21 June 2016

In Gratitude

Jenny Diski died April 28, 2016.  When told of her impending demise she made jokes. In 2014 she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She felt:

"Embarrassment at first, to the exclusion of all other feelings."

That September she wrote in the London Review of Books:

"Under no circumstances is anyone to say that I lost a battle with cancer, or that I bore it bravely. I am not fighting, losing, winning or bearing." 

She would end her life writing.  She had, after all, written most of her life.  She had read numerous "cancer memoirs" and asserted:

"There are no novel responses possible."

And yet, in true Diski style, she wondered whose cancer book would sell the most copies.

After the initial shock, Diski tells the story of her chaotic early life, leading her to be taken in by literary giant, Doris Lessing.   Diski had been at school with Lessing's son, Peter.  They were not close, but when Diski was expelled, he implored his mother to take her in and she was quite intelligent.

Diski was almost literally dumped on Lessing's front steps.  It was not a match made in heaven. Lessing was not in the least "motherly" and Diski was uncomfortable in this new setting.  Diski says:

"Gratitude was half of what I felt. The other half was fury and resentment..."

As a cancer patient, Diski was ideal.  She was already  anti-social, preferring to spend time in her bed or on the sofa, like some consumptive Victorian victim.  She wrote:

"I have the metabolism of a sloth."

The chemo leaves the normally slim Diski, heavy.  She fears what is going to happen her. She is honest. She is funny. She is panicked. She is a writer. She will be missed.

14 June 2016

Tweeting From Beyond

So I got sick and had to take antibiotics for nearly two weeks, and I hated it.  It made me puny and sickly, not to mention it was sweltering.  But all is well, about two more days before I can have a tall gin and tonic.  In the mean time...

I recently followed and was followed back on Twitter by Vita Sackville-West.  Let me say it is hard enough for me to work, write, keep up two blog, Lucindaville and Cookbook Of The Day, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, and Twitter.  So to find out that Vita Sackville-West is able to tweet beyond the grave makes me feel woefully inadequate.

Vita Sackville-West is one of those people I would put on that list of 10-people-you-could-have-dinner-with. Bloomsbury is like Harry Potter for grown-ups.  We wait for each new book, we scrutinize the movies, we relish any peripheral new reference.  There was a wave of new Bloomsbury attention recently.

The venerable BBC is unveiling a new drama, Life in Squares.  It will look at the early life and career of the Bloomsbury gang, focusing on the orbit of Vanessa and Virginia Stephen. It is chocked full of British talent. That is James Norton (Grantchester and Happy Valley) in the center as Duncan Grant. In anticipation of the new series, The Guardian has published their list of the 10 best Bloomsbury moments.

In addition, The Guardian, has gone out and hunted down any last surviving soul that might have known some of the Bloomsbury set.  At 100, Anne Olivier Bell is the widow of Quentin Bell, Vanessa Bell's son and the very first biographer of Virginia Woolf.

I am so ready.  Now ask yourself, why is there no Bloomsbury theme park?  Think about it...replicas of Sissinghurst and Charleston, of Omega workshop and Hogarth Press, tea rooms with Vanessa Bell pottery, and of course a bookshop. 

02 June 2016

Little Gloria

Since I have been decidedly deaf, and not much of conversationalist, I have been catching up on taped shows on the DVR.  One of the documentaries I watch recently was Nothing Left Unsaid about Gloria Vanderbilt and Anderson Cooper.  I enjoyed it, but it did seem like there may have been some thing unsaid.  But I trust Gloria and Anderson are fine.

What it did remind me of was Gloria's mother who would, I guess, be Big Gloria. In the documentary, Gloria said she was made to have daughters and she would have named her first daughter, Gloria.  Alas, she had four sons.

The first Gloria Vanderbilt began life as a Morgan and as a twin. Gloria and Thelma Morgan were known collectively as "The Magnificent Morgans."  They were the offspring of Harry Hays Morgan, an American diplomat and his Chilean-born wife, Louise Valdivieso.  It was Louise, testifying while clutching her crucifix, who may have been the final nail in Big Gloria custody coffin, when she testified to the wild and largely invented nature of Big Gloria's lifestyle.  

