Liveblog from the Octagon

I am waiting at the Octagon in downtown Santa Cruz, with a pot of "Marquis Grey" (as opposed to De Sade Blue, I suppose), which is an Earl Grey tea with lavender. I walked in not wanting coffee and the owner brought me around to a lovely display of tea in round tins. I dislike Peet's Earl Grey with Lavender, which tastes overwhelmingly medicinal. The Octagon's is lovely, perfumed rather than redolent of "good for what ails ya," and the manager had a presspot scrubbed out for me so there was no coffee residue in it. He told me that they'll be getting new teapots in next week. The tea arrived in a big presspot, which has produced three and a half cups of tea. Plus, this place has soymilk at the coffee fixins' place, great for those of us who are cutting down on dairy. The Octagon is getting large points from me for quietness (I don't know if it's the vaulted ceiling, the table arrangements (in a horseshoe shape against the wall), or what, but sound doesn't seem to blast here as it does in other places. Altogether, this is a cool place, and not a chain coffeehouse. Border's still has the most elegant tea service by far--a big china pot and a pretty teacup--but since I try to stick with local places, I'll be coming back here.

Not much else to report around the Ponderosa. I'm going to African dance tonight and on Sunday, I have a performance on Saturday, and I finished, finally, an immensely difficult chapter of The Strega's Story, one I have had to leave off and return to it many times. Finally, I finished it under less optimal circumstances--I don't know why it is, but when I am working on really difficult scenes in the book, Mr. Strega comes in, lies down, and falls asleep (I have a folded-up futon in my officce with a really cute comforter and pillows from Ikea on it, and a burgundy faux-fur throw for that Austin Powers effect). My big dog Faustus (sorry, not the dog's real name; even my pets have pseudonyms here) came in and fell asleep, too). The kids were out in the great room, watching Futurama, and so I put on my headphones and turned from everything--and finally, after months and months of struggle over this chapter, it fell into place and wound itself up. And I went to bed and slept like a log that night.

Something I've been struggling with ever since Mr. Strega and I got together and during the creation of our household is organizing time to write. Of all my relationships, he has been the most supportive and the most willing to help me find a more streamlined way of getting my submission process organized; a lot of my writing is still on old hard drives that need to be plugged into the mainframe he has at the house and retrieved, but he's put a lot of the work on CDs for me, which I really appreciate, and he formatted my poetry book, because I just couldn't figure out how to do it, and I have a really nice printer, scanner, and two Macs. So, techno-wise, I'm set.

Still, the fact remains that I have a full life and I have always been terrible at being assertive about my need to work. I think this is getting better, though, and I am proving to myself that I don't need "the perfect atmosphere" to work in, as long as I really set my mind and heart to it.

My link today is for a discussion about writing from a blog called Faux Real and I find them interesting--though I'm not sure the blog is run by one person or many.

Well, my tea's grown cold and so I think I will pack up and go find Mr. Strega, and head back to the Ponderosa. I wish all my faithful readers a good day and

A Poem by Denise Levertov

I am having a busy day writing, sewing, and working in the garden (not in that order), and so would like to add a coda to Cindy Sheehan's resignation as an active war activist. This poem was written by Denise Levertov during the Vietnam war and I wish I could send this to the White House.

Tenebrae

Heavy, heavy, heavy, hand and heart.
We are at war,
bitterly, bitterly at war.

And the buying and selling
buzzes at our heads, a swarm
of busy flies, a kind of innocence.

Gowns of gold sequins are fitted,
sharp-glinting. What harsh rustlings
of silver moiré there are,
to remind me of shrapnel splinters.

And weddings are held in full solemnity
not of desire but of etiquette,
the nuptial pomp of starched lace;
a grim innocence.

And picnic parties return from the beaches
burning with stored sun in the dusk;
children promised a TV show when they get home
fall asleep in the backs of a million station wagons,
sand in their hair, the sound of waves
quietly persistent at their ears.
They are not listening.

Their parents at night
dream and forget their dreams.
They wake in the dark
and make plans. Their sequin plans
glitter into tomorrow.
They buy, they sell.

They fill freezers with food.
Neon signs flash their intentions
into the years ahead.

And at their ears the sound
of the war. They are
not listening, not listening.

Cindy Sheehan Resigns

Cindy Sheehan, the woman who lost her son Casey in Iraq, has resigned as an active anti-war activist. Please click on the link to see her letter and other comments on DailyKos.

I don't blame her for needing to leave. I rarely speak of the war on this blog, as I originally wanted it to be about my book and the process of writing, but the world at large and creativity are intertwined anyway. And please, those of you who read this who support the war in Iraq, don't leave comments that say I'm anti-American. I love this country. I just sincerely hate the wastage of lives in a seemingly endless and senseless war, a war for which I fear this country will "reap the whirlwind" eventually, in one way or another.

