Author Archives: avr

More on memoirs

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“Most memoirs suck, the way most novels suck, the way most movies suck. It’s just a fact of life.” Mary Karr, New York Times bestseller author of three memoirs, The Liars’ Club, Cherry and Lit, in an interview with Kurt Anderson.

She’s a hypocrite, but she’s hot!

Maxwell on Memories

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Ever since yesterday, when I discovered that I am the most dedicated follower of my blog, I have been re-examining what it means to have and keep this cyber-diary. Really, why do it? It’s not a way to keep up with friends and family; I see them, or call, or even write letters, and quite frankly, even though they love me, nobody is that interested in my battles with a tomato hornworm (bastards!), or my musings on duck genitalia (though it is fascinating!), or even my handy information regarding lady pirates (aaarrrgghh!). It’s not really to get me to write; I keep a real diary, and I do write, lots. I can’t really type, so it can take hours for just one post; it would seem I had something better to do. But here’s the kicker…I don’t. I like the blog. I like to write it and read and re-read it. I like using images that I find or create, and I like putting up the work of my friends and family. I think about the blog sometimes, and I go back and look up things that interest me or I get new ideas about things I want to explore or research or write about. I write for myself, so it makes sense that I am my biggest fan. Yay, me!

That being said, I have decided to dedicate the next few posts to things that other people have said that have made an impression on me. I have done this before:
and I really like these posts, especially when my friends sent their favorite quotes in, or I got to quote them. That’s some good stuff. So send ’em if you got ’em, to my email or to the comments box, and if they’re real cleverlike, I’ll pretend like I said ’em myself.
This first one comes from William Maxwell. He was an author who died in 2000, after publishing a number of highly acclaimed novels, short story collections, children’s books, and even some non-fiction, but he was also an editor for the New Yorker for forty years, where he worked with writers like Nabakov, Cheever, Welty, Updike, Salinger, Singer, and John O’Hara. This is from his novel So Long, See You Tomorrow:
What we, or at any rate, I, refer to confidently as a memory – meaning a moment, a scene, a fact that has been subjected to a fixative and thereby rescued from oblivion – is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling. Too many conflicting emotional interests are involved for life ever to be wholly acceptable, and possibly it is the work of the story-teller to rearrange things so that they conform to this end. In any case, in talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.

He kind of looks like Sherman T. Potter from M*A*SH, right?

Though this idea -that memory is personal and mutable- might not exactly be a major revelation, I like this quote for several reasons. First off, it’s well said, and I enjoy both his use of the comma and the dash. Second, I am fascinated with the moments of memory, and how they become infused, in a flash, with so many factors – mood, physicality, location, what came before, expectation, desire, age – the list of what goes into a moment is endless. Also, memories are both lasting and ephemeral, and I love how they are constantly mutating and solidifying with every remembrance. They are, almost by definition, a collage of experience; ideas, attitudes, facts, emotions, images, intangibles all juxtaposed and overlapping; layers of life compacted with alternate layers of meaning, perception and misinterpretation; and all of it simultaneously retained and discarded to emerge suddenly and unbidden from the mind’s closets, maybe once, maybe again and again obsessively…well, yeah, like I said, the concept of memory fascinates me. I could go on; I haven’t even gotten started on group memories, false memories, blocked memories, memory loss, muscle memory, Alzheimer’s, dreams, or memes. Some people have ubermemories, some have synesthesia which gives a whole new spin to memory, and some people can’t remember faces, so that they constantly fail to recognize the people they love. Dang, y’all! Is it any wonder that when I am thinking about all of this, I forget to flush the toilet, turn left, or call you back? I got a lot going on in here, people!
Third, I like the idea of a storyteller rearranging memories – even if they are not her own- so that they fit into a format that is “wholly acceptable”, even if that means changing or imagining an entirely different story than what was inspired by the original moment that had to occur to set the ball rolling. The storyteller creates a new scene that will go down in the memories of the readers; one memory gives birth to unlimited possible new memories. It’ so Proustian, and also so Beatlesque; after all, “There’s nothing you can know that can’t be known/ nothing you can see that isn’t shown….”, but oh, the things we can create from what we already have!