In 1958, The Magnificent Morgans collaborated on a memoir, Double Exposure.  The sisters spilled the beans on the good , the bad, and the ugly, not to mention the the loved,  the lost, and the licentious.

 The Kirkus Review wrote:
Written with good taste, but sparing no detail no matter how unorthodox, this autobiography of two women is a biography of an age, an age of fantastic extravagance and rigid form, an age in which the various episodes unfolded here seem probable for all their bizarre and melodramatic overtones. Superbly entertaining.
 Nearly 60 years later, it remains superbly entertaining.

While this book is one of those highly collectible tomes, growing increasingly expensive in a nice dust jacket, you can give it a read on the Internet Archive here.

24 May 2016

Adventures in Mowing

So I haven't been posting because I have several deadlines, and election fatigue, and nearly three weeks of rain. But today, I ventured out on my new mower to attack the knee deep lawns.

Now, if you asked me what horrors might befall me on my lawn mower, I can imagine them. The first time I used it, I got it in a precarious position and I had to get off and find neighbors to come and, quite literally, pull it off a cliff. Then today, it was so wet that going from one area to another got it stuck in the mud -- twice. 

But this I did not expect.  Today I punctured my eardrum while mowing.

Sitting perfectly still, I have to try about three times to thread a needle.  Today, traveling two miles and hour, I managed to thread a pencil-sized tree branch into my ear canal with enough force to rupture my eardrum.

I did finish mowing, but then I went to the doctor who is referring me to ear, nose, and throat guy but in the meantime, he prescribed ear drops.

But my cheesy insurance refused to pay for them. Frankly, I don't blame them as the ear drops were $300.  100 drops for my ear came in at $300.  That is $3 a drop. Were they made from baby angel tears? Gold is less.  And maybe a drop or two of gold would have fixed the hole in my ear.  They gave me eye drops, instead -- for my ear.  And neither the angel tears nor the eye drops offer the prospect of regaining my hearing.  More later!

23 May 2016

All Hail!

 Politics is getting so contentious and we haven't even really started the election. I am already overcome with election fatigue and we are still no where near an election. One is really scared to say anything for fear of being trolled by idiots. Friends are so vociferous that scrolling through Facebook is a chore. There is really only one candidate I could wholeheartedly support and that candidate is drag queen in Alabama named Ambrosia Starling.  Her platform is simply  --  Have Good Manners.

Since no one else is running on the "Have Good Manners" platform, there will be lots of weather and pets in the coming months!

And last night -- we had an ice storm. OK, technically it wan not an ice storm, just hail, but still. At one point I thought we would lose a window.
The container kitchen garden was decimated. Most of the little plants are beaten and broken.  I got in about 2 p.m. this afternoon and saw something on the side of the house.  I though something had blown into the yard.  When I walked over to see it, it was a pile of ice. 
It was so strange, I actually stepped on it to see if it was ice. (That is why my footprint is there.) 

Let's hope the weather and politics quiets down a bit. In the meantime...Have Good Manners.

22 April 2016

The Standing Desk

It would seem that standing desks are all the rage.

Well, seriously, isn't it enough that one has to work, but now we are expected to stand up and work!

New medical reports tell us that sitting is bad for us.  Are theses the same people who told us caffeine and alcohol were bad for us?

Truth be told, much of this winter was spent sitting, like 8 to 10 hours a day. Perhaps more, but who are you to judge?

As Spring approached, I decided to give the stand up desk a try.  I have a stand up farm desk at my office, but rarely use it.  It is a pain to move, so there was no way it was coming home.  Sitting under my stand up desk was a travel desk I bought many years ago. I knew that my travel desk, set upon my writing table would make a fine standing desk.

I love a travel desk!
 They are so romantic. There I am married to adventure with Osa Johnson.
 Setting at my base camp in the Himalayas.
 Standing in the hollows of West Virginia...

When I got it home, I realized why travel desks were used during war.  One needs an army to tote them around.  Porters and sherpas are a must for a travel desk.

Somehow, in my mind, I would stock my travel desk with an old typewriter, a iMac, books, a black fountain pen, and personalized stationary for proper thank you notes.  I would toss it in the back of my car, and I would ready for any occasion, when one might need to set up an office.  And how often have you found yourself in a situation while sitting in the Walmart parking lot when you needed to type up a thank-you note?