Cindy Sheehan has endured unbelievable hatred and criticism for her activism and her bravery--a mother spurred into action by the death of her precious son. I can't even imagine losing a child in war, and yet I have to imagine this, for my own beloved son turns eighteen in December, on Christmas Day, and he has to register for the draft. He is a committed pacifist and will make it clear even as he registers that he is a conscientious objector--and of course, there's no draft and I pray there never will be--but still, I hold a low-level fear for him.

I can never imagine the magnitude of Cindy Sheehan's loss, nor the anguish which spurred her to become a peace activist in the "war without end." She has put herself bravely on the front line and I wish her well as she turns from work as a peace activist. My personal opinion is that we need more people like her and much more solidarity in the peace movement so that no one gets burnt out and has to back off.

As for the phrase "attention whore," which she has been called, let me point out that any person who dares to raise their voice and speak out will be called all kinds of things. I have been called a whore for having sex, a breeder because I have children, someone of "victim mentality" and "hysterical" because I speak out against domestic violence in all its shades, fat because I don't wear a size 4 (even though I'm in far better physical conditioning than the person who called me that), a lesbian (as if that's an insult, eh?) because I identify as a feminist, a devil-worshipper and an unrepentant sinner because I am Catholic with a touch of pagan. Anyone who raises their voice in protest, to speak, to illumine truth, even simply to live in whatever authentic truth defines their lives, will be called an array of names. People resort to name-calling out of fear, ignorance, because they want some semblance of control--but names are nothing but hot air when it comes right down to it.

I thought I'd close by summing up what is being said on DailyKos and elsewhere: "Thank you, Cindy, for raising your voice so that we could find ours." And may we never stop speaking out until the "war without end" ceases.

More Charles Nelson Reilly

After doing meticulous research on YouTube, I found a long clip of the X-files classic episode, Jose Chung's From Outer Space, with many scenes of Charles Nelson Reilly (as well as Jessie Ventura and Alex Trebek as The Men in Black, and part of the famous sweet potato pie-eating scene). Enjoy--but make sure you have time, as it's ten minutes or so in length.

Charles Nelson Reilly dies at age 76

Actor Charles Nelson Reilly died Friday; click on the link to see his obituary from the San Jose Mercury. I always really liked him, but most especially in one of my favorite X-files episodes, "Jose Chung's From Outer Space." Though I don't have a clip of Charles Nelson Reilly himself on that show, I do have a classic scene from that episode.

One More Restaurant

I forgot one more restaurant, the one I was actually afraid to go to, for some reason (I believe it was because my daughter Kat said this place was not for "old people").
But, worn out from turning in my MFA exam (during which I moved into the cabin on our property for the weekend and Mr. Strega put my meals inside the door for three days), I was taken to the wildest, craziest restaurant in all of Santa Cruz.

I can't describe this place and can only suggest you click on the link to view it.
If you want to experience, for one night, what it's like to live in Santa Cruz (Mr. Strega says this place is as if my mind incarnated and became a restaurant), I have only two words for you:

CIAO BELLA!

Pink Godzilla! Pink Godzilla! Pink Godzilla!

Dear God and assorted deities, how could I have omitted MY FAVORITE SUSHI PLACE, Pink Godzilla, from my previous list of favorite restaurants? The place where I lost my sushi innocence under Mr. Strega's considerable prowess, leaving aside my maidenly California and tako rolls one memorable, sultry Santa Cruz night when he said, "Let's be adventurous, shall we?" This is the man who wandered through the Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo at 3 a.m. (he did not, at the time, speak a word of Japanese) and ate raw maguro that had just been carved off the bluefin. So, that night, I was treated to monkfish liver, fried shrimp heads (eaten in one courageous bite), and flying fish roe. I've never looked back since. I still don't like salmon roe--it reminds me too much of bait in my dad's tackle box.


Pink Godzilla (click on the link for a review) is a marvelous sushi place, with a lot more on the menu than sushi (the udon noodle soup is terrific on a cold, rainy day). This place can get very crowded on a weekend, but it's worth the wait. I am an abstemious drinker, so I can't vouch for the sake in any form, but I recommend the genmaicha tea to accompany a meal. The restaurant is sort of Santa Cruz Japanese funky, the staff are universally nice, and the sushi is consistently fresh and beautifully made. My personal favorites, aside from the shrimp heads, are maguro (tuna), tako (octopus), ika (shrimp), the spider roll (soft shell crab), and saba (mackerel), followed by green tea ice cream for dessert. Mr. Strega says he is particularly fond of good, fresh uni (sea urchin--I only like this sometimes), and tobiko (the aforementioned flying fish roe). My daughter Prada also likes tobiko and seaweed salad.

So, get to Pink Godzilla for a hefty dose of omega-3s, lots of fun and even some food adventures!

