless to say, the link to my father was never so voluptuously tangible as the colossal bond to my mother’s flesh, whose metamorphosed incarnation was a sleek black sealskin coat into which I, the younger, the privileged, the pampered papoose, blissfully wormed myself whenever my father chauffeured us home to New Jersey on a winter Sunday from our semi-annual excursion to Radio City Music Hall and Manhattan’s Chinatown: the unnamable animal-me bearing her dead father’s name, the protoplasm-me, boy-baby, and body-burrower-in-training, joined by every nerve ending to her smile and sealskin coat, while his resolute dutifulness, his relentless industriousness, his unreasoning obstinacy and hard resentments, his illusions, his innocence, his allegiances, his fears were to constitute the original mold for the American, Jew, citizen, man, even the writer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"> ––Philip Roth, <i>The Facts: A Novelist’s Autobiography</i><o:p></o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-24964180235251119802022-07-17T10:58:00.005-07:002022-07-17T10:58:48.987-07:00Taking Care of Monkeys: My Last Director's Welcome<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgXo_aQ1HJwJY15H9cXwJj_OeX0_ZLiK2kPG-y87-qI8aBND8YOqDzC2-zY8P5YsmJCV4GTdqwRDAPwYNvbpTno-qJtLbb7ULrUo_ZpS-s9QxzlkoSw-LGVrg6FDYnnD8UNNq32ShcE4D1bOJ2IcCS7XWoKANbX28FuQWkRsEncNxoo9IBVuB86VLcw/s4032/35574A25-88F5-462B-8F79-9F5E069F407E.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgXo_aQ1HJwJY15H9cXwJj_OeX0_ZLiK2kPG-y87-qI8aBND8YOqDzC2-zY8P5YsmJCV4GTdqwRDAPwYNvbpTno-qJtLbb7ULrUo_ZpS-s9QxzlkoSw-LGVrg6FDYnnD8UNNq32ShcE4D1bOJ2IcCS7XWoKANbX28FuQWkRsEncNxoo9IBVuB86VLcw/s320/35574A25-88F5-462B-8F79-9F5E069F407E.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">You will all remember that my method here is to steal words from people much smarter than myself.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Mary Ruefle remembers “a reading WS Merwin gave in a tiny chapel, with the audience sitting in the pews, and how after a while we were all lost in a suspension of time—I know I was—and after the reading there was a Q & A and someone asked a bizarre question, she asked what time it was., and Merwin looked at the clock (there was a clock on the wall) and every one of us could see that it had stopped, it had stopped in the middle of his reading, literal proof of what was already felt to be true, this spectacular thing, the dream of all poetry, to cut a hole in time.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"> According to Jim Harrison the difference between a poet and a non-poet is that a poet, Shakespeare, describes aging like this: “Devouring Time, blunt thou thy lion’s paws.” Whereas I look in the mirror and think, "I look crappier every day."<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In this Youtube video my wife, Aisha, and I like, a parent is asking a small child what she wants to do when she grows up. The child is eating and not particularly engaged in the conversation, much more focused on eating. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What do you mean?” she asks her mom.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What do you want to do when you grow up?” the mom asks again. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Take care of monkeys,” the kid answers with a dismissive tone, as in, isn’t it obvious?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“The aim of literature is the creation of a strange object covered with fur that breaks your heart,” so said Donald Barthelme. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Aisha sometimes listens to TED talks in the middle of the night to ward off insomnia. Random phrases embed themselves in my dreams: “Escalation of commitment to a losing course of action.” Can apply to mountaineering or the writing life, as you please.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Kerouac advised: “To be dark solitary eye-nerve watcher/Of the world’s whirling diamond.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“There’s something really interesting about this notion that there is a below the surface part of the mind participating in the writing of the story, and that what we call “process” is about getting out of the way of that part of the mind,” according to George Saunders.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“How chapped would his lips have to be to take a smudge of it from her mouthy tube?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I read this somewhere and loved it, noted it, but forgot to write down the source.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“So much of what is lost in the shipwreck . What remains are fragments, and if you don’t hold on to them, the sea will take them, too.” ~ Rachel Cusk.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">•Any one who has seen me do battle with technology knows that we, tech and I, have a fraught relationship. Alexa, for example, often does not respond to my requests.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">After three attempts, I’m like, “Alexa turn the fucking radio off.” My wife says I’m mean to her, that’s why she doesn’t pay any attention to me. Aisha thanks Alexa. Alexa responds, “You’re very welcome, Aisha. Want to hear a joke?” When Aisha says yes, she wants to hear a joke, Alexa says, “Okey dokey artichokey,” and then proceeds with the joke. I try to be as cool as Alexa when I text my wife, but instead of “Okey dokey artichokey” I am auto corrected to “Okay. Donkey Artichoke.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">On facebook there is photograph of a couple and their two teen aged children standing on the shore wearing wetsuits and standing next to surfboards. The accompanying text:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“This fall has been the worst. Our marriage exploded and our family is broken and we don’t quite yet know what it will look like in the future.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I intended to post this picture and say if you’re struggling and wonder why everyone’s life looks like a postcard while yours is full of challenges, it’s because Facebook lies.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">But this weekend I was in Banff reading from <i>This One Wild Life</i> and I thought everything in that book is true too. It’s us at our best to be sure, but it’s true.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In <i>This One Wild Life</i> I say something to the effect that any attempt at narrative involves fabricating, and really life is a series of standalone events (the attempt to stitch them together in a coherent and meaningful way relies on fiction). This post card standalone moment below is just as true as the miserable standalone moment we find ourselves in right now. I have infinite gratitude to all family and friends who have been supporting all four of us and our sad sad hearts.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In the middle of the night my wife is listening to <i>New Yorker</i> podcasts and I hear the words “How chapped would his lips have to be to take a smudge of it from her mouthy tube?” Which is how I know it was written by Sarah Braunstein in a story called “Superstition.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">To end on a hopeful note: In 1500 the population of humpback whales was 125,000.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">By 1966 it had shrunk to 10,000. A worldwide ban on whaling was imposed.In 2019 the humpback population is 135,000 and 9 of the 14 populations have been taken of the endangered species list.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Between the pandemic and the program ending, more hope:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“<a href="https://www.azquotes.com/quote/709693"><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;">To be hopeful in bad times is based on the fact that human history is not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act. And if we do act, in however small a way, we don't have to wait for some grand Utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.</span></a>”–<span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://www.azquotes.com/author/16190-Howard_Zinn">Howard Zinn</a></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I don’t really follow tennis very closely, but somehow every year I find myself tuned into the French Open, where I heard the announcer Pam Shriver say this: “If you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Thanks for taking the risk, with us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">And take care of those monkeys~<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 2in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> ∞∞∞∞∞</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> As spoken to The UAA MFA program on July 10, 2022.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-55097509809520478142022-06-04T07:41:00.001-07:002022-06-04T10:10:49.281-07:00Mus[eum]ings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKiUCF_wR0ZLeihxtBO2UmnkUi4bP21ZxbdKe-3-fPGr9Rf1_gXHusnbSmtP6bVdgBpGgbR0A8GstKymfy5iiEGnJ3bIoa5aBBhqu_ouRaHsdtiyxoTYE-vkG9aKkGKPpra7lz_Vx0UxyiT2DllsIA4qeEdFc-xPZMUl-YE46qSdKLqUz8AHU80_jUw/s4032/D1A9881B-9345-4627-AE76-0C7D24503849.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKiUCF_wR0ZLeihxtBO2UmnkUi4bP21ZxbdKe-3-fPGr9Rf1_gXHusnbSmtP6bVdgBpGgbR0A8GstKymfy5iiEGnJ3bIoa5aBBhqu_ouRaHsdtiyxoTYE-vkG9aKkGKPpra7lz_Vx0UxyiT2DllsIA4qeEdFc-xPZMUl-YE46qSdKLqUz8AHU80_jUw/s320/D1A9881B-9345-4627-AE76-0C7D24503849.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I was born in Detroit and return to visit family once or twice a year. Each visit I make the short pilgrimage to the Detroit Institute of Arts. There were times I spent my whole visit to the museum in the pavilion that houses Diego Rivera’s great mural: “Detroit Industry.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I spent time in Mexico and I also worked in the Rouge Plant, at one time the largest factory in the world, also known as the Dearborn Stamping Plant, at least the part I worked in was called that. The Rouge Plant is the subject of Rivera’s mural. Rivera painted it in 1933, forty years before I worked there. In 1973 the plant looked almost exactly as Rivera painted it. It’s been much sanitized and brightened since. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">From my mother’s house in East Dearborn you can hear the foghorns (are they really foghorns?) of the ore freighters coming in off the Detroit River to deliver iron to the steel mill at the Rouge.