Finally, I found this quote at the front of a fantastic book called Dancer, by Colum McCann, who also wrote Let the Great World Spin. I really liked Let the Great World Spin, but I loved Dancer. It’s about Rudolf Nureyev, and it’s brilliant. I think McCann is such a wonderful writer. I could go on and on about him, also…he’s just so good. He’s also my kind of F-I-N-E, fine. Grrrr, in an intellectual kind of way. You should read his stuff, really.

The next one of his I’m going to read is Zoli, which is about a gypsy. Then the new one by DeLillo. But before all of those, my Mom’s memoirs, which, as you might recall, brings us nicely back to Maxwell, on memories.

1,001

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Woohoo! I just went to view my own blog – sometimes I like to sneak up on myself- and, according to my handy-dandy counter, I became the 1,001st satisfied customer- well, since I installed the official Statcounter counter – at this glorious site! Woohooo, I say! This means that I am officially a bad-ass. I am the Ali of blogs. I’m number one, you’re number two, and I’m gonna beat the whoopee outta you!

But no, I must remain humble. I want to thank all of you who tune in to add a splash of color to your monochromatic lives, to press close to greatness, drawn to me like a moth to a flame, to revel in my light, my love, my wisdom, even to copy my style and wit – it really is the most sincere form of flattery, and you have my blessing. If not for you, this blog would be …well, it would be the same, but you would not have had the opportunity to benefit from it. So thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart for concretely affirming what I have always suspected…
smalleradventure rocks, bitchezz!!!!
Hmm. Upon further examination I see that my own computers, both at home and at school, the latter quite frequently during tax-payer funded working hours, are responsible for the majority of hits to this bogus blog, and that the rest of the hits come from people who went to Google Images and clicked on a picture of a blue meanie that somehow links here. Hellooooo? Is anyone out there?
One is not the loneliest number…1,001 is.
Waah-waahhhhhhhhh.
P.S. Last day of school…I’m back to woo-hooing, y’all! happy Summer!

Under the Sea for E&A, Part 2

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UNDER THE SEA

Part Two

El Deonte flipped on his belly and went down, down, down, deep into the water, past the AFL, past the NFL, past majors and minors, 20,000 leagues under the sea. He stopped to snatch a snack from the octopus’s garden and paid a call on his friend Nessie, who was very shy and refused to let herself be seen. El Deonte took them to a pineapple under the sea where we all had a sponge bath and felt very refreshed. We met creatures and crustaceans, anemone and abalone, sharks and sashimi. We swam through tunnels and through caves, over underwater volcanoes and under overwater…well overwater nothings, because we were trying to get to the bottom of the ocean. It was a lot of fun, but HOOOEEEE, were we tired. I was just about to give up, and I think Finn was, too. He had taken to singing nothing but Louie Prima songs and counting to 100 by fives, which can be fun, but after awhile it gets really annoying.
Finally, just beneath us, we saw it, glowing gently from the light of a thousand electric eels: The ocean floor! It was beautiful!


Grasses swayed. Corals reefed. Bright, unexpected colors emerged and then blended together, swirling and changing. There were hills and valleys, an endless landscape of enchanted beauty. Finn and I were so impressed that we couldn’t speak, until finally he sighed, “Awesome,” and for the first time, I thought I understood what that word really meant.

“Well, see ya!” El Deonte did a dorsal dance and with that, he was gone. Just like that.
Finn and I looked at each other and then out over the ocean floor. It was so still, so quiet. I have to tell you, I got a bit frightened, and I felt very lonely. Finn looked like he had seen a ghost.