Tagged

Got tagged by Lynn (see entry of May 22nd), and so now I must list my own five favorite restaurants, so as not to give Mr. Strega the limelight entire. I live in a foodie town, so it was a bit hard to choose, and many of my choices were based on wholly nostalgic and/or "just because I like it" reasons. Most of these are in Santa Cruz; one is in San Jose, though I have a few restaurants I adore in San Francisco:

1) Parwana on Soquel Avenue, Santa Cruz, next to the Rio theater. Parwana is an Afghani restaurant and I cannot sing its praises highly enough. Not only does it have great food, the decor is wonderful, the staff (mostly a family of very nice people) are kind and helpful when you don't know how to pronounce stuff on the menu, and there is occasional bellydancing. The aushak (Afghani leek dumplings, much more tasty than they sound) is a terrific dish, and I recommend following your dinner with Turkish coffee and a dessert Mr. Strega and I like to share, vanilla ice cream with rosewater.

2) Oswald's (currently homeless, eventually moving over to the old Sports Garage bar near the parking structure across from New Leaf--sorry, those are true Santa Cruz directions). One reason I love Oswald's is because they don't care if you assemble a kaleidoscope at the table (I know, because I've done so with Mr. Strega). This is luscious, bistro-style food, and the wine list is fabu. I hope it doesn't suffer when it moves--the setting, in the old cobblestone court which once housed Kelly's French Pastry and the old Bookshop Santa Cruz, was romantic and sweet.

3) Pearl Alley Bistro, on Pearl Alley behind the Pacific Garden Mall. The traditional Valentine's Day place to go out for Mr. Strega and me (see, told you these were utterly emotional choices). I really like the seafood dishes here, and this was the first place I ever had a really, really good cognac.

4)Star of Siam restaurant in San Jose--it's sort of near SJSU. Got treated here when I turned my MFA thesis in--a terrific meal for a battleweary student. The setting here is really cool, with seats sort of in the floor.

5)*warning* *major nostalgia ahead*--Once upon a time, there was a lovely man, a person of great intelligence, superlative manners, and a sly sense of humor, after having returned from a long and wearying business trip that very day, felt hungry, as it was evening.

He espied a lively woman of his acquaintance, a writer of some note whom he knew could hold a reasonably intelligent conversation, tinged with scintillating humor, and said, "Santa Cruz Diner has pho. Would you like to join me there?" And so they did, and proceeded, after many bowls of pho and many conversations about all manner of things, from physics to poetry, to FALL IN LOVE and all that sorta jazz. So, the Santa Cruz Diner on Ocean Street is my #1 Place of Nostalgia, and is open, I believe, all night. Pho is Vietnamese noodle soup, which they only serve until ten p.m.

Favorite childhood restaurants (some not in business anymore) included:

1) ChiChi's Pizza
2) The Tam 0'Shanter in Glendale (roast beef, Yorkshire pudding)
3) The restaurant at the top of Robinson's department store, which had lovely
hot fudge sundaes
4) Foster's Freeze on Sepulveda Boulevard, for chocolate-dipped vanilla cones, something my parents liked to treat us to when we were very young--a permanently good memory of them.
5) Phil Ahn's Moongate in Panorama City (our lone foray into Asian food. Philip Ahn was an actor who had, I think, been on shows such as Kung Fu with David Carradine. The menu featured, among other things, abalone and a drink called a "zombie," which my parents never ordered.
I hated green tea, but drank it there, with lots of sugar).**

**note: I hadn't time to do look al this up when I blogged this morning, but Philip Ahn was Master Kan on the Kung Fu show ("If you can snatch the pebble out of my hand, Grasshopper...."). Philip Ahn had a much longer and far more interesting movie and television career than I thought, and his entry is worth a look-see over on the IMDB.**


My parents did not go out to eat terribly often (we usually went to the Moongate when we did), as my mother was a superlative cook, and I don't think my father liked to go out to eat much, so my childhood restaurants are rather limited in terms of what I liked.

Note there are NO Italian restaurants on my list, aside from pizza places. This is because I have never really been to one that matches how my mother cooked (though I did like a certain deli in North Beach, closed now, if only for the fact that my youngest son was duly impressed when the kind gentleman running the store spoke to me in Italian and I replied in kind). La Bruschetta in Felton can be good, as well as Cafe Mare in Santa Cruz. The restaurant I really liked in Santa Cruz, Caffe Bella Napoli (had a fabulous squid ink risotto there) has now closed. So it goes.

Now I have to find five people to tag...hmmm...

The Daily Cliche

My lovely friend Maude Meehan sent me the following poem:



Webster advises writers to avoid using cliches

poem as cliche

First and foremost
in no uncertain terms
face the music
let one's hair down
do one's thing
paint the town red
raise Cain

Defend to the death one's right to
bark up the wrong tree
leave no stone unturned
shout from the rooftops
shoot from the hip

It goes without saying
throw caution to the winds
bolt from the blue
never say die

--lj


Just shows to go ya, a good cliche is worth a thousand words.

