Sid is giving a concert at Lonehollow, his last one was very successful. This time Tom will be playing as well, and they are both musical geniuses and their performances are not to be missed. I’ve had the honor and pleasure of playing alongside both of them; (have to brag).
November 2nd we had six inches of rain within a few hours, so our group was rained out of playing at the fall fair and all the booths and activities were absolutely drowned. Shelly Summers and her husband Lee had their booth awning collapse on them. Shelly and Lee are singing in cantata and I heard about it at cantata practice. But the rain was miraculous — we were in the last stages of drought just before we took on the appearance of the Gobi Desert. There are so many beautiful old trees down — just dried up, gave up and fell over. Trying again for Fall Fair on the 23rd — we already had our practice for the 2nd at Diane’s house, decided on songs, we have our scores, so it’ll be easy.
Christmas and my mailbox is overflowing with Christmas catalogues. Such a waste of paper! Mostly they go in the trash.
A writer friend in Canada asked me my opinion on the lack of working/rural people in contemporary literature — storytelling — and contributed his own — so I spent some time on the internet and lots of people are asking that question. And have been for years.
So the POV is almost always from the urban observer. “They” appear as dreadfully disadvantaged, poor, ignorant, abused hungrydesperateinferiorfaultydefectivestupid. Here’s the blurb for Tillie Olson’s Yonnondio ‘ “A life devoid of joy for a young girl, father drinks, mother always pregnant, all happiness destroyed.”
I never read it; who would? Yikes. It’s like bondage porn or something. Many eons ago when I was teaching a creative writing course at Philips Andover I pinned up a picture of one of my cousins and said, “Okay write something about this person and her life.” I happened to catch Macy sitting on the long front porch of her and Bill’s trailer, in a big floppy skirt, red hair flying out like a coronal eclipse — and every one of them wrote how she was longing to get to the big city, her husband beat her, she had ten kids, their truck was repossessed, she sobbed all night, they ate grits and fried alligator, her dad was a drunk, etc., you can imagine. Every. Last. One.
A fun place to go to research the LITERARY aspect — and I emphasize LITERARY (novels, stories, films, poems… LITERATURE) is TV Tropes, and you’ll have fun fun fun until your daddy takes your T-bird away. Look up ‘working-class hero’ — and there you will find said all that needs to be said and to heck with all the knowing clever and boring Guardian etc. articles.
Moths are not just the gray things flying around your lamp; I have found many in brilliant colors, or muted, delicate shades, and in the bright sunshine flying circles around one another dressed in sunshine yellow.
When it rains it seems, no matter what time of year, things bloom. My lantana under the big Spanish oak in back burst into flower after the Noah-level rain we got and is being sweetly assaulted, kissed, blessed and extravagantly loved by butterflies. Yellow ones; very yellow with the sunlight directly on them and then oddly greenish when backlit.
And one drab unglamorous fellow ignoring the gorgeous ones, nom nom nom on the floral banquet.
And so let us quietly contemplate the arrival of Christmas without panic. Yoga kitty!