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I'm not including a photograph of the Rouge here because none can contain it, in my opinion. But here are some numbers: 93 buildings, 16 million square feet of factory floor space, 100 miles of <i>interior</i> train tracks. At its height 100,000 people worked there and a car rolled off the assembly line every 49 seconds.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I remember walking out of my shift as a marvelous escape, as if from a huge underground cavern. Some nights, I worked the afternoon shift, I ran to my car as if behind me some powerful invisible force might pull me back into the place.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Frida Kahlo, Rivera’s much younger and now much more famous wife, hated Detroit. She resented that Edsel Ford, who had commissioned the murals, gifted them a Model T and not a Lincoln Continental. She also suffered a miscarriage during this time, at Henry Ford Hospital. My father went there for the chemo treatments that may have bought him a couple years, but couldn’t save his life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivHZgsCwG7lPFj-Up6r7rwDvhgBPHB-ARr8CshRrtsNpB8xIuiu1LQ1ECj7CkHAHFuysiWDaq3drdofAfC819D-OdeJqXuPoQuFhMQqwvH57D7HblT4nVEzMuIAf-FLWg52omMqF9I-1jEQ02eYjbQv3BRS6zvPZBy_w85MJfwpqLfQ-SQjK9lQOHFKw/s1200/henry-ford-hospital.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="943" data-original-width="1200" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivHZgsCwG7lPFj-Up6r7rwDvhgBPHB-ARr8CshRrtsNpB8xIuiu1LQ1ECj7CkHAHFuysiWDaq3drdofAfC819D-OdeJqXuPoQuFhMQqwvH57D7HblT4nVEzMuIAf-FLWg52omMqF9I-1jEQ02eYjbQv3BRS6zvPZBy_w85MJfwpqLfQ-SQjK9lQOHFKw/s320/henry-ford-hospital.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The painting “Henry Ford Hospital, 1932” is also called “The Flying Bed.” It lives at the Dolores Olmeda Museum in Mexico City. Kahlo never conceived after this and suffered lifelong anguish over not being able to provide Diego with a little Dieguito. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">After I worked as a spot welder on the assembly line I took the money and spent the winter in Mexico City. I was twenty years old.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">About thirty years after that I finished a novel about a young American scholar from Detroit who goes to Mexico to research the relationship of labor and art in the work of Diego Rivera.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Something about that novel that haunts me is that the protagonist’s father dies in a hospital bed in the living room of his house. Five years after I wrote the book my father died in a hospital bed set up in the living room of his house.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Curiously, I didn’t really know about the murals until after I had spent time in Mexico. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">You should go see Detroit Industry. The paintings line all four walls a large pavilion. The feeling you have is that you are living inside Rivera’s universe.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Once I wrote these lines in an essay: “In Paris my wife and I saw an old lady get struck in the head by a soccer ball. Later that day in a small cathedral an ancient nun approached us unbidden and asked if we wished to see the Delacroix cloistered in the sacristy. Later still: why had she asked us?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">That event happened in 2003. It’s easy to remember the year because my wife and I were there celebrating our fiftieth birthdays. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The week before we visited Detroit I converted that real memory of the Delacroix into a fictional scene. The main character in this story is drawn to a church in an alpine village in France. The priest invites him into the sacristy to see a Caravaggio on the wall. I made up the painting and called it “Mary Magdalene Washing the Feet of Jesus.” The scene in this fictional story is actually longer than the memory recounted above.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In this recent visit to the museum, after I had spent time with “Detroit Industry,” I remembered writing the Caravaggio scene and asked if the museum held a Caravaggio. It does. The painting is called “Martha and Mary Magdalene.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDRat9wTsQgvN86k5udJ1rUou8VtOWdZUOi4Z9dXneGu3k4T1T2fGyWagIteEs_1P-9HHGTXOMlEwuuCVbyRu8uxzBItHUI2pQpRjzfousrMBC7hUgdwQUDv4mydPG-wKmMKhyG7dZ-6ztQGL781t3P7vgprFbXuDU9Lpo6XXTPyrBo4Ff6eSwDH4RA/s4032/E8B63F10-C42E-4FF5-AD29-1C5574C0E938.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDRat9wTsQgvN86k5udJ1rUou8VtOWdZUOi4Z9dXneGu3k4T1T2fGyWagIteEs_1P-9HHGTXOMlEwuuCVbyRu8uxzBItHUI2pQpRjzfousrMBC7hUgdwQUDv4mydPG-wKmMKhyG7dZ-6ztQGL781t3P7vgprFbXuDU9Lpo6XXTPyrBo4Ff6eSwDH4RA/s320/E8B63F10-C42E-4FF5-AD29-1C5574C0E938.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Though I kept the Caravaggio in my story a fiction of my own device, I did some revision on the scene after experiencing the real Caravaggio.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">It was Mother’s Day and we were with our son, the first time we had seen him in a year. We had lunch in the Kresge Courtyard in the museum, an elegant space. Ahead of us in the line for food, a small girl, eight years old (?) took some cash out of her purse and paid for her mother’s lunch.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgID-6BkkT1wFh5P2_KA6VSxHV8wNJAuOzaKGyeUx3tKM2ukB3BfEtblb6Qik9AhlEXGy_euxLM9HLMrsZkPNUx5AYLHek1Gp6AfNr-OmZO4L9KG9sRE7rBULz5eqKxWHExz5qCsEcTo-l4VGYQEHNndsCj2lGfraxtTshrQ4ETeujy4g1Ht8RTS5TYzg/s800/CHRYSLER-300C-2135_6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgID-6BkkT1wFh5P2_KA6VSxHV8wNJAuOzaKGyeUx3tKM2ukB3BfEtblb6Qik9AhlEXGy_euxLM9HLMrsZkPNUx5AYLHek1Gp6AfNr-OmZO4L9KG9sRE7rBULz5eqKxWHExz5qCsEcTo-l4VGYQEHNndsCj2lGfraxtTshrQ4ETeujy4g1Ht8RTS5TYzg/s320/CHRYSLER-300C-2135_6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Before we left the museum my son and I checked out a special exhibit “Detroit Style: Car Design in the Motor City, 1950–2020.” We were drawn to the Chrysler 300E, 1959. It was the kind of car David Wilcox had in mind when he wrote the lines “I’m a tail-finned road locomotive from the days of cheap gasoline.” My son looked at that car and said, “Well, I guess it’s all been pretty much downhill since then.” Detroit, 1959.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">So, the Delacroix to which my wife and I were mysteriously granted a private audience? I couldn’t tell you what the subject of that painting was. It was dark. I can only say that I’ll never forget the experience of seeing it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-27298757681968237692022-04-11T08:34:00.004-07:002022-04-11T14:44:18.493-07:00Richard Howard, Graduate School, Lost Friends<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbr71q9zx9EP_DM1kJS86-uBxA3nncmn9oDeqwehoFFptEaUbagz2HcFAlBZ9eBEpRjQMDWxvz18SKwB0nYnxNX-x3OUtduwgkudcVkGZ4-UFtu5cM-oJxuZBFzsqyF03cbzM-4mHRkUUe8qTnhWweXg7xqkiXrOIUAgIZcXaWZCG1S8V8CrzkjjbwqA/s4032/2A2480A4-2129-4928-A7C1-69850BF1070B.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbr71q9zx9EP_DM1kJS86-uBxA3nncmn9oDeqwehoFFptEaUbagz2HcFAlBZ9eBEpRjQMDWxvz18SKwB0nYnxNX-x3OUtduwgkudcVkGZ4-UFtu5cM-oJxuZBFzsqyF03cbzM-4mHRkUUe8qTnhWweXg7xqkiXrOIUAgIZcXaWZCG1S8V8CrzkjjbwqA/s320/2A2480A4-2129-4928-A7C1-69850BF1070B.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In the late 1980s when I was graduate student at the University of Utah, Richard Howard visited for a whole semester. As a fiction writer I didn’t have much access to him, certainly not as much as my fellow poetry students, many of whom Howard championed in their writing careers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Mark Strand and Larry Levis were the poetry faculty at the time and between them they personally knew many luminaries of the poetry world. Octavio Paz and Joseph Brodsky visited. Charles Simic and Helen Vendler. Probably more who I lost track of. Around this time, Strand received a MacArthur Foundation grant, a genius award. It was said he spent it on a house on the coast of Ireland and some Italian suits. Richard Howard, I researched, never received a MacArthur, a criminal oversight in my opinion, a reminder, as if it were needed, of the arbitrary folly of such awards.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The semester he was at Utah, Howard offered a course, a weekly lecture that was open to the public. We attended with the fervor of religious novitiates. I don’t recall if there was a formal subject. Literature? Books? Henry James? These were the topics. Howard sat in an easy chair, as I recall, and spoke to the audience as if we were guests in his drawing room. Richard Howard could make me like Henry James in a way that Henry James himself could not.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">The tone of his conversation, a monologue really, was that he was talking with friends whom he had personally invited, and for that space and time we were all intellectual equals (which, most obviously, we were not). I remember leaving the talks feeling giddy, inspired by his erudition and charm. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Once I met him walking his dog on campus and somehow engaged him in conversation. I may have had my dog with me at the time, enabling conversation. My dog was a sled dog, a runner, who not once obeyed a voice command, and was one time arrested on campus for running through a flower garden. Richard carried his dog, a French Bulldog, which he treated as a human child. But what I remember most, was that his manner was natural, and he spoke as if we had conversed many times, old friends. We talked about David Hwang and <i>Madame Butterfly</i>. I can’t imagine that I had one iota of insight to contribute to the conversation. He flashed a smile that I have not forgotten, the same smile of approval Gatsby once and forever flashed at Nick. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I mentioned he was kind to some of my poet friends in their young careers. He was particularly kind to my friend G., who would take his student loans the day they arrived, jump on his motorcycle and fly across the salt flats to Wendover, and gamble all his money away at the casino. He married quickly and divorced disastrously even faster. Richard Howard helped him publish poems in national venues. G was a rock star. He suffered from terrible health problems and I never heard if he finished his degree, which wasn’t uncommon; some of the best writers didn’t. I never heard another word about him, until . . .