Small Miracles Every Day

As you all have probably guessed by now, I am a passionate gardener, though not the most meticulous. During the freeze a few months ago, I was laid up with a torn hip muscle, and so did not get out to cover my more delicate plants, many of which miraculously survived. I didn't cover the roots of one of the oldest roses on our property, the white rose you see pictured here (whose name is Elena). Elena survived the frost quite well and is putting out gorgeous white blooms.

Yesterday, I went out to water and was amazed to find a cluster of small red roses growing at the base of the Elena! A little research showed that the red roses belong to the rootstock (tea roses are usually grafted to a strong rootstock), and sometimes things like freezes can get the rootstock to put out suckers and bloom. The red rose pictured here is probably the "Dr. Huey" rootstock strain, and apparently very old houses with very old roses often have this particular rose growing there.

Still, I like to think of it as one of the small garden miracles that happen this time of year--another rose that has always been soft pink is now putting out coral blooms, for example. Maybe the result of a freeze, but I like to think of it as something more poetic than that.

Guest Blogger

Hi, y'all:

I got tagged by Lynn (see link), and, while I am still trying to figure out the whys and wherefores of being tagged and having to answer questions, Mr. Strega, dashing world traveler and marvelous cook that he is, has decided to jazz up the place by being my guest blogger. Since the tagging questions involved restaurants (favorites and such), he wrote up a list and emailed it to me (while we were sitting across from each other at the dining table, no less):

(*) Restaurant Vincent, in Brussels, Belgium.
Chateaubriand in green peppercorn sauce.

(*) I can't remember the name of the place,
but there's a 24-hour sushi bar in the
outer part of the Tsukiji fish market
in Tokyo.

(*) Empress Pavilion, in L.A.'s Chinatown;
at 11:00 A.M. any Sunday. And you must
observe the rule: no asking what's in a
dish until AFTER you've tried it.

(*) A certain hawker stall in Singapore,
for the best chicken-rice on the planet.

(*) One home-town favorite, here in SCruz:
the once and (hopefully) future Oswald's.
(I'd nominate Theo's, but I haven't been
there since they changed management, and
so can't be sure they've maintained the
quality.)

And one more, for after-dinner refreshments;
since I prefer malt beverages:

(*) The Brickskeller, on 22nd between P & Q,
about 2 blocks' walk from the Dupont
Circle Metro Station in Washington, D.C.
Since there's convenient public transit,
you can get away with a vertical tasting
of different years of Thomas Hardy's Ale
(a quite robust barleywine).


I have been to one of these restaurants with him (Oswald's, which is a wonderful, place). I've also been to the Empress Pavilion in L.A.'s Chinatown, though not with him. He didn't contribute a list of childhood restaurants, but I do know that, while in his college days, he frequented Pie and Burger in Pasadena (where they sold pie, and burgers), Wolfie Burger, and Tommy's. It's a bit weird to know that the brightest scientific minds ran on red meat when they were young. Egad.

Dancing the Night Away

My bellydance troupe performed at the Menara Moroccan restaurant tonight. This place is lovely (click on the link to see it).
It was really like performing in some cool Arabian Nights palace, and the food was terrific. My dance troupe has been going through a lot these days with the serious illness of one of our members--she has (incredibly) been doing better with different meds, and she showed up for awhile tonight, enough to see our troupe dance and dedicate our show to her. I am extremely glad I saw her--we sat with her afterwards until it was time for her to leave. It is really hard to see how much weight she has lost and how much things like her ability to walk and talk are affected by the cancer. I am amazed--in awe, actually--at her stubbornness and her willingness to keep fighting. It was a nice night for the troupe, as we have all been under a cloud of worry and sadness about her.

I feel that my time in the bellydance world has been like being spirited off from my ordinary life by a wonderful group of gypsies in sparkling, magical costumes, and it gives me a chance to be a performer, something I loved in high school and even in college when I was in the university chorus. It can be somewhat time-consuming (my costume takes from one and half to two hours to put on, including the makeup), but it is rewarding to be in the gypsy-nomadic life for awhile, kind of like running away with the circus. Actually, one of the women in my troupe (who is 76 years young) really did run away with the circus in England when she was a teenager (she was, among other things, the woman who got knives thrown at her by the knife-thrower guy). We were talking tonight about traveling one day to Morocco--I think I am in good enough physical shape to do this and might go with my troupe leader next time she takes a trip there.

So, that is all from a very tired Ms. Strega who still needs to take off her makeup.
G'nite.

As You Wish

Which Princess Bride Character are You?
this quiz was made by mysti


I have done it, against my best judgment. I have gone to a site I have no business looking at. I admit I have not been able to tear my fingers away from the warm, white, palpitating keys of my Macbook to stop doing this thing...this thing that compelled me onward, onward...yes, I am among the fallen...I have...taken...the...Princess Bride Quiz!