Ah, I am a hopeless romantic.  An actual romantic has a large staff.

When I opened up my travel desk, I found all the things one might imagine.  There was a yo-yo filled with candy, a yellow duck necklace filled with bubble soap, a tin of liquorice candy, old film (who has film anymore?), and a death certificate for an elderly relative.

Teddy rather likes the idea of the stand up desk, he believes it makes it easier to work together on projects, until he decides to take over. He always thinks he has the best idea!

So here I stand.  I feel healthier already.

I'm going to post this and sit down with a drink.  I deserve it.

07 April 2016

Leap Before You Look

We have always had a soft spot in our heart for  Black Mountain College.  Often thought of as the initial spark for the avant-garde movement in the United States, Black Mountain was formed in 1933 by a quartet of dismissed professors from Rollins College. John Rice, Theodore Dreier, Frederick Georgia, and Ralph Lounsbury believed that education should be an open and nourishing endeavor, not a process of rote learning for specific periods of time during the day.  When they tried to implement some of these ideas at Rollins, they were dismissed, Undaunted, they set out to devise their own college -- Black Mountain.

In the hills of North Carolina, just outside of Asheville, they gathered artist, writers, musician, architects, photographers, and craftsmen to live and work with the student body. The list is long and accomplished, including Anni and Josef Albers, Ruth Asawa,  John Cage, Robert Creeley, Merce Cunningham, Elaine and Willem de Kooning, Buckminster Fuller, Gwendolyn and Jacob Knight Lawrence, Robert Motherwell, Charles Olson, and Robert Rauschenberg.

In late 2015, the Institute of Contemporary Art/Boston mounted the largest comprehensive exhibition on Black Mountain College.  Helen Molesworth curated the mammoth collection of art, ceramics, textile art, photographs, which was supplemented with dance and music. The exhibition closed in January of 2016 but it left behind a wonderful monograph, Leap Before You Look: Black Mountain College 1933-1957.

Check out this video for the exhibition.

There is still time to catch Leap Before You Look in Los Angeles and later in the the year in Columbus. In the meantime, grab a copy of the monograph, a must for Black Mountain fans.

01 April 2016

A Suprise from Maddie

Mail time usually coincides with nap time, a time when the kitties snuggle in for a long spring nap. As usual, I come in with the mail and sit down at the table.  Trick believes there is something special about sitting at the table.  It signifies the possibility of dinner. If you sit in the sacred food chair, much crying a begging ensues. So when I sat down at the table to open the mail, while others slept, Trick came running.

And what a good day! Teddy, Trick and Treat got mail!

Our favorite rescue dog, Maddie AKA Bunnnymellon sent treats.  Everyone got their own toy and photo of Maddie.  Trick, being the only one up, got her pick of the bunch.
She choose the picture of Cris and Maddie seen above...

and she picked the yellow fish to be her toy.

As they say, you snooze, you lose.

Thanks Maddie...and a special shout out to your personal shopper, Maria.

27 March 2016

Of poets and extension cords

On Easter Sunday, when so many people were thinking of the Risen Christ, I was thinking of poets, and duct tape and extension cords.  And that’s what I like about the South.

Instead of being in church this morning, I was watching a taped program featuring Lucinda Williams.  I am fond of girls named “Lucinda” and the show was Bluegrass Underground, not because bluegrass is in any way subversive, but because the show is taped underground.  Literally underground -- in a cave in Tennessee. 

Who thought this up?  Yes, the South is filled with much entrepreneurial spirit.  It is the home of moonshine and fast cars that deliver it, which led to NASCAR.  It is a place where you can find dinner on the side the road at more barbecue joints than you can name.  The South is a place where a guy with a sombrero and spicy ginger ale can build an empire “South of the Border,” in South Carolina. And it is a place where you can put your kids through college by stringing Christmas lights and charge people to visit that old cave on your property.