<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Fast forward to around the turn of the century and I run into G. at a Joy Williams reading hosted by Prairie Lights in Iowa City. I had forgotten he had midwestern roots. He had just barely survived his health problems, had some kind of psychotic break, and was living in his mother’s basement in one of those prairie towns that the modern world has left behind. I was living in just such a place myself. G said he would never write another poem. Language made no sense to him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Somewhere he had run into Richard Howard again, which was hard to imagine as G. was essentially underground, as hidden from the world as a federally protected witness. Howard had been his champion. And now, Howard was mad. He felt like G.’s failure to continue writing was a kind of personal betrayal. “Like you let him down?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">“Letting Richard down was the least of my problems,” G said. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">That night Joy Williams was cranky behind her sunglasses, and after I said goodnight to G. I never saw him again, nor heard from him nor of him. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">This wonderful remembrance of Howard by Craig Morgan Teicher appeared in the <i>Paris Review</i> online: <a href="https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2022/04/01/remembering-richard-howard/" style="color: #954f72;">https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2022/04/01/remembering-richard-howard/</a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I was deeply saddened to learn that at the end Howard had suffered from dementia. So profoundly unfair for a mind as capacious (Teicher’s word, the right one) as his. Teicher describes Howard saying of someone, dismissively, “They don’t read.” But for anyone who did read there was hope, almost as Goethe said, “He who strives unceasingly upward, him we can save.” If you read, you could be saved.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"> I was not surprised to learn that Howard’s spouse had declared the “book in, book out” rule for their house wildly overfilled with books. That rule has been declared here, too, and I have already dispersed hundreds of them, and gone so far as to acquire electronic copies of new books (which mostly backfires because if I love an electronic book, I am then compelled to acquire a hard copy, paying for it twice).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">We were all shocked when Larry Levis died, not quite 50 from a heart attack, less surprised when Mark Strand died. He was 80 and known to have been ill. Richard Howard was 93. They’re in a salon now, I like to think. W.S. Merwin and Susan Sontag are there, also many French Bulldogs.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">If we’re finding Whitman under our boot soles, I am looking for Richard Howard between the lines of Barthes’ <i>Camera Lucida</i>, one of dozens of his masterful translations from the French. Surely he is close at hand, beaming his generous beatific smile at whoever has found him there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-77138377994990724032022-02-13T10:45:00.003-08:002022-02-13T11:52:45.753-08:00"I Put a Spell on You," Southern California 1985<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdEmDm5sYds089uta484iCh1Xllt2b2Bl3PULpGjCTsDRYOpO6ATeScvfZNW_z4s8-dOWMhtgiPP1MydFHK6eCWmJCMBLPSZE0b8q3jr5nhXqbvejVU4c5fofIp9tGo08xBL0Pr3dz0j0xmZwBqKuVl_IpIdDalsk1z6ymWRv2s_sIRbB1R_AIljGZrw=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdEmDm5sYds089uta484iCh1Xllt2b2Bl3PULpGjCTsDRYOpO6ATeScvfZNW_z4s8-dOWMhtgiPP1MydFHK6eCWmJCMBLPSZE0b8q3jr5nhXqbvejVU4c5fofIp9tGo08xBL0Pr3dz0j0xmZwBqKuVl_IpIdDalsk1z6ymWRv2s_sIRbB1R_AIljGZrw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">In “Annunciation,” (<i>The New Yorker</i>, Feb 14 & 21, 2022) a new story by Lauren Groff, the main </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">character, young, impoverished, and recently </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">arrived on the west coast, finds lodging in exchange for </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">chores in an abandoned poolhouse on a large </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">estate ruled by a larger-than-life character, Griselda.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> In the mid-1980s my wife and I were in an uncannily similar scenario. We lived for fifteen months in the “party house,” a large single room attached to the garage of a much larger southern California estate. In exchange for rent our main duties were to water the extensive rose gardens and care for Duke, the estate’s much neglected pit bull. The owners, a couple in their 80s, travelled a lot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> I refer to Duke as “the estate’s” because I don’t believe he had ever been inside a human home or felt any human affection from anyone, ever. He was wary of us at first, but soon became friendly with Yida, our shepherd-husky and us. Soon he was sleeping inside with us and hanging out as if we were his owners. One of my favorite photographs of that era is of my wife and the two dogs napping in parallel on the coolest (literally) place on the estate, the concrete floor of our house.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> To find how the character Griselda is larger than life I refer you enthusiastically to Groff’s story. Our own employer/landlady Bea, had three names, her first, followed by her first husband’s surname and then Paul’s, her current late-in-life husband’s surname. We always referred to her by all three names, as if it were a title. I think she was widowed for many years before Paul signed on. Once when I was driving Bea to LAX she remarked, as if from a reverie, “I remember riding down this road in the parade after the war in the tank that my husband designed to drive Rommel out of Africa.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> Paul was a reserved southern gentleman who had earned his living as a golf pro, including a couple PGA championships. He was a local retired country club pro and still gave lessons. I remember one day he was heading out to give lessons to a very wealthy man, the owner of the largest manufacturer of kimonos in Japan. Somehow I teased the fee out of him, he certainly wouldn’t have offered it otherwise: $10,000 per day. So although the estate belonged to Bea, it’s not as if Paul were not, of his own accord, a man of means.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> One of Paul’s clients was Bob Hope, who often called us to find out when Paul would be in town. Whenever I answered the phone, he asked to speak to my wife, and I could hear her laughing at whatever he was saying in their brief conversations. I love the idea of Bob Hope working on his golf game well into his eighties, not to mention charmingly flirting with my wife.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> Bea and Paul were a bit aloof; we were, after all, of the servant class. But that Christmas we flew to Michigan to visit my family. “But they have winter there!” Bea fretted, “What will you wear?” It wasn’t an issue that concerned us, but Bea insisted we take their fur coats, each one of which was of about equal worth as our car. We arrived in Michigan dressed like Joe Namath and the starlet of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> The “party house” had a patio that was shaded by a large fragrant wisteria that would soon crush the trellis that supported it. We often took our meals there. That summer Los Angeles was terrorized by “the Night Stalker,” a serial killer who broke into homes, often through windows. Thus we kept the windows locked and the little house was stiflingly hot. Sometimes to escape the heat we went to the Rialto Theater in South Pasadena, a grand venue, “an odd mash-up of Spanish Baroque and Egyptian kitsch.” Its air-conditioning was a form of resuscitation. We arrived early and before the feature started they only ever played one artist on the sound system: Sade. I think we saw Jim Jarmusch’s <i>Stranger Than Paradise </i>there two or three times. One of the characters loves Screaming Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You.” And, it almost goes without saying that we were under some kind of spell during this time. The Rialto has been closed close to twenty years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Eventually the Night Stalker was chased down by enraged citizens in East Los Angeles after an attempted car-jacking. He was known to have killed fourteen people. We opened the windows in relief.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> I remember that time as mostly idyllic, but it was never meant to be permanent. When we were loading up the vehicles, Duke, the newly domesticated pit bull, crawled into the car and curled around the gas pedal and brakes under the steering wheel. He knew he wasn’t going with us, but wanted to make sure we know he wanted to come. We asked Bea if we could take him, but she would not hear of it. To this day both my wife and I regret not having dognapped him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> A few months later we heard that Duke had to be put down. We didn’t believe it and our hearts were broken. Yida would hold on four more years. Bea and Paul are long gone now, of course. And Bob Hope. The Night Stalker, in death row in San Quentin for twenty-three years, of cancer. As of this writing, my wife and I remain here, among the living, still under a spell and thinking about getting new dog, aware of the possibility that she may outlive us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-49558007601941079652022-01-31T11:11:00.001-08:002022-01-31T18:13:42.600-08:00The Stars My Destination<div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiMqhECn3jVSR731_-qF8I-wrpK2pZ-QgkDNufkZv2sipwqEt7J7KSj2MrhdVCHbYKz9WkTGmk3Xjjz_HdCTJW48B-Qq3cNdsSslAEY94-Iyqqj2PCkNi8KCw1vli8DdlqY0txYCLLvVG1PPP_E6jDi8ctJOrcO0oCK0Q2vBsWYwLxinu84G4SvlO8OQ=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiMqhECn3jVSR731_-qF8I-wrpK2pZ-QgkDNufkZv2sipwqEt7J7KSj2MrhdVCHbYKz9WkTGmk3Xjjz_HdCTJW48B-Qq3cNdsSslAEY94-Iyqqj2PCkNi8KCw1vli8DdlqY0txYCLLvVG1PPP_E6jDi8ctJOrcO0oCK0Q2vBsWYwLxinu84G4SvlO8OQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The scene I love most in <i>The Tender Bar</i> is when the uncle, the Ben Affleck character, opens a closet stacked with books from floor-to-ceiling and advises his fatherless nephew, an aspiring writer: “Start by reading all these.