I have not only turned into one of the coolest characters ever, I seem to have changed my gender entirely. I have been accused many times that the ONLY THING WRONG WITH ME was that I secretly wanted, nay, needed nothing more than to be the bearer of such an appendage, but now it has happened, all in the wink of a keystroke! My word, that certainly was easy! More's the pity, though. Now I have to go chasing that silly Princess Buttercup all over creation, fight the Rodents of Unusual Size, get tortured in the Pit of Despair, and be brought back to life by Billy Crystal in a fright wig. All I can say is, "Humperdinck, Humperdinck! Humperdinck!"

Thanks, Humble Howard

I got a mention from Canada's Howard "Humble Howard" Glassman on his website, so I thought I would return the favor.

Humble Howard's site is very funny and informative (I especially liked the "ATM on wheels" comment about parenting--since I have four--count 'em, four--kids). So, for all those visiting my site from Canada today and in the future from Howard's site, welcome! I have a link to Howard's site, too (click on the three magic dots by the title of this entry).

My dear Mr. Strega, stepfather to the kidlets, is of Canadian descent from a long ways back. I think this is why he says the house is "roasting" when the thermostat is at forty degrees ;)--or maybe that's just his Norwegian ancestry (or...hey, never thought of this...it's a way of getting me to cuddle up with him for warmth. Mr. Strega, you're a sly one, you are).

Thanks, Howard!

Roses, Love, Light

I take a yoga class at a local gym; the room is off to the side, with a glass door, and though my instructor creates a great atmosphere of calm and peace, there is often the sound of the gym going on rather crazily outside--people talking, music, sometimes even someone doing squats or situps right outside the door, and all of it can be quite loud.
She tells us to think of yoga as learning how to produce calm in the midst of chaos and disruption, that yoga can help return one to a state of focus and of serenity.

So much is happening in the world outside the Ponderosa right now. A dear friend--someone in my dance troupe, actually--is battling brain cancer that each day gets a little worse, but she keeps fighting. Other friends are breaking up, losing beloved parents, losing jobs, and my own family has been touched by sorrows this year,too.

In the middle of this, I want to express gratitude and love for my beloved Mr. Strega. The other day, we were driving along, and I thanked him for something. Mr. Strega is an alpha cyber-geek with a rational mind, a scientific way of looking at the world--and often I wonder why, given the way he looks at the world, he decided to be with someone whose views of life are more from the heart than the head (Harvey Birenbaum, my beloved Blake professor who died awhile back, also liked this about me--he would scold me when I got too rational and reminded me to stop being such a linear thinker). Mr. Strega said that is exactly what he loves about me--that I don't cut everything apart into straight lines and angles, that he loves the way I see the world.

So, anyway, we were driving along, and I thanked him for one of many wonderful things he does: I thanked him for never, not even once, trying to change me. Okay, I think he would like me to put the dishes into the dishwasher a certain way. That is the extent of it. Yes, he's helped me with stuff--how to organize my bookmarks to work more efficiently, for one thing--but he has never attacked my beliefs, my spirituality, my past, or anything else about me. Through everything--and we have been through a lot in our five years together--I know unshakably that I am loved. And I would never want him to be different, either (those of you who know Mr. Strega know he's not some cyborg--and for those of you who don't, take my word for it).

Which leads me to the picture of the rose here. Mr. Strega's mother died a few years before I met him in 2002; I am extremely sorry I missed her. Apparently, she loved to read, knit, and garden, and I feel we would have had a lot to talk about. She was also a physicist in a time when the field had almost no women in it. She was accomplished and well-liked, and the other thing she did was raise her son to respect women.

As for the rose (see? we get there eventually..)..I got this at Rite-Aid several years ago (when it was still Thrifty, actually). There was no nametag on it, and for a long time, I tried to figure out what name belonged to it. Finally, one day Mr. Strega was out in the garden looking at the roses and I was telling him the names:
Elena, Dream Cloud, Bella Roma, Aromatherapy (yes, true), Paul's Scarlet Climber, Blaze, Angel's Wings, Mr. Lincoln, and we got to the rose pictured here. I told him I had finally named it Ada, after his mother, the one I never got to know, but whom I thank with all my heart for bringing into this world the love of my particular life.

Enough said. Gotta go dance.

Jerry Falwell dead at 73

I've thought long and hard about what I ought to say about the passing of Jerry Falwell (Mr. Strega suggested "sic transit gloria mundi," but I thought better of it). Mr. Falwell, the founder of the Moral Majority, fought tirelessly for his beliefs--which, IMHO, included using his visible status to spread misinformation, narrow-mindedness, and intolerance. I decided to simply say, "Mr. Falwell, may God have mercy on your soul."
"
Some quotes from the departed, gleaned from the Internet, but chiefly at salon.com:


"Billy Graham is the chief servant of Satan."

"AIDS is the wrath of a just God against homosexuals"

"Grown men should not be having sex with prostitutes unless they are married to them."

“The whole (global warming) thing is created to destroy America's free enterprise system and our economic stability.”