Slowly our eyes adjusted to this strange, new world. As we became able to focus, and grew more familiar, we began to see all kinds of marine life, camouflaged, and hiding in plain sight! Finn threw back his head, which is to say he did a backflip, as he has no real body to speak of, and took off after a catfish. I hopped on a friendly seahorse and followed. Oh the fantastic sights we saw!

We whisked over a beach where the sand was so white it looked like sugar and saw Scarlett Poyntz, superstar, catching a few rays – gamma rays, I think they were.

We saw a fish who said that if we followed him and did whatever said, he would hang out with us forever. I thought he was a sucker, and so we moved on.We saw cheerleader fish with pompoms on their noses…











There were model fish in bright designer dresses, running away from phishtographers …








There were crazy, vibrant colors and whooshes of sound and sparkle. We saw things I couldn’t name and could never have imagined.
I saw a pointy spine fish….


Albino amphibians playing leapfrog…
…and cavorting crawfish, creeping and crawling.

The bottom of the ocean was AMAZING!
But what about the oil spill? Could it cover our deep-sea paradise like a cloud of black smoke?
Would fish of the future have to mutate and evolve in strange, scary ways?Or perhaps, will fish have to find smaller, new places to live?Finn doesn’t believe any of that will ever happen. I’m going to agree with him. After all, how many talking dogfish heads do you know? He is as wise as he is strange. Still, I’ll never forget this journey. My memories will always make me laugh and wonder at the beauty and diversity of nature. Finn and I are going to take care of our earth and figure out ways to make sure that it is safe and protected. Stay tuned for our next adventure!
P.S. for E.: POOP! I think you are groovy!
P.S. for A.: Almost time for a ride around the lake! I can’t wait!

I’d like to be…

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Under the Sea – A Story for A&E
PART ONE

One night I had an awful nightmare. I dreamed that there would be a horrible, toxic oil spill, and it would rage on and on for weeks and weeks, poisoning the ocean with its noxious black clouds. Upon waking up, I calmed myself, rocking in my bed and muttering, “It’s only a dream, it’s only a dream,” but I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, so, together with my trusty swimming doghead, Finn, I decided to go to the bottom of the ocean and have a look-see (a look-sea!) for myself, to make sure everything was ok.
Finn is probably a Labrador-tuna mix; Labs are known as water dogs, and tuna have been called “the chicken of the sea”, but that doesn’t mean much to this story, and Finn is very brave.

We took a big boat the middle of the ocean. I was so excited, I hardly remember the ride…
Finn and I swam and dove, dove and swam, until we reached a band of water that had a different, special quality to it; it was warmer, and it felt like it was swimming around us as much as we were swimming through it. It seemed almost magical…
So we took a left and got out of there. Magic water is scary. Finn thought maybe Poseidon took a pee in the pool.

For awhile we swam peacefully. It was as if time stopped, and the water was so blue it almost seemed as if we were in the sky instead of in the ocean. We floated on currents and laughed when jets of bubbles tickled our feet and underarms. Everything was quiet, except for the sounds of the deep and Finn singing a song called “Horse with No Name.” He loves that song. This is the version that he plays in his head. He likes it better than the original. I like any song that talks about “a fly with no buzz.” That’s just crazy. Unless the fly is dead. Talk about a buzz-kill! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eew6T2Qy6kc&feature=related

Suddenly, there was a whoosh of motion and color, as if we’d been caught up in an orange and gold tornado. Fish were everywhere, shouting and laughing, mixing and mingling, talking on their I-Phones, riding bikes, making toasts…it was insane! “Hey,” I said to a coy looking boy koi, “Can you tell us how to get to the bottom of the sea? It seems like we’ve been swimming around in circles for days!”