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I met Drago when we were in the eighth grade. I remember the first time I visited his house. Like me he was the oldest of seven siblings. He took me down into the basement of his family’s house on Morley Street. Flush with the concrete wall was a sealed wooden door. The door had a small square opening about four inches square hinged into its center. Drago opened this tiny door and inserted his, hand, arm, all the way to the shoulder releasing an interior latch and opening the door as if by secret code. He pulled a string and the room was illuminated. The sight took my breath away. I was looking at a small room, a cell really, of about 8 by 10 feet. A cot, Drago’s bed, occupied almost all the floor space, each wall was bookshelf from ceiling to floor overstuffed with books, mostly paperback science fiction. We would read these for the next five or six years. We read the classics, Asimov and Bradbury, Frank Herbert and Philip K Dick. From Vonnegut we would later segue into “literature.” But what I remember reading most were the work of John Brunner and Alfred Bester. It was like they were our own private authors.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Bester’s <i>The Stars My Destination</i> may have stuck in my memory all these years because of the quatrain spoken by the main character that appears twice in the book:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Gully Foyle is my name<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Terra is my nation <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Deep space is my dwelling place <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Death’s my destination.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The second time it appears the last line reads “The stars my destination.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span> </span>After we read this, for a few months we never used the word “home.” We would always say, “Are we going to your dwelling place now?” Or, “My parents require me at our dwelling place.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">If I remember accurately (questionable) Joyce has Stephen Daedalus do something like this in <i>Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man</i>: <i>Stephen Daedalus, Dublin, Ireland. . . . etc</i>. I remember making just such a list as a grade school kid at St. Michaels, as if to ask how many coordinates does it take to locate myself:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">David Stevenson<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Hathaway Street <br />Livonia<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Wayne County<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Michigan<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">USA<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">North America<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Earth<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The Solar System<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Apparently this kind of quatrain was popular in the 18<sup>th</sup> century with “heaven” always being the destination. Very aspirational.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> When we moved into the house we now live in there was a shed off the back door. It was primitive, cement floor, no interior walls, or finish of any kind, a storage shed. It housed, paradoxically, all kinds of garden toxins and rodents and spiders, as well as ancient, nonfunctioning and abandoned tools. I emptied all this out and a wizardly contractor/writer friend finished it for me with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It is about eight feet by ten with an advantage of being about twelve feet high. I keep a ladder in there to reach the highest shelves. I am there right now. It didn’t occur to me until writing this that I was recreating Drago’s little cellar bedroom, floor-to-ceiling with books. I wish he were here to see this, but he’s been gone over a year now. I like to think there’s a glimmer of his consciousness out there among the stars, aware that he lives in the whorls of my memory, forever the skinny-armed eighth grader unlatching his secret door and opening for me that world of books.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> We were selling some furniture on craigslist and a young couple came over with a child about ten years old. I happened to not be at home. The couple was long in deliberation and pleasantly chatty, but the kid was bored to death. My wife said to him, “Want to see something?” He did. She took him out the back door and opened the door to my study. The door opens to three steps downward, so there is very much a cave-like feeling to the place. She reported that the kid walked down the three steps, and looked around at the walls of books extending skyward and turned back to her. “It’s like a Harry Potter room,” he gasped, “magic.”<o:p></o:p></span></p></div>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-5529994673605109442022-01-19T10:12:00.000-08:002022-01-19T10:12:40.809-08:00So Much Is Lost<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMb3K0cBmx6oyibYqBmfATII48jZck0PFy_LZyTuvsAyv9fJUpfL75J6kFhs-qNLNHtQ3m7yMw_VcDoBrA7FylhMt9_y1wYFzQB63huviTpflBB18S_7CK-sX7998zAgIURMihcw1Va9OErL8ofrlYvL-LmaokEWpXif7JDObvj5cqZ5EmKY9UBbC6VA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMb3K0cBmx6oyibYqBmfATII48jZck0PFy_LZyTuvsAyv9fJUpfL75J6kFhs-qNLNHtQ3m7yMw_VcDoBrA7FylhMt9_y1wYFzQB63huviTpflBB18S_7CK-sX7998zAgIURMihcw1Va9OErL8ofrlYvL-LmaokEWpXif7JDObvj5cqZ5EmKY9UBbC6VA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">When you’re reading a used book and the previous owner has marked the most bland, unremarkable passage in the whole book.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Through what lens were they reading this book?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Though our house is small, our bedroom is large and features windows roughly on the east, south, and west. On sunny afternoons the space is flooded in sunlight. We call it The Solarium. Last night I awakened to a bright light coming through the eastern windows. I realized the trees were lit up by a full moon. The moon then moved to the south and poured its light through the shore pines outside those windows. Finally, it shifted to the west and came through the window there unfiltered by trees, illuminating the room in a shadowy bluish light. Then it dropped behind the house across the street and into the Pacific.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Noted by me in <i>Outline</i>: “So much is lost in the shipwreck. What remains are fragments and if you don’t hold on to them, the seas will take them, too.” ~ Rachel Cusk<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Woman: “Are you feeling okay? Your face looks puffy.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Man looks in mirror: “I’m fine. My hair just looks stupid.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><i>Tsumnami warning! Stay away from the beach!</i></b> Every electronic device in the house is alerting us. The first wave will hit us at 8:30. Naturally, at 8:30 we walk to the beach. Others are there, too. We wish, I suppose, to meet our fate head on. No evidence of the tsunami appears. We spectators are disappointed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I collect agates on the shore. I pick up even the small ones, small as baby’s teeth. The other day I absent-mindedly found one in my pocket and popped it in my mouth. I realized what I had <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">done before I broke a tooth or swallowed. What the hell?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On the beach we are approached by a woman and a child with three dogs. The dogs are a large Golden Retriever, leashed to the woman, and a mini-Aussie Shepherd and a retriever puppy leased to the child. The woman says: “The little one’s neurotic.” When we walked away my wife said, “At first I thought she was talking about the kid.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When my wife can’t sleep she turns on a TED talk. In the middle of the night I write down this phrase: “escalation of commitment to a losing course of action.” In the morning I wonder if this is comment on writing. Specifically: mine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Thrift store find: <i>The Selected Poems of Fernando Pessoa</i>. This book has little drawings marking the passage of its previous reader: little half moons, stars, flowers. An occasional poem is festooned with underlinings. Finally, a note: “Consciousness is a problem.” They got that one right.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-56767799301908453152021-10-30T21:41:00.000-07:002021-10-31T07:37:49.545-07:00 Our son, gone six years today, visits me in a dream~<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKXSsURdjQuuc01vcf0IkhDhwgw4puOYxcGAGDJBKNhtTV67foPKJoCSWWYwJ-Ntj47vT2Gtxfz-9FKylvOC8XM0UtV93oPU4PCbDbq2Ughk72IY4OCLOrVD_UXI8L2BO90vvuFN4CGxe/s2048/P1010124.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKXSsURdjQuuc01vcf0IkhDhwgw4puOYxcGAGDJBKNhtTV67foPKJoCSWWYwJ-Ntj47vT2Gtxfz-9FKylvOC8XM0UtV93oPU4PCbDbq2Ughk72IY4OCLOrVD_UXI8L2BO90vvuFN4CGxe/s320/P1010124.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b> Dream from the night of October 3, 2021, annotated<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Dreams are boring</i>, says the main character in Robert Stone’s “Helping.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.5in;"><i>Never put a dream in a story</i>, said Camoin, who generally had few rules about writing. He believed in what works. <i>Okay</i>, he said, backing the needle off a tad, <i>You can put a dream in a story if you have to, but it must have absolutely nothing to do with anything else in the story.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">My father and I were going to mass in Galesburg. We were dressed up in sport coats and ties. He was driving north, presumably from Macomb, and there were snow covered mountains to the west rising above a flat prairie.