Well, I don’t know who thought up Bluegrass Underground.  My guess is a Stanford MBA who knew a producer or had a granddaddy that put him through Stanford B-School with proceeds from folks visiting his cave.  Personally, I like to think it was two guys with some Bud Light and boom box.  After loosing battery power, one looks at the other and says:

“Hey, Bubba, if we taped two extension cords together we could get electricity down here for the boom box.  Maybe an amp.  We could set up some chairs and get people to come and sing in our cave, like Lucinda Williams.  Hell, we could even get on the T.V.”

For many years now, my own chicken house has been powered by a duct taped extension cord. And that’s what I like about the South. 
 So there was Lucinda Williams, in a cave.  Now I have been a huge fan, but Williams has always been a bit unsure of her own sound and often, to her detriment, she has let producers lead her music.  Her new CD reminds me the cuts I’ve heard from the Hank Williams biopic featuring Tom Hiddleston.  Hiddleston is an English actor singing Hank Williams songs the way he thinks Hank would have sung them if he had been an English actor.  When you hear them, you think, “Is that Hank Williams?” but soon you think, well maybe not. On her last CD, Lucinda Williams (no relation to Hank) sounds like an actress singing on a biopic.  It is like she listed all the words used to describe her own singing style and then tried to sing like the real Lucinda Williams.  Only, she is the real Lucinda Williams. 

Today she started out impersonating herself and I almost erased it, but I didn’t.  Then she sang Pineola.  It really doesn’t matter what she sounds like when she recites those words.  I remembered that Pineola was written about poet Frank Stanford.  Not a household name, even in the rarified circle of famous poets, but a guy with a huge cult following. 

I know a lot of poets. I cannot off the top of my head, name a one of them that actually supports themselves being a poet.  They work other jobs to be poets.  Their ideal job is to teach poetry to other people who will never make a living at it.  They go to graduate schools for writing, they go to workshops, they teach workshops, they visit artist colonies, they publish in magazines, and still, they are often insecure in their poetry.

Frank Stanford was not.  He became a poet in grade school when he won forth prize in a poetry contest.  That was all he needed to be a poet.  He was employed as a surveyor.  Stanford is most often described as charismatic, a phrase that is overused and imprecise in the world of poetry.  When he died, shy of his 30th birthday, he was married to his second wife, or maybe his third, he was living with his mistress, and he was committed to 3 -5 other women, depending upon who tells the story.  One of those women was Lucinda Williams.  And that’s what I like about the South.

Poets were a common sight for Lucinda Williams as most of her life she lived with one, Miller Williams (blood relation: father).  She often gave her dad her lyrics to read over.  In one song, when a boy is abandoned by his mother, he is left with only a picture of her as a young woman.  It is according to Lucinda, "a girl in a faded blue dress." Miller didn’t like it.  It wasn’t exact enough.  She made a small change as “faded” became “sad” and in that simple edit made the most haunting of lyrics:

He Never Got Enough Love

His mama ran off when he was just a kid,
so he never really knew her at all.
Just a picture of a girl in a sad, blue dress
hanging beside a cross on the wall.

Not only did Miller Williams encourage the poetry in his daughter’s lyrics, he also supported other poets, including Frank Stanford and his lover, C.D. Wright.  Now philandering with a bunch of women might possibly work in New York or Los Angeles, but Pineola is another story. Frank’s wife, artist Ginny Stanford and C.D. Wright sat down with each other to sift through the numerous lies it takes to juggle so many women.  They decided to confront Frank. 

On June 3, 1978, Frank Stanford sent Lucinda Williams a bunch of flowers. She wasn’t home and Miller accepted the package for her.  Ginny and C.D. picked up Frank to take him home to talk about the untenable situation. Frank asked if they could stop by his office first to pick something up.  The women sat in the car and waited while Frank retrieved his gun.  When they got to the house, the women sat in the living room and Frank excused himself for a minute.

Ginny Stanford would later write she heard: “Pop. Oh!  Pop. Oh! Pop. Oh!”

C.D. Wright picked up the phone and called Miller Williams. 

Williams called the coroner and removed the bloody sheets.  When he returned home, he found Lucinda smiling and arranging the flowers.  She shares what happened in Pineola.

When daddy told me what happened,
I couldn’t believe what he just said.
Sonny shot himself with a 44
and they found him lyin’ on his bed.