“You’ve been swimming for days? Big deal! Cry me a river, why dont’cha?! I’ve been swimming my whole life, and worse still, every hour of every day it’s the same old thing – I’m always in school! I never get recess, I never get vacation and I never graduate! Everywhere I go, I’m always in this school, and I am sick of it,” carped the carp. (A koi is a type of carp. Carp is used to make gefilte fish. “Gefilte” is a Yiddish word, and “to carp” is to kvetch, which is also Yiddish, but people do it in every language. Look it up if you don’t believe me.)
“I guess since you spend so much time in school, you must be pretty smart, huh?” I asked. I find that when dealing with irritated aquatic life, it’s best to be both polite and complimentary.
“Yeah, I am,” said the koi, and not too modestly. “But if you want to know something really important or difficult, you’ll have to ask El Deonte, the smartest kid in school.”
“El who?”
“He’s over there. Oh man! I gotta go! Man-ta-ray, school sucks!”
Koi boy darted into the fish cyclone and was gone. Like so many in an enormous, over-populated and over-burdened school system, the little fish become lost. They’re just tiny flashes and flecks of gold in a big chaotic cloud.
I looked for El Deonte. All I knew about him was that he was the smartest fish in school. How would I recognize him?

As it turns out, it wasn’t all that difficult.

“Are you El Deonte?” I asked
“Fo‘ shizzle, my guppy!” He laughed. “Hey! You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m from Arizona.”
“Got any papers to prove that?” El Deonte asked suspiciously. “Oh well, never mind – I guess it doesn’t really matter where you’re from, now that you are here. What can I do for you?”
“Umm, I wanted to ask you if you could help me find my way to the bottom of the ocean, but now that I see you, can I ask you another question?”
“Of course you can, my Pisces brother! Dive on in!”
“Is that your brain, El Deonte? Are you so smart that your head couldn’t hold all of your thoughts and so your mind popped out of your skull?” I whispered.
El Deonte laughed until his gills hurt. “No, you foolish fleshy fish! That’s my fishfro! My fish ‘do, if you will!”
At this point, Finn started cracking up, because El Deonte said “fish doo.” Finn is like that. He thinks poop is hilarious.
“What are you laughing at? Are you laughing at my style, my flavor, my flow? Do you think my head looks like a butt?”
I had no idea what El Deonte was talking about, but I quickly tried to make things right.
“No, sir! You are one FINE looking fish! I think you are fabulous!” I cried. Finn just kept on laughing. He thinks the word “butt” is pretty funny, too, especially if it’s used around the word “head”.
“Well, I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but fine, whatever. Bygones. So, you want me to take you to the bottom of the ocean?”
“Yes, please,” Finn and I sang in unison.
And that is exactly what he did.
TO BE CONTINUED….

Say-ruh Hay-ruh

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This guy is a shit head.

Monday morning, bell rings. Only half way through my coffee. Put on a happy face.

Student comes in, looking at me skeptically. Kids are always suspicious on a Monday morning, as if they expect the possibility of work to be assigned at any moment.

“Miss! What’s up with your hair? Yo Hay-ruh? What up? Every day your hairs are all over your head. Like an animal. A wild animal. With rabies. And on crack. Crack and meth. That’s how your hair is! But not today. Today it’s flat dead. Dead on your head! That’s how your hair is. Shot dead, stuffed and hanging on your head, like a moose over the fire place. Dead, Sarah Palin style! Say-ruh hay-ruh! What’s happenin’ to yo hay-ruh, Miss?! So…how was your weekend?”
School will be over in five short weeks.

Photo Bouquet

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Recently, I have received cell-phone pictures of flowers from two of my friends. Both sent flowers that they see frequently, in their own backyards, driveways, or off the highways. I love these snapshots, not so much because of their aesthetic beauty, but because of the way the viewer was compelled to pull over, take notice, marvel at the simple perfection of a bud, and then pass that moment of joy onto someone else. And yay, hallelulajah, that lucky someone was me, and now it’s you.