<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a> My father remarked that sometimes when he was in the shower he could see these mountains out the window and was amazed by them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Bob Dylan’s song “The Girl from the North Country” was playing in the background during most of this dream.<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[2]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">We arrived at the church and there was no place to park. My dad kept trying to park on the street, but the spots were not legal. Finally, we decided I would go get us seats in the church and he would park the car.<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[3]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">During the dream I heard something crash in the house, but did not investigate.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I walked in through a door and was in the sacristy where a red-haired priest was familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him. He was not the red-haired priest from the Newman Center at Western Illinois University.<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[4]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I went into the building through the sacristy and into the church. The seats were against the walls and a small make-shift altar was in the middle of the room. I found an empty bench on the left and sat at its end, intending to save a seat for my father. An older couple with a developmentally disabled adult daughter sat down next to me and I explained I was saving the seat for my father. They said okay, but the disabled daughter was sitting super close to me and kind of hanging on me. I was very uncomfortable and the parents were pulling her away from me. Although my clothes were very dressy as I stretched out my legs in front of me I that I was wearing brightly patterned socks that did not match my pants or shoes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">During the dream I heard the wind blow a door shut inside the house, but did not investigate.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Meanwhile, where was my father? And why wasn’t mass starting? It was ten minutes after the hour: 10:10. It was taking my father over twenty minutes to park the car. I finally got up and walked out of the church to find my father.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">He wheeled up, and now I noticed the car was a big boxy American sedan, from the 1970s. My father was no longer wearing his church clothes. Macklin was in the back seat and he had an enormous bag of tacos and a pizza in a box.<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[5]</span></span></span></a>He explained he had been in the mountains for days. “Where?” I asked. “Way up there,” he said, “all the way to Lake Constance.”<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[6]</span></span></span></a> He was dressed in hiking clothes, including his ski pants with suspenders.<a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[7]</span></span></span></a> He was real happy about his days in the mountains and especially about all the food and we were looking for some place to stop and eat it. That was the end of the dream, Macklin smiling.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">In the morning I looked for signs of fallen objects or a shut door and found none. I had been up for a couple hours and wondered why it was still dark outside. The garbage truck came by and I wondered why it was so late. I checked my watch and it was only a little after six. The garbage truck was on time; I had been awake since around four a.m.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWxk7Aui5TXHLczldG53WdUN6Br62XaEfEQrZE16PeKENyh9VrUVjJAY0eMLxQ6mC-rqCvhiXGxdsFQhfOaozQ3BoIQyzIGBgw_5oDPD3A0aB5wPTe4pE_-dge8vHNTlFrQNGrwQe8d__z/s2048/DSCN0674.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWxk7Aui5TXHLczldG53WdUN6Br62XaEfEQrZE16PeKENyh9VrUVjJAY0eMLxQ6mC-rqCvhiXGxdsFQhfOaozQ3BoIQyzIGBgw_5oDPD3A0aB5wPTe4pE_-dge8vHNTlFrQNGrwQe8d__z/s320/DSCN0674.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><b>The Takeaway<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I recorded this dream because in the six years since he passed away I have only remembered dreaming about Macklin two or three times. And, he was so happy in this dream and it made me happy to see him happy. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I think I don’t dream of him so much because he is always on my waking mind. I mean this quite literally. It’s like when you’re writing a sustained piece, a novel, and as you go about your daily life you’re only half in the world because in your head you’re “writing” the novel. Or, like when you’re dreaming, you can be conscious of what might be going on in the waking world: a crashing sound in the house, a slammed door. Even, I suppose, if nothing has crashed and nor any door has slammed shut.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">Macklin could eat a tremendous amount of food. I remember driving him to work and he asked if we could stop at McDonalds. Sure. He ordered a large breakfast, and then he said, “Can I have another one?” Sure, I said. Twenty bucks of McDonald’s breakfast. Aisha and I once asked him if there was anything he wanted us to get for him from Costco. “Get me some FOOD I CAN EAT,” he roared.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">I shared the dream first with my wife and my son. My wife was fearful: “Do you think it means you’re going to die?” But that’s not how I interpreted it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My son said, “Was that heaven inside that car?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah,” I said, “It may have been. Maybe as close as I’ll get to it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;">` My son and I are planning a pilgrimage to Lake Constance. Apparently, it is a very strenuous hike, even dangerous if you believe the route description (though I doubt it). When you hear a call like this, you answer. We will tread carefully and listen to the wind, the rock, and the stars. We’ll sleep by the shore of Lake Constance, and, perchance, dream.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div><br clear="all" /><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="font-size: 10pt;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Macomb, Illinois, our home for 13 years was about a thousand miles from any mountains.</span></li></ul><o:p></o:p><p></p></div><div id="ftn2"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[2]</span></span></span></a> The Dylan/Johnny Cash duet version.<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="ftn3"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[3]</span></span></span></a> I have never been to the Catholic church in Galesburg and have no idea where it is.<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="ftn4"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[4]</span></span></span></a> “Sacristy.” This word can only be in my head because I am watching a horror series, <i>Midnight Mass,</i> on television that had a few sacristy scenes.<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="ftn5"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[5]</span></span></span></a> Macklin passed away in 2015.<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="ftn6"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[6]</span></span></span></a> Lake Constance. Never heard of it. Research shows a famous one in Switzerland and another one in the Olympic Mountains of Washington State. In the dream, I presumed he was in the Chugach above Anchorage.<o:p></o:p></p></div><div id="ftn7"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 20px; margin: 0in;"><a href="applewebdata://5DC6DE00-BCD6-4874-ADA7-A1E8E489A9CE#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[7]</span></span></span></a> These are real pants that he left behind.<o:p></o:p></p></div></div>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-47471707797519408332021-09-27T14:25:00.001-07:002021-09-27T15:16:50.966-07:00The Great Old Stadiums of Detroit and Other Memories<p> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="page" title="Page 1"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zdnwt0rx7YbgqHE9w_tOEHlfxgqm_lPeFb5yceEUX7dbAhU_1U6oF-we10BqF6_rUTpRqyuIXOw0fhmPVBCvA_13JYqYjBJSLNNGnOJ9GcZ7Sk__0hfal1MmLIyfExY1FxcDLKbLaB3j/s2048/IMG-1607.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="2048" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zdnwt0rx7YbgqHE9w_tOEHlfxgqm_lPeFb5yceEUX7dbAhU_1U6oF-we10BqF6_rUTpRqyuIXOw0fhmPVBCvA_13JYqYjBJSLNNGnOJ9GcZ7Sk__0hfal1MmLIyfExY1FxcDLKbLaB3j/w400-h249/IMG-1607.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sometimes when I first awaken I start reading before my eyes are able to accurately focus. Thus, the other morning I read "Ted Williams lists the books she read while writing her latest novel . . .” And I thought: I didn’t know Ted Williams wrote novels. And when did he change genders? Then the words swam into focus: <i>Tia </i>Williams. Tia. Idiot. But I thought about Ted Williams. The last batter to hit for an average of .400. A baseball career interrupted by serving as a fighter pilot in two wars. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My uncle Chuck talked about seeing Williams launching a ball over the right field wall and out of Tiger Stadium (probably <i>Briggs</i> Stadium at the time, felled by the wrecking ball in 2009). The amazing thing, my uncle said, was that he had a pin in his shoulder, holding it together.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Tiger Stadium, Michigan Ave and Trumball.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My uncle also saw Jake LaMotta fight. Twice, if I remember right. LaMotta fought over 80 times professionally and about a quarter of them were in Detroit, mostly at the old Olympia, then home to the Red Wings. But LaMotta also fought in Tiger Stadium, as did Joe Louis before him. Even if you don’t follow boxing you may have seen Martin Scorsese’s’ version of LaMotta in <i>Raging Bull</i>. It must have been something to see that rage in person.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The last time I was in Tiger Stadium was the year before I left Detroit and also Al Kaline’s last season. Number 6. In Little League the best player on the team wore number 6 to the envy of everyone else. I remember watching Kaline foul off about 20 pitches that night and that was when it dawned on me that he was doing it on purpose, waiting for his pitch. This late awakening to a subtlety of the game probably explains a lot about my track career (as Coach George Harrison, our high school’s baseball coach once quipped). Kaline waited for his pitch and stroked it gracefully into the outfield for a single. He passed away last year at the age of 85 and had been in the Tiger organization for 67 years. Everyone loved that guy. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOZYrKnyD6bo0aPkLe8kuULhorHR5STwPeuaonUbI5jMy-1tpCFGYZB9Ea8A05hV5VirCRo3teb3-0gvA6pRWy7Q8Y7Pr-0K4958xHn9xKUwh8E8-Bi5Gnu7jsj_GrQFhrM7X-e0eeKOQ/s2048/IMG-1606.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOZYrKnyD6bo0aPkLe8kuULhorHR5STwPeuaonUbI5jMy-1tpCFGYZB9Ea8A05hV5VirCRo3teb3-0gvA6pRWy7Q8Y7Pr-0K4958xHn9xKUwh8E8-Bi5Gnu7jsj_GrQFhrM7X-e0eeKOQ/s320/IMG-1606.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I have been blessed to see a lot of amazing athletes do their work in person.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We went down to Cobo Arena (“repurposed” 2010—2015) to see Julius Erving play in an exhibition game against the Pistons. Exhibition because he then played in the old ABA, his enormous hand on the old red, white, and blue basketball. He sported an tremendous Afro, and, as he was known for, defied gravity right before our eyes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I don’t remember anything about the Red Wings game I saw at the old Olympia Stadium (demolished 1987) except for the hushed reverence that moved through the crowd when Gordie Howe took the ice. Number 9.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Once I was running down Golfview, the street bordering Dearborn Country Club. A tournament was going on and as I passed the first tee, which was right next to the fence, I realized Jack Nicklaus was teeing up. It must have been a Masters Tour. I stopped and walked to the fence. I was ten feet away from the tee. Nicklaus teed off. I was amazed by the power and precision of his swing. When the club struck the ball it was like a small explosion. I am not a golfer, but don’t let anyone tell you golf is not a sport.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My wife happened to be in Louisville when Muhammed Ali died. She came back with a photograph of herself and Chuck Wepner. “Who is he?” she asked me. Chuck Wepner! He knocked Ali down in the 9<sup>th</sup> round! He almost went the distance, TKO-ed by the Greatest with a few seconds left in the 15<sup>th</sup> round. Wepner has been the subject of several movies, of which one you know well: <i>Rocky</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I should have mentioned this above, but maybe it fits better here at the end. Ted Williams apparently was an atheist and had his body cryogenically frozen for a possible return here on earth. But I suppose he had already attained a bit of immortality.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maybe we all have a dusting of immortality in us, if there’s a spark of us left in someone‘s living memory. I remember best the athletic feats of my teammates and friends and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anyone else’s. I remember playing football our senior year down in Southgate on a Sunday afternoon in 1970. We couldn’t win the league championship unless we won that day against Aquinas and the teams were evenly matched. Mick DeGiulio, all 115 pounds of him, streaked down the left sideline and our quarterback Pat Sarb hit him on the longest pass play of the season for the game winning touchdown. Number 18. It’s cool to see the greatest athletes of all time do their work in person. But Mick’s touchdown against Aquinas? Man, I’ll never forget that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-71116270252096033972021-08-30T15:23:00.001-07:002021-08-30T18:00:42.458-07:00Sacred Objects: A Photo Essay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz33aBHtfe2Z6a2h9Bn6zX2QfI8qhAb7MOaRyqI4jwrJ4smpkEYHKY9YF3yuhbvjdVgOUwt8QY4QAlAmsTvQMEVEheFfOid9jG_EW3iXhkdJAUqL-MhwLUNWzveYqM94yO1GZZzQWnxZ1/s2048/IMG-1482.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz33aBHtfe2Z6a2h9Bn6zX2QfI8qhAb7MOaRyqI4jwrJ4smpkEYHKY9YF3yuhbvjdVgOUwt8QY4QAlAmsTvQMEVEheFfOid9jG_EW3iXhkdJAUqL-MhwLUNWzveYqM94yO1GZZzQWnxZ1/s320/IMG-1482.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;">I am committed to drastically unburdening myself of material possessions. This required me to investigate the contents of boxes that I’ve hauled all over the country, but not opened in many years, in some cases, decades. Here’s some stuff I found.</p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->My first rosary. A gift from my uncle George Harvey, my Confirmation sponsor, 1963. Uncle George died alone, of covid in the early days of the pandemic. A remarkable man, dearly missed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0U8CXDAyu9i8cqOIhyphenhyphenvWFXSgf_zt1mIk8ckWSsDZ8hRhPviu2J1S9OVCEK1yKAo49-QDRzmCkK5bLOlVMVqqvl9kiO0iDluTNmwCpVFbHv_KsnW2aZ2s7D20iNebuPEbrt0PURh1rV8N6/s2048/IMG-1483.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="2048" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0U8CXDAyu9i8cqOIhyphenhyphenvWFXSgf_zt1mIk8ckWSsDZ8hRhPviu2J1S9OVCEK1yKAo49-QDRzmCkK5bLOlVMVqqvl9kiO0iDluTNmwCpVFbHv_KsnW2aZ2s7D20iNebuPEbrt0PURh1rV8N6/s320/IMG-1483.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Stopwatch. A gift Christmas gift from my father, 1969. I used to carry this unwieldy object when I ran on the track. Still works just fine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7NyShTNyieHvFhMNe1PLxyfIEf9Ny5UqTBvyF5h-QYKOpXKgruz383NvfkJrjjiKYyTt_9IBbUrpVRYmiaVk8OrHfwz5w_rjdaKfxuax5trmMLKL_6q-oeWlrUQsNquI_3Hk2s3PAF_L/s2048/IMG-1468.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7NyShTNyieHvFhMNe1PLxyfIEf9Ny5UqTBvyF5h-QYKOpXKgruz383NvfkJrjjiKYyTt_9IBbUrpVRYmiaVk8OrHfwz5w_rjdaKfxuax5trmMLKL_6q-oeWlrUQsNquI_3Hk2s3PAF_L/s320/IMG-1468.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Salewa crampons, 1971. My first purchase from REI. First worn on Popocatepetl.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewenm3bblwEAqlkCrGh5RUgTAS6wMEOkGWl2Egb5D6Q4XMnOog9l5NMKoeHVhFL4AEhi5u-P6uu8jvZ-la01aT-oz4r8qgCPCFOit30slNqHEQwWjqg4aaayEiOdQQnSsWUwVCPr0Dfqn/s2048/IMG-1479.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjewenm3bblwEAqlkCrGh5RUgTAS6wMEOkGWl2Egb5D6Q4XMnOog9l5NMKoeHVhFL4AEhi5u-P6uu8jvZ-la01aT-oz4r8qgCPCFOit30slNqHEQwWjqg4aaayEiOdQQnSsWUwVCPr0Dfqn/s320/IMG-1479.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Mountain Gazette # 30, February 1975. The only edition of this magazine I saved, except for the one commemorating Hunter Thompson, which I can’t find. I read Dick Dorworth’s “Night Driving” and within a month loaded up my 1968 AMC Javelin and drove west, where I’ve mostly stayed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2_Gh9hfKTIrIBA9UlKR0jte4Hz5B7c1L-6UP1i-cIJPyUNH3rbmfuibZbwDYFjTWp030Id60w4WqeE3xZ1Ond9MkWJGP9r41nhrd-Wfqjt0sUvPKTbG5ElkCsJXv6ttUhdrP1Mic1zSe/s2048/IMG-1480.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1189" data-original-width="2048" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2_Gh9hfKTIrIBA9UlKR0jte4Hz5B7c1L-6UP1i-cIJPyUNH3rbmfuibZbwDYFjTWp030Id60w4WqeE3xZ1Ond9MkWJGP9r41nhrd-Wfqjt0sUvPKTbG5ElkCsJXv6ttUhdrP1Mic1zSe/s320/IMG-1480.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Schonhofen label. When I first moved west I worked making packs with Mike and Margaret Schonhofen. After we dissolved that business, Mike and Marg had their own label before Mike left to design gear, first for Chouinard, then Nike etc. We remain best of friends.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: medium;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59rZOcc8el8glNzkWoGJ9dXJfwTGQJvX0X2gfjh01gSiK94wFSCjsBtTvRBMOztzcxLMLFALwfnnTgs0yo-BbRroEqCkB6nid7npHtb2Fi4GGIe836VYLePwKkTdNHVrg9KQK4Cb6arSE/s2048/IMG-1481.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1831" data-original-width="2048" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59rZOcc8el8glNzkWoGJ9dXJfwTGQJvX0X2gfjh01gSiK94wFSCjsBtTvRBMOztzcxLMLFALwfnnTgs0yo-BbRroEqCkB6nid7npHtb2Fi4GGIe836VYLePwKkTdNHVrg9KQK4Cb6arSE/s320/IMG-1481.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Typewriter keys. I hauled this old Remington typewriter around for decades before finally, reluctantly, letting it go. I plucked the keys off like a deranged dentist.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjuVvnjSBwwi6vv3OI9JiGCXvsmdCbHkwrpJxUMRFZwRASL1JyOLl8O_3MJlyl2sSkabG6QQFIT4IjXr52Rvhor2duSyyhQTXMxocd0FSXBfrVgEIcMGsLPAb3Rg2BdWBKzps_-tNcQA64/s2048/IMG-1485.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjuVvnjSBwwi6vv3OI9JiGCXvsmdCbHkwrpJxUMRFZwRASL1JyOLl8O_3MJlyl2sSkabG6QQFIT4IjXr52Rvhor2duSyyhQTXMxocd0FSXBfrVgEIcMGsLPAb3Rg2BdWBKzps_-tNcQA64/s320/IMG-1485.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Untitled first story (nonfiction) I wrote. Set at a Deroit Lions game. Less cringe-inducing than I expected. Typed on aforementioned typewriter.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrns7nfcAl-iSjUzl7U8poUhifz7S-e8DumNUhtLYgm_Y-7cH76iNZTyHE4ebRQlimg4aNDAluUfIVwCKvt3a4W0IucIvTVroYoXHCskRJaYTcYy5GhynaAHIkW61yyCl62pEcG7uhc3sP/s2048/IMG-1484.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrns7nfcAl-iSjUzl7U8poUhifz7S-e8DumNUhtLYgm_Y-7cH76iNZTyHE4ebRQlimg4aNDAluUfIVwCKvt3a4W0IucIvTVroYoXHCskRJaYTcYy5GhynaAHIkW61yyCl62pEcG7uhc3sP/s320/IMG-1484.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Wooden spoon. Hand-carved by friend and climbing partner Jim Pinter-Lucke and gifted to me on the occasion of my 30<sup>th</sup> birthday, a year before we climbed Alpamayo together. Was really really glad to find this.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04a-mq3G8LWj8RmPMloqq9z3MRM5xhyK_h8rNm4tlpzRp4dgRDse5OMza51U0LZyhQZibCMtxBDjizq4l8HgObekeVDAXyvG9MiOWYFfn8M81UQD9fLBjgLUinxybVqMjZBwMydYtz1Kw/s2600/IMG-1486.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1210" data-original-width="2600" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04a-mq3G8LWj8RmPMloqq9z3MRM5xhyK_h8rNm4tlpzRp4dgRDse5OMza51U0LZyhQZibCMtxBDjizq4l8HgObekeVDAXyvG9MiOWYFfn8M81UQD9fLBjgLUinxybVqMjZBwMydYtz1Kw/s320/IMG-1486.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->9.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Letter from Fred Beckey. Note the purloined hotel stationery and “postage due.” Classic Fred!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppF4GQ1PbJXPHCSJGeFVlD4mlq1bu7uZE1OSmIQcDtFUWsKKZs57HELo0Ba25JzHJSXblpZu0GLq_LFopTqVWsNXAEnmaMHwfhNrh31gBcHsM3OpdxcNAjAY-fL-n_00e4MxU3FhZPax7/s4032/IMG_1478.