Stanford was laid to rest in Subiaco, Arkansas.  Much of the truth about his life was obfuscated by his own tall tales and filtered through a long line of poets, priests, singers, and artists.  The body of his work, much if it by very small presses, has been too hard to come by.

Now I’m not saying that there aren’t great poets out there in the vast plains and cities and tundra, but there is something especially poetic about living in places called Pineola and Subiaco and even Sylacauga.  My friend Harry Lowe is from Opelika, Alabama.  When people ask where he is from, he tells them Opelika and secretly crosses his fingers hoping that they ask the very predictable next question, “Where is Opelika?”  When they do, Harry Lowe smiles and says, “Opelika is between Notasulga and Loachapoka.”   And that’s what I like about the South.

One day Harry Lowe and I were talking about the end of one’s life. I asked him whether or not he wanted extraordinary measures or whether he wanted me to pull the plug.  He thought for a moment and said, “Keep me plugged in.”  He thought another minute and said, “If we can’t pay the electric bill, run an extension cord to the neighbors.”  We laughed, but I can honestly say I never go into his neighborhood with checking to see who has a new outdoor plug or a cracked window.

On New Years Day, 2015, Miller Williams died. 

In April of that year, Cooper Canyon Press released a collection of Stanford’s work entitled, What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford, a volume including most of his chapbooks. 

This January, C.D. Wright died in her sleep.  She was 67. 

My car is equipped with a jack, a first aid kit, a cooler, a blanket and there is always a book.  These days I keep duct tape and an extension cord, because you never know when you might need to light up a cave, or hook up an iron lung, or simply throw someone a lifeline.

We face everyday with stories of bombing, shootings, hateful politicians, sick children, injured puppies, and that’s just before breakfast.  But we still have poetry to read and music to blast in the night air. Spring is here, the jonquils are in bloom, the lilacs are budding and in the end, the world is pretty great place.

He is risen, indeed.

25 March 2016

Caleb Caudle

We do love the simple things in life -- good tunes, a nice cuppa joe, a warm afternoon.  Well, two out of three ain't bad.

Yesterday, the temperature hovered just below 80.  Today we are struggling to get up to 50.  These wild swings are not conducive to health, physical or mental. 

The clear recourse is to sit at the computer flooded with the SAD light and listen to tunes.  One of our new favorites is Carolina Ghost by Caleb Caudle. It is getting a lot, lot, lot of play here at Doe Run Farm. 

Many people have reviewed Carolina Ghost and most of them have had a hard time reviewing it. Not because they didn't like it,  it has been universally heralded, but because they can't really pigeonhole it. 

It is a thoughtful, well written, slightly poppy Americana record.  Alas, in a time when there are more more Americana artists out there, there are virtually no outlets to listen to new music.  Americana is actually what country music was meant to be in the old fashioned and still relevant Hank Williams/Patsy Cline way, before "country" became some sort of "bros before music" frat party.

Since Christmas, my iTunes has been filled with not only Caleb Caudle, but Freakwater, Dori Freeman, Julien Baker, as well as Lucinda Williams and Loretta Lynn. Other than my kitchen, where are you going to hear a set featuring these guys?  Yes, we have been listening to Chris Stapleton whose a bit of a "bros" kinda guy.  We gave Rhiannon Giddens a pass to channel that Billie Holiday vibe, though we miss the Chocolate Drops.  We loved the new David Wax Museum and even got a Christmas present from Duquette Johnston.  And still, you need to be in my kitchen.

And speaking of my kitchen...and Caleb Caudle...and coffee, my favorite coffee roaster is in the little town of Sugar Grove, Virginia. Dark Hollow Roasters makes wonderful coffee.  You can buy it out in the world, but if you order it from Dark Hollow Roasters, it is roasted the day you order it. 

So Dark Hollow is also a fan of Caleb Caudle and recently they blended a coffee in honor of Carolina Ghost.  We do love a good theme. On this wintry spring day, we got a package from Dark Hollow Roasters with Caleb Caudle's blend, Coffee (and a prayer); a line from  his song, The Reddest Rose. It was roasted a mere three days ago and the post office was jealous because the package was wafting warm coffee aromas. 

This afternoon we are sitting in the kitchen listening to Carolina Ghost and drinking Coffee (and a prayer).  Even the cold weather can't get us down!
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