What a fantastic time of year, non?
Photo Bouquet
For KB and Dennis

Kitten tongue pink in a cloud of mint

Fat-petaled cheeks weigh down wide-open faces

Heads nodding at inside jokes

Only those in full bloom truly understand

When the car pulls in
Smoke sighs from the window
Tires hiss relief
Weary slog of back and forth
Tired that rests in the marrow

Usually she doesn’t notice
The buds blend into the afternoon
Heavy lids make it hard to see past smudging thoughts

All in a day’s work

But today

The flowers
Giggling their greeting

Gossiping with the grass

Shimmying in the breeze

Delicate leaves making jazzhands

Bobbing and bowing
Backlit, by a bright blue screen

Today
 She couldn’t help but smile
 Nod graciously, gratefully, at the roses
 Snap a picture for forever

Of a flower and a feeling
 How nice it is to be home again


*This doesn’t mean that I want a bunch of pictures of cute puppies and kitties, Dad! Stop yourself! Don’t send them just because you can!

NOTE! There is absolutely no way to get this poem all in one color and formatted correctly. I’ve tried and tried. It makes me crazy. It is now June 6, 2010, months after I wrote this, months after it was first read, and still I try, and still I fail. Damn, y’all!

Poetic Addendum

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I hardly ever understand the poetry in the New Yorker. I like the articles, even though some of them have way too many words. I love the fiction – I even listen to a podcast of the stories read by other authors on my Ipod when I ride my bike. Pretty dorky, huh? Some of the pictures are great, and the cartoons are cool, but the poetry always leaves me feeling like it is over my head. Most of the time, I just don’t get it. Being a glutton for punishment, I read every single verse, sometimes two or three times, before I sniff and pronounce it poorly written, and mumble something about how I don’t have time to sit around reading a bunch of meaningless, self-indulgent drivel. My motto is: “If I don’t understand it, it’s wicked retarded.”

However, after I wrote the last post, I read a poem that I like a lot, and that I think sums up those days when the underlying thrill of being makes it impossible to dwell on the negative, even if it is undeniable or inevitable, and, how just as one can get overwhelmed by minutiae, it’s also the little things that lead us to feeling free, aware, a part of the universal hum, a part of something wonderful and amazing. Want to read it? OK, go ahead! Even though I am pretty sure I am going to the Big House for copyright infringement, I have reprinted it for you here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine in the pokey, on account of I’m real gangsta. You’re welcome.
Preachers Warn

By Charles Simic

This peaceful world of ours is ready for destruction –
And still the sun shines, the sparrows come
Each morning to the bakery for crumbs
Next door, two men deliver a bed for newlyweds
And stop to admire a bicycle chained to a parking meter.
Its owner is making lunch for his ailing grandmother.
He heats the soup and serves it to her in a bowl.

The windows are open, there’s a warm breeze.
The young trees are delirious to have leaves.
Italian opera is on the radio, the volume too high
Brevi et triste giorni visse, a baritone sings.
Everyone up and down the block can hear him.
Something about the days that remain for us to enjoy
Being few and sad. Not today, Maestro Verdi!

At the hairdresser’s a girl leaps out of a chair,
Her blond hair bouncing off her bare shoulders
As she runs out the door in her high heels.
“I must be off,” says the handsome boy to his grandmother.
His bicycle is where he left it. He rides casually through the heavy traffic
His white shirttails fluttering behind him
Long after everyone else has come to a sudden stop.

You can find it in the March 1, 2010 edition ( I’m a slow reader!) of the New Yorker, that has this great cover by Brian Stauffer:

Also, as a special, additional bonus, I thought that I would include one of my mom’s poems about the juicy Rainier cherries her father grew in his garden. It is from a series she has called “The Fruit Poems”, and I reprint it here with her permission, as I respect that sort of thing. With my mom, anyway.

Yellow cherries

of my childhood

with a hint of carmine

fleshy and gay

eaten right off the tree

steadfastly

A caterpillar filled with glee

I took my pleasure thoroughly

made earrings with twinned fruit

day after day from morning to noon


No matter when Spring comes

trailing snows

late in the rainy season

the ripening of cherries

their savoring

remains

a durable rendezvous

– Liliane Richman

cherries image from furrygoat.com