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppF4GQ1PbJXPHCSJGeFVlD4mlq1bu7uZE1OSmIQcDtFUWsKKZs57HELo0Ba25JzHJSXblpZu0GLq_LFopTqVWsNXAEnmaMHwfhNrh31gBcHsM3OpdxcNAjAY-fL-n_00e4MxU3FhZPax7/s320/IMG_1478.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->10.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Four copies of <b style="font-style: italic;">Conquest of Everest, </b>John Hunt's story of the first ascent,<i> 1953.</i> Including <b><i>Assault on Everest</i></b>, the American version. I am keeping a fifth copy, not pictured here, signed by Ed Hillary. Let me know if you need one of these!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-22030604989279390692021-07-24T13:30:00.005-07:002021-07-27T08:07:41.870-07:00 My Last Notes from the MFA Residency, 2021<p><b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wkty3COFNal84IkZKIYmwyJudrMN0BlkuYe8wmrwicHB_mhkVJ3mvrAVx6pYD1pLKKidQM-m6dW80ItImSIfzrtmIw7JRfRWbbW0pYrIXvl0pwH_H0ncIow6r8j1uhmGVF-2fGlEJQFs/s4032/IMG_1355.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wkty3COFNal84IkZKIYmwyJudrMN0BlkuYe8wmrwicHB_mhkVJ3mvrAVx6pYD1pLKKidQM-m6dW80ItImSIfzrtmIw7JRfRWbbW0pYrIXvl0pwH_H0ncIow6r8j1uhmGVF-2fGlEJQFs/s320/IMG_1355.HEIC" width="320" /></a></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>At the end of the residency I collect my notes, sprinkled in with some reading and experiences that occurred during the residency and read them back in a closing address just before we say goodbye.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Why is it that some words are harder to say than others? (in my notes but unattributed)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">"Whatever that thing that happens is called." (Daryl Farmer in “Why We Write”)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I love when what happens on the page is something that I didn’t know was in me (me, in response to something Daryl said)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sylvia Plath’s <i>Ariel </i>was written in “the blue hour,” the numinous predawn window of time before her children awakened. Which I like because that’s how/when I wrote my novel, <i>Forty Crows.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“ . . . a childhood of utter tedium . . . a soulful girl, she watched the trains approach and depart or pored over the Sears catalog, which she called the book of dreams.” Wrote David Yaffe of Joni Mitchell.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I have always loved Joni Mitchell. Watch a video of her performing when she was young, Her smile says, “I am an artist at the height of my powers and I am in love with the world.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“The purpose of the writing comes after the writing.” Says Sharon Emmerichs, author of <i>The Shield-Maiden</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Rick Bass reminds us of the movie <i>Jeremiah Johnson</i>. I remember seeing that in 1973 and having one of those Rilkean “You must change your life” moments. I left college the next week.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“You know how tight the grains are in a 300-year-old spruce tree.” We didn’t know, but we trust you, Rick.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">This phrase from Valerie Miner’s story “Iconoclast”: “Layla, still ascending.” Her characters on an archetypal voyage descending into the underworld and returning.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Rick Bass asks: “Have we become so accustomed to ugliness that we fear all beauty?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“YOU’RE MUTED!” Being the most oft repeated phrase of the residency.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Rain, no game,” said Valerie’s brother, young master of baseball field conditions and brevity.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sunday night my son calls. The car has died on the Seward Highway just past Beluga Point. I agree to drive down, call the tow truck, switch cars with him, and wait for the tow. I only see him once a year, so I don’t mind the fuss. The tow truck driver arrives and I like him immediately. He works with great efficiency, focus, and precision. I don’t know how this works, so I ask, “Can you give me a ride back up to Anchorage? “He smiles, channeling his inner Julius, the Samuel L. Jackson character from <i>Pulp Fiction</i>, “What kind of tow truck driver would I be, if I didn’t give you a ride back to Anchorage? The ride was slow, all the Sunday night traffic backed up, heading home after a weekend down south, but it was a beautiful night, the pink afterglow of the sunset lingering to the north. The time was approaching midnight and the whole way back we talked, mostly him, about the pleasures of driving the truck, rescuing the lost, and sometimes coming upon the maimed and dead. When he got my car settled in at the mechanic’s shop, we shook hands and I said, “Man, you are good at your job.” And his smile lit up the what was now near darkness.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Reality is under no obligation to be interesting,” said Borges. “But you are,” I told our writers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Trouble, Hold On.” Being a sign held up to the camera by Ed Allen.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Marcus. Being the name of the tow truck driver.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Listening to music while you’re reading,” Ed said, “is like listening to music while you’re listening to music.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">"It was poetry that made history interesting to me.” So said Camille Dungy.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My son asked me some computer related question, to which I answer that I don’t even know what he has just asked. “It’s a mystery to me,” he says, "that they (<i>they</i> meaning the university) continue to send you paychecks.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It’s Hemingway’s birthday a dozen or so facebook pages tell me. This calls to mind a story Garcia-Marquez tells about seeing Hemingway on the streets of Paris. It’s 1957 and Garcia-Marquez is unknown, Hemingway, of course, famous. Garcia-Marquez describes him in cowboy boots, a baseball cap, and somehow incongruous small round wire-rimmed glasses. He is with his wife Mary Welsh and is obviously enjoying himself in the bookstalls near the Sorbonne. Unable to bring himself to approach the great man, Garcia-Marquez yells from across the street, “MAESTRO!” Hemingway turns and yells back, “Adios, amigo!” It was hard to believe, Garcia-Marquez adds, that he would live only four more years.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship in the kingdom of the healthy and the kingdom of the sick,” said Susan Sontag, related to us by Tara Ballard.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I remember Richard Rodriguez saying to us, “You are here, and you have your pen in your hand.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">By the way, Ed went out of his way to say he wouldn’t judge you for not having read “The Wasteland.” I won’t judge you for not having read <i>A Hundred Years of Solitude.</i> But we could never be great friends.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At the end of one of Ed Allen’s presentations he said “I am lucky. I get to read what I love and talk about it with people I care about.” Yes to that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The first day I told James Salter’s story about the French critic, near death, who said “To write! What a marvelous thing!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Finally, full circle back to Warren Zevon, who I’ve kept in my heart awhile as he asked. Let’s also take his better known advice to heart: “Enjoy every sandwich.”<o:p></o:p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-12139302828002914612021-05-12T08:49:00.001-07:002021-05-12T09:39:26.709-07:00Mother's Day on Turtle Island, 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Z7A3x6Jt3ZomCqgKpsyzLPEYLVgI0SjMkfX1s9Br-klyo6Pjd0D0YqVfK20Yu-EhpVZZD8lnfLYZPVzZNU3gYIQOSAYvLHmrUCcLSx7X34qi3xxBsbPl8QKXYSCWk_hCWTOr5nWUuyao/s2048/IMG-0040.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1379" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Z7A3x6Jt3ZomCqgKpsyzLPEYLVgI0SjMkfX1s9Br-klyo6Pjd0D0YqVfK20Yu-EhpVZZD8lnfLYZPVzZNU3gYIQOSAYvLHmrUCcLSx7X34qi3xxBsbPl8QKXYSCWk_hCWTOr5nWUuyao/s320/IMG-0040.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Arrived in Michigan the day of my mother’s 90<sup>th</sup> birthday and leaving the day after Mother’s Day. Lucky and blessed to spend these days with her.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My mother lives on a lake in northern Michigan. The place is wonderfully serene before Memorial Day. Earlier in the week I kayaked out to the wetlands in the rain in the morning. The air was cold but windless and the lake was glassy but for the raindrops. I did not see the heron I searched for until I returned home where it stood in Turtle Town not a hundred feet from where I had set off. My feet were cold four hours later.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Today at the Mecosta Bookstore I found a pristine copy of Gary Snyder’s <i>Turtle Island</i>, unyellowed pages, possibly unread, and priced less than it would have cost in 1969 dollars.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">O!Coot (John P. O’Grady) mentions in a message that today is Gary’s 91<sup>st</sup> birthday.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Turtle Island</i> is dedicated to Snyder’s mother, “Lois Snyder Hennessy, My Mother.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Perusing the book, well known to me, I find the only sign of a previous reader, the last sentence of the Introductory Note underlined in ballpoint: “. . . all share views at the deepest levels of their cultural traditions African, Asians, or European. Hark again to those roots, to see our ancient solidarity, and then to work together on Turtle island.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My son and I kayak out to the wetlands. We coast silently past the loon’s nest, the mother flattening herself over her eggs to hide from our view. We paddle lightly, sorry to have worried her. In the distance I see a line of shining spheres on a log. They look like football helmets lined up for game day. Turtles. We approach as slowly as possible. The log is about forty feet long. Over twenty-five painted turtles shining in the sun, dropping off one-by-one as we approach. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I am in Michigan for only a couple more days, my wife in Anchorage. I imagine her receiving the cut flowers our son sent. She reminds me telepathically from great distance that our son needs to deliver the statue of the Blessed Virgin that we inherited from my aunt.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I last saw Gary the pre-pandemic summer in Davis where we talked, as ever, of the mountains of our youth, the Cascades. And also of the spectacular black and white photographs of Vittorio Sella, which he remembers vividly from the Mazama club house in Portland and I know mostly from books.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When you read <i>Turtle Island</i> on Mother’s Day you become acutely aware of the Mother-ness of the work, in addition to the recurring themes of gratitude and stewardship: “all created things are of the mother.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My son has remembered to turn over the statue to me. It’s encased in bubble wrap and I pack it carefully. He says he kept it in his attic with its face in the little attic window watching over the street in his blighted neighborhood.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I hug my mother goodbye she says, not entirely kidding, “David, don’t go.” She steps back and adds, “I’ve been saying that for fifty years.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My son drives me to the airport. I leave Turtle Island with him. Also a copy of <i>The Nick Adams Stories. </i>He says he’s fished the Two-Hearted River but hasn’t read the story. This is somewhat different from others who know the “river” because a craft beer is named after it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Home: the Virgin survived the 3500 air miles intact. But when we unswaddle it from its bubble-wrap, we discover the statue is not of the Virgin at all. It is Saint Ann, the Virgin’s mother, instructing a smaller, supposedly younger, blue-clad Virgin, pointing with her index finger at an open book. Two-for-one.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I think my favorite line in <i>Turtle Island</i> is the coda to “Why Log Truck Drivers Rise Earlier Than <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Students of Zen”: “There is no other life.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p></p>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835735427195714465.post-84451266280732677332021-03-20T10:37:00.003-07:002021-03-20T10:37:50.279-07:00The Barking Man<span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYcrgfG-jsfkxtMTgtoNf2slzvZ2z2pv_1ksrcti9ps6XJfQ3OwSwQWo5zNQy-h0BsdnsxGv2Dc-McgvA3tSHQwXDowpiS3C7bPKiVLtEv_39kxnojerUDJbvV7Xjztn1wQdHoj1xwgb9/s2048/IMG123.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1398" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYcrgfG-jsfkxtMTgtoNf2slzvZ2z2pv_1ksrcti9ps6XJfQ3OwSwQWo5zNQy-h0BsdnsxGv2Dc-McgvA3tSHQwXDowpiS3C7bPKiVLtEv_39kxnojerUDJbvV7Xjztn1wQdHoj1xwgb9/w243-h357/IMG123.jpeg" width="243" /></a></div><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">“The Barking Man” is a photograph, maybe, that I took on the summit of the Aiguille du Midi in 1980. It shows a man, a French man, “barking” at the statue of the Virgin Mary that adorns the summit. His back is to Mt. Blanc. He is very literally, “sounding his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” When I organized the photographic slides from that trip,” The Barking Man” did not make the cut into the “show” carousel. I’m not sure why exactly; I may have felt it unbecoming of the seriousness with which I took the whole enterprise back then; it may have been that I felt compelled to keep the moment private rather than make it “public,” as if dozens of people would see the slides, when in fact, perhaps a half-dozen would.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> As years passed, I realized that particular climb was one of the very best I had ever done. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It went like this: we left Chamonix in the last tram up to the top of Aiguille du Midi at 12,605 feet. There, we guerilla-bivouacked just outside the tunnel that went from the labyrinthine, mostly-tourist-safe structure to access the actual mountain. When the sunrise hit the mountain top we descended down to the glacier and hiked over to ridge we had to gain. We had to overcome a bergschrund, ascend a steep snow slope to a ridgeline, and then drop down the other side of the ridge to the Col de la Fourche hut, a bare bones structure with no amenities, designed to sleep about eight. We were the first ones there, early afternoon. A pack sat stashed in one corner. We had a long time to gaze across the glacier at our objective, the Brenva Spur on Mt. Blanc. Too long, in fact, as the longer we looked at the thing, the more intimidating it became. Climbers began to trickle in. Late in the afternoon a helicopter appeared overhead and dropped down out of view to our right. When it rose again into the air a human body was attached to a long line and dangled in the air as the helicopter whacked out of view. We came to believe that the dead climber had left his pack in the corner and we allowed it some space, despite that the hut would soon become overcrowded.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sleep in an eight-person hut packed with twice as many bodies is a pretty thought. The climbers begin stirring to depart at midnight. Besides, we were too scared to sleep. Somehow John, my climbing partner has misplaced his glasses and while we hunt for them, pairs of alpinists left the hut, until finally it was just him and me. The glasses are not found. Nonetheless, we rappelled off the railing on the hut’s porch and soon we were on the glacier looking up at the starlit Brenva Spur, which has only grown more ominous, somehow, in the dark. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Now the climb is officially abandoned–is a decision that’s obvious even a decision?–and we turned our attention to the problem of getting back to the Aiguille du Midi. The prospect of retracing our steps, starting with the rappel route is unappealing, if not impossible. Despite our headlamps and a map we decide to sit tight until we can see, a few more hours of darkness to endure. While we sat shivering in the dark an astonishingly white light began illuminate the sky from behind the shadow of the ridge. We could not imagine its source. The second coming? In retrospect, <i>obviously</i> it was a full moon rising. But at the time it wasn’t obvious, we simply did not know the moon could cast so much light. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Moonlight aside we waited for the sun. Yes, it appeared we could access the ridge that led to the Tour Ronde. Once on the ridge could we follow it to the summit? We wouldn‘t know until we were on it? Was this a climbing route? Who knew? Up we went. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was a wild remote place with no evidence of human passage. We were like the car on a dark road whose passengers could see only as far as the headlights illumined. Up we went rope-length by rope-length. I mantled over a lip and found two perfectly formed crystals, as if in a shallow dish, waiting for me since time immemorial. Soon we were on the summit, an incredible spot centrally located in the Mt Blanc range with spectacular views in every direction. And it was here we met the Barking Man.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The descent was well-travelled and soon we were trudging back up the trail to the Aiguille du Midi, bone tired and feeling like failures. Until, waiting for the tram back down to Chamonix, we explained to a pair of Brits what we had done. “You did <i>what</i>?” and “Brilliant.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Years later, the memory took on the <i>brilliance</i> it deserved and I began to think about the Barking Man. But I couldn’t find the photograph.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRH2tuaN3MqlpR7qCV7qTLhsXiy3C5FpD6kkMOuDCODMPMahcPms2ik6DC_w_FyhswI4eUOmq1OGpXSBnSU7EJyMP45htl72ZRmM_BLj2G39xL5ZCVQ9w9KSAYW1i6XriEfFSlmHUHrDvY/s2048/P1010147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRH2tuaN3MqlpR7qCV7qTLhsXiy3C5FpD6kkMOuDCODMPMahcPms2ik6DC_w_FyhswI4eUOmq1OGpXSBnSU7EJyMP45htl72ZRmM_BLj2G39xL5ZCVQ9w9KSAYW1i6XriEfFSlmHUHrDvY/w376-h282/P1010147.JPG" width="376" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;">Now it’s forty-one years later and I am downsizing. Books must be reduced in number. I shed skis like bad pennies, cutting the quiver in half. Clothes, goodbye. I decided to take my photographic slides out of their carousels and put them in boxes. I know, I know, I should have digitized them, but I don’t have time for that just now. I did get a bit ruthless after a while and if I couldn’t recognize the mountain and it wasn’t particularly beautiful I flung it into the trash. Unfortunately, this concept came to me late in the process.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> I did not find the photograph of The Barking Man. I did, however, find every other photograph I had considered missing over the years: my wife reading a book next to her beloved dog, Yida, at Tamarack Lodge near Mammoth Mountain; the shot of Denny Cliff wandering through the towering seracs of the Carbon Glacier on the north side of Mt Rainier; the summit photo of me on Mt. Stuart wearing my white Peter Storm sweater and cotton knickers–a print of which had hung in my aunt’s house all these years and disappeared from the estate sale after she passed away.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My friend John is writing his “climbing memoir” and asked me for some details. I remembered that about twenty years ago I had typed my journal from that summer in Chamonix. Good thing, too, as I have no idea where the original is. I read through it before I sent him a copy. I find this description: “John & I sit on the summit, where a jolly French photographer snaps our photograph and barks at the statue of the Virgin Mary.” The photograph the barking man <i>took of us</i> exists (dull and generic). But I couldn’t find “The Barking Man.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">His image is burned into my mind, but maybe the photograph doesn’t exist at all, maybe it was always nothing more than memory and language. Yawp! Yawp!<o:p></o:p></p></div>David Stevensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08991240003456854076noreply@blogger.com0