"He is purple - the gay-pride color; and his antenna is shaped like a triangle - the gay-pride symbol." (Falwell opining upon the sexual orientation of a Teletubby).


“I listen to feminists and all these radical gals - most of them are failures. They’ve blown it. Some of them have been married, but they married some Casper Milquetoast who asked permission to go to the bathroom. These women just need a man in the house. That’s all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they’re mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They’re sexist. They hate men - that’s their problem.”

And, a most famous quote by Mr. Falwell in reference to 9/11:

"I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen."


*note*--a faithful reader pointed out that I had the phrase "sic transit gloria mundi" transposed a bit earlier in the day. When I looked it up, I saw I was indeed wrong, and not as creatively wrong as the New York Daily News headline when reporting on the transport of Gloria Vanderbilt to a hospital: "Sick Gloria In Transit: Monday." I stand corrected.

A Scintillating Job

I am out in my garden today, planting the very last of the flowers. Now all I have to do is a bit of maintenance, and wait for the results, which I hope will be the best ever.

I really like my life as a writer, but the following job is really rather intriguing.
Mr. Strega found this (being a scientist and uber-alpha-geek, he finds a lot of great things like this online). Incredible...one false move (or missed step) and these guys become charcoal briquettes...sorry that the "start" arrow is so hard to see (it's at the bottom of the movie)....

glumbert.com - High Power Job

Robert the Pink Umbrella Man: Bought the T-Shirt

Turns out my buddy Robert the Pink Umbrella Man of Santa Cruz now has a CafePress store and is selling PINK UMBRELLA MAN goodies! I refuse to buy the "I Know Pinky Valentino" thong (sorry, Robert, I find them uncomfortable), but there is a wall clock, mugs, baby gear, a coaster, a beer stein, t-shirts, bumperstickers, everything to satsify your need to advertise that you are among the rosy elite who KNOW THE PINK UMBRELLA MAN! Yes, walk, don't run, to his Cafe Press store and check it out today!

Hey, Robert, any chance of carrying a long-sleeved (or 3/4 length sleeve) yoga-style shirt I (and others) can wear to dance and yoga classes? Bellydancers and yoginis of Santa Cruz love you, for your pinkness makes it so.

I Pity the Fool Who Hasn't Sent Mom a Card!

You know, I was going to engage in a long soliloqy about motherhood today, but realized I just couldn't put it any better than the redoubtable Mr. T. Enjoy!

More Hahbi-Ru

I am busy doing gardening, working on my book, working on poetry manuscripts to get out, working out, and reading The Six Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser. My garden is starting to really bloom, almost overnight!

My bellydance class this morning was wonderful, with my teacher getting us really moving across the floor today. Two gents in a Victorian house across the way from where our class is held always go out on their porch when the weather's nice, with coffee cups, sit and watch us dance, smiling and nodding. I don't think they're weird or anything, just an appreciative audience.

In celebration of bellydance, here is another clip from the Hahbi Ru dance company, just for fun--this is their "pot dance"--no, not THAT kind of pot. Enjoy!

More on Asha Veil investigation

There has been a new article in the Valley Press (okay, the Press-Banner, bear with me, I've lived here 25+ years and am from the olden days of the VP) about the ongoing Asha Veil double homicide. I have enclosed a link to the Press, but since it's so freaking hard to read (and Asha's friends and relatives sign on here for news they can't get easily overseas), I will paraphrase the article here (there's a link, too).

It's not mindblowing or the information the public has been waiting for--the naming of a primary suspect--but it's interesting. Over the weekend, the sheriff's office collected DNA samples from male coworkers of Asha Veil. This is to compare with DNA found at the scene--I would also think that this will be used to help with identifying the father of Asha's child.

The attorney for Michael McClish, a suspect in this case, is now hoping this is good news for his client, that perhaps McClish was not the father of Asha's baby after all (as has been rumored about town since the murder) and therefore his theoretical motive is substantially diluted. It could mean there was an accomplice to her murder. Or this latest DNA sampling could just be a process of reducing the "pool of suspects" out there, narrowing it down before an arrest is made.

Whatever it means, the case is moving gradually forward. I have noticed people complaining that the investigators are not releasing a lot of information--unfortunately, when a suspect is named and the case goes to trial, we will probably have much more information than we want to know about everything.

I am not defending McClish in any way here--he has not been ruled out as a suspect in the least by this later chapter in the investigation. I'm just saying that we, as a community, need to keep our eyes and ears open, still. Any new info the public comes across needs to be reported to the sheriff's office.

Let's hope there is a step towards resolution of this case soon. Asha and her baby deserve justice for what happened to them, though it can never bring them back.

I spent the day out of Santa Cruz, lecturing to a group of creative writing students at a very nice university (I got bucks for this, too)--ironically, we ended up talking about one of my favorite books, In Cold Blood, and what happened to Capote in the process of working on this book. It's really nice to see amazing young people, knowledgeable about art and literature, with great questions. But I'm beat from getting ready. I've learned, though, to read a Cal Train schedule with ease, and that is a very good thing.

