I am fascinated with Persephone–so much so that I find myself coming back to her again and again in my own writing–whether I intend to or not.

No surprise, then, to wake up this morning and realize that yet again I am writing of her–she has been abducted; she is gone; her mother searches, makes deals for her release. Blah blah blah! Can my mind conjure nothing fresh? And why is this?

It is just what we do, then–see our lives through these themes, these myths and constantly try to recreate them to make order. Myth is the lens through which we see the world, right?

Or as Joseph Campbell said in The Power of Myth:

Everything that’s transitory is but a metaphorical reference. That’s what we all are.

How then to take what you are trying to say and make it live–take it beyond the metaphor and let it be its own thing within it? Is this possible?

Take Carravaggio, for example. Here is what John Berger says in And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos (one of my favorite books. Have you read it? If not, you should):

With Carravagio, however, it was not a question of presenting scenes but of seeing itself. He does not depict the underworld for others: his vision is one that he shares with it.

and:

light and shade, as he imagined and saw them, had a deeply personal meaning, inextricably entwined with his desires and his instinct for survival. And it is by this, not by any art-historical logic, that his art is linked with the underworld.

His chiaroscuro allowed him to banish daylight.

The answer for me is this: it either exists within me as my vision or it doesn’t. I cannot force it. So if Persephone is to be with me again, she must do so on her own. I’ve tried to force her before and she did not stick.

Forgive me. I am making no sense. Sleep is elusive these days (all days) and I think I might just need some coffee.

Want to read a great story this morning? Then read this one–The Odds It Would Be You, by Alice Mattison:

In 1976, when Bradley Kaplowitz was twenty-eight, he took lessons and learned to drive. A New Yorker with a pocket full of subway tokens costing fifty cents each, he rented a Dodge Dart so he could take his bald mother, Bobbie, on vacation.

Feeling inexplicably anxious today. Could be that in the course of a week it has gone from 50 degrees back down to 10 again. And why is it that 50 degrees feels so much warmer in February and March than it does in October? It’s something about the blood, right?

So I’m thinking of summer on the lake, going out on a boat in the evening when it is calm. The way you can hear voices carry from across the water.

Today I am thinking of home. The woods, the mountains, and the lakes of the Adirondacks. This image (which is in the public domain) is a representation of a painting by Thomas Cole (a painter for whom I have a great deal of affection, mostly because of his subject matter)–it is called Schroon Lake, which is not so far from where I grew up.

I am thinking of there, of my lake. Of the island in the middle where blueberries grow, where any house built is struck down to the ground by lightning. I’m thinking of the house of the seven chimneys which burned long ago. They said one of the fireplaces was so large that two men could stand in it side by side touching finger to finger to side to side.

Up on the hill overlooking the lake was a one room school house. My friend Bill told me his mother or his aunt taught there and when she brought the kids out to play on cold winter days, they’d look down on the lake and see that the actress and actor who owned the seven chimney house would be out skating.

The cold there is enormous. It is the size of a mountain. And they say that sometimes in winter farmers would get lost from the barn to the house because of the wind blowing the snow down from Canada. Many tied ropes from barn to house so that they could feel their way.

I’m tying a rope to myself now and to the place where I need to be then. I hope that I will find my way and will not be lost.

Egads! I’ve been tagged again. This time it’s the “The 7-Things Quiz” and I was tagged by the lovely Sue:

Seven things to do before I die:
1. travel to: Australia/New Zealand
2. travel to: the Himalyas
3. travel to: Africa
4. ride a horse
5. Have someone say YES to me without hesitation
6. surf
7. roast a duck

Seven things I cannot do:
1. sky dive
2. fly a plane
3. drive a large truck
4. draw a straight line
5. eat haggis
6. pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time
7. drive on a highway without envisioning a grisly accident

Seven things that attract me to my mate:
1. He is kind
2. He is brilliant
3. He is funny
4. We can spend days on end talking to no one but each other and still not get sick of each other
5. He doesn’t put up with my shit
6. He’s friendly to all people
7. He’s had seventy million different careers and mastered them all
8. He pushes me to be a better person

Seven things I say:
1. sorry
2. yes, please
3. no, thank you
4. Yes
5. motherfucker
6. I love you
7. Do you love me?

Seven books I love:
1. Anna Karenina
2. Moby Dick
3. Housekeeping, Marilyn Robinson
4. Chilly Scenes of Winter, Ann Beattie
5. The Sportswriter, Richard Ford
6. Tell Me, Mary Robison
7. ack! I have such a hard time with listing favorites! There are so many that I love.

Seven movies that I’ve loved:
1. Manhattan
2. Out of Africa
3. Brokeback Mountain
4. The Hours
5. The Straight Story
6. Annie Hall
7. Life is Sweet

Seven people to tag (if any of the tag-ees should wish to be removed from this list, they should file form 1237-QB4 along with their Federal Tax Returns. Alternately, they could tell me no down below in comments or shoot me an email.):
1. Ellen Meister
2. Stephanie Anagnoson
3. Jordan Rosenfeld
4. Kat Denza
5. Robin Slick
6. Katie Weekley
7. Nance Knauer
7.a. Patricia Parkinson, the birthday girl!

Yesterday I was blocked in something I was trying to write. On a lark, I went to Google (in case you do not know, google is what we in the know call a “search engine” and it exists on the “world wide web” or “information superhighway”, if you will) and typed in Help Me (without quotes) and guess what the first thing that came up was? You guessed it: The Scientology Handbook. Yikes. I think I should take the personality test just for fun, though.

Who knew that the most exciting thing on the Olympics yesterday would be curling? Could you or could you not cut the tension between the US team and team Suisse with a knife?

Curling is often mocked, I think, because a) it looks as though it would be easy (though I suspect it is quite difficult and I would be about as good at it as I am at something like bowling. I suck at bowling.) and b) it is undeniably goofy.

This morning, however, I have a new admiration for it. I was especially interested in watching after Allen told me that one of the guys kicked his own brother off the team (why? I still don’t know why?) and there is nothing that will pique my interest like a scandal (and one of the Cain and Abel variety is hard to turn up). But I can’t find a news item on this anywhere and so now I’m wondering if Allen told me this simply so that I would watch curling. I’m not saying he’s lying, per se, just embellishing the truth. Allen? Care to comment?*

A long time skiier (over thirty years now), I am typically appalled by snowboarding. I don’t want you hogging my slopes with your crazy-assed hyper style of movement and I especially don’t want to see you sprawled out as a gaggle in the middle of my moguls, thank you very much.

With that said, I watched the snowboard cross (women’s) for the first time last night and found it utterly exhilarating. Have you seen this? It’s like motorcross except on snow and snowboards. Whoa! It’s cool. I would never want to do it, but it’s fun to watch.

To sum up: curling and snowboard cross, exciting; everything else, not so much.

* Read Allen’s retort in the comment’s section below

A couple of days ago we set out in Allen’s Prius to go to IKEA (could we be more precious? I’m not sure that we could, but if you would like me to amp up the precocity, I’m sure I could try).

The whole way there, I flipped through the catalog–going back and forth on which desk I would get.

At one point, we found ourselves lost in Stoughton. I wondered where I might pee, or, alternately find some fine food and drink.

But then thar she blows! Like a mothership in the distance.

A hush settled over the Prius as we paid homage to our new nation.

And then two people who hate to shop spent the next several hours touching (and apparently buying) everything in the store.

I decided to spruce things up around here. What do you think of my new template? Still having a few issues, like every time I post something, haloscan gets wiped