Mr. Strega is at my son's school this afternoon, teaching a cooking class (he's teaching the kids to make cannoli, which he makes almost as well as the cannoli my Uncle Albert got at Sarno's when I was just a streglette. When I was writing the "cannoli" chapter of The Strega's Story, we ended up making three dozen cannoli, finishing at three in the morning, to get the recipe right. They were freaking gooooddd with a presspot of coffee. Those were the days--I still was working on my 386 laptop, typing at the table while Mr. Strega fried cannoli shells). Before I send the book out, I have to go back and test all the recipes at the beginning of each chapter--want to get them right and all.

Ciao for today.

Album

I finished my photo album for my mom for Mother's Day and am about to mail it off. I love my mom and do what I can to try and add some small beauty and comfort to her life.

I feel really happy that I can now add to the tiny amount of photos she was able to salvage out of all her misfortunes (yes, I know most of them were self-imposed and the natural consequences of addiction, but "detachment with love" is a pretty good concept, as much as it can be reasonably applied).

I made sure to put in a lot of photos that showed how much she was loved as a child.
I hope it's a reminder for her that there is still love in the world for her. As I've said before, my greatest wish for her is to know that she is loved. The mental problems, the addiction to many things, whatever--yes, these are serious problems, but I still try to find an avenue to say "I love you" to her.

I have a close friend right now who has battled lung cancer bravely (one of those people who never smoked and got lung cancer) for many years and had gotten to the point where the primary tumor was very small and she felt she could pretty much live with cancer as a chronic illness. Unfortunately, the cancer has metastasized to her brain and she is very ill right now. I can't believe how quickly this has happened to her--a few weeks ago, she seemed to be fine and this has struck like a lightning bolt.

So please, prayers for her would be appreciated.

Some Thoughts on the Strega

This is a bit of a "personal public" offering today, so bear with me, take what you like, and leave the rest

I have had a couple of emails from folks regarding a modern book, The Way of the Strega. With all due respect to Raven Grimassi, I do not own a copy of this book and have never read it. I've been devoted to presenting that my great-grandmother was much more like a curandera than a witch. That is my take on what a traditional strega was like--she was an absolutely devout Roman Catholic. Most of her rituals centered on keeping evil and negativity at bay, and these were passed down to her from her own mother.

These rituals were woven into the fabric of her life and her work in the household. That the concept of stregheria is becoming diluted, changed, and transmuted into popular culture is a bit inevitable as time goes on. That is why I have not consulted Grimassi's book and instead learned to read Italian in order to dig up some of the information on stregheria as it existed in Italy and among the immigrant populations in the United States. One curious thing I discovered is that the malocchio, evil eye, was a curse any person could put on another, but only the strega could diagnose its presence in someone's life and remove it. Like my great-grandmother, I am Catholic with a touch of pagan. If I do a ritual, it's a prayer, a way of redirecting my energies into turning my life and my will over to a Higher Power.

As for laying hexes on people, that goes directly against my devotion not to "prevent a crisis if it is in the natural order of things." I find that folks who obviously deserve a curse or two are doing a very good job of creating a cursed life all on their own and it's not my place to help this along. Self-ruin occurs at its own way and pace, just as surely as making one's life better happens in its own sweet time.

I learned long ago that I am powerless over people, places, and things. I cannot change a person who chooses to live a negativity-steeped life. I can't account for the evil people choose to do. I can, however, and in any given situation, choose my response to it--which is usually active silence and indifference, and going on with my good life. If I come across someone (as I did recently) who has a bizarre perception of what stregheria is or isn't, or hates the book I am writing, or calls anyone who practices ritual a "Satan worshipper," I can choose my reaction to it. That's the good part of recovery--someone once said that, for every year you're in recovery, you gain another minute or two to collect yourself before figuring out how to react to something. And you know, it's true! Whether I pursue my recovery according to someone else's agenda is moot--the sheer fact of what my life is today as opposed to what it was seven or eight years ago, is proof positive that I am doing something right.

And in this case, it involves not only real steps to protect myself, but a prayer for the person who is "still suffering" so much that he has to insult me and my beliefs--or more, accurately, what he perceives my beliefs are, because this person could read my blog every day and still not comprehend my life.
It's sad, because I believe positive life changes can emerge from a place of suffering if one chooses--but this person chooses a terrible path, and I can't change the direction of his life. Every negative thing he does and says is a emblem of the suffering in his own life, a mirror turned back on himself, and that does not have to be. All it takes is a decision to change. Life is so, so short--I have a friend right now dying of cancer with not very long to live, and she thought she had endless time to change her life. All I can say to this person is that the reckoning which came to her unexpectedly, will come to you one day, as it does to all of us. When you look back on your life, when the reckoning comes to you in that moment of aloneness that is like no other, what will you see in the mirror of your heart? No time like the present moment to begin to change your life.

Lobster Feast of Long Ago

With apologies to my vegetarian friends and faithful readers, I present yet another picture from the magic treasure trove of my family. These folks are, from left to right, my Aunt Ellie (in the plaid dress), my Uncle Roland (my great-grandmother Mamma Nonna's youngest son), Ellie's sister Rita, and Ellie's mother, Marguerite (we all called her Nanzy, I guess to distinguish her from all the other nonnas and mamma nonnas in the family--Nanzy, Ellie, and Rita were not Italian, but are from the Irish branch of the family which Uncle Roland married into). Nanzy was an amazing woman, worth a book in her own right. They are all eating LOBSTER--and look at the size of those lobsters, too! In front of the lobsters are dishes of drawn butter. This is not a politically correct meal on many, many levels. And yet they are really enjoying it. All these people lived to a ripe old age, despite the meal you see them indulging in here.

In fact, my beloved Aunt Ellie is still alive in her mid-nineties, though her caregivers think this might be her last summer with us...I am hoping and praying to get enough money together to go to Boston and see her before she departs for the world beyond this one.

I've got a lot of scanned pictures, as I am putting together a little photo album for Mother's Day for my mom (shhhh...don't tell her...). I hope she gets some happiness out of it--she has almost no pictures, and now I have a treasure trove to share with her. Nice, eh?

75-Year-Old Cancer Survivor Skis to North Pole

No, I haven't been hit on the head by the missing Greensburg meteorite and gone all addled--this is a true story! 75-year-old Barbara Hillary of New York completed a trek to the North Pole in late April. She is the first black woman to reach the North Pole. It is an absolutely amazing and inspiring story, considering her age and the fact that she's a lung cancer survivor.

So, I think I'm going to try and remind myself of this person's determination when I wake up on Mondays and think I'm too tired to go to yoga!

Kansas Twister--Terrible

I wanted to express my sympathy and sadness over the terrible tragedy in the Midwest.
An entire Kanasas town, Greensburg, has been leveled by a tornado, with widespread damage elsewhere in the area,

I am a veteran of storms and earthquakes here in California, having directly experienced the Sylmar and Loma Prieta quakes, and various landslides and flooding incidents here in Santa Cruz. I've never experienced a tornado and cannot imagine how terrifying it must be.

A tidbit from the news states that, along with the terrible loss of life and damage, Greensburg Kansas "is best known for having the world's largest hand-dug well and being home to a 1,000-pound pallasite, or stony-iron, meteorite. After the storm, the structure around the well was gone, and there were reports the meteorite was missing."

Imagine what kind of force it would take to make a thousand-pound meteorite go "missing!" Unbelievable.

Wild Kingdom

Last night, Mr. Strega and I were walking the dog when we came across a California giant salamander (these things are indeed quite large) calmly making its way from one side of the road to the other. He (or she) would not be hurried, though we were concerned about cars and such, so we kept vigil until its journey was done. These salamanders are quite elusive and I felt very happy to have seen one.

Then, today, driving along towards home, I saw a huge cat leap out of the brush--"Wow, big kitty!" I thought, until I saw it fully, saw the pure muscle of its body beneath a gray and rust pelt, and the bobbed tail and pointy, tufted ears--it was a bobcat, maybe the same one whose cry wakes me at night and haunts my sleep. It took exactly one leap to get across the road and another to disappear into the brush.

The salamander and the bobcat seemed like a couple of reminders from these woods: I share their landscape by permission, not the other way around.

Bob Dylan--the new Mr. Rogers?

Apparently Bob Dylan has become the coolest possible version of the Scary Grandpa. He's been visiting his grandson's kindergarten class to play guitar and sing. The children, with all the sage wisdom of the 5-year-old set, have dubbed him "the weird man who keeps coming to class to sing scary songs on his guitar."

I would very much love to see Dylan rocking out on such kindergarten classics as "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "I'm a Little Teapot," wouldn't you? I'm sure the teachers are stoked, and Dylan probably gets his fair share of graham crackers and juice boxes at snacktime, too.

The Wild Irises

These are the wild irises that grow in my backyard. I am not a very accomplished photographer and am still figuring out the whys and wherefores of my digital camera.
I love these flowers--the woods here are full of little surprises now that spring is sputtering along like a rusty old engine.

Stiffed

From the latest "News of the Weird" (there is a link to this also):

"In March, a British Airways economy-class passenger on a flight from Delhi, India, died onboard, and the corpse was moved to the less-congested first-class section, to the chagrin of Paul Trinder, who had paid the equivalent of about $6,000 for his nearby seat. When he complained, he said he was told just to "get over it" and that no refund would be offered. [The Independent (London), 3-18-07]"

I hope the other guy at least got an extra cocktail or two. Lord almighty. Well, at least you don't have the burden of making conversation with a seatmate at that point.

Though, upon reading the comments associated with the news story I've linked to...wow,,,really thought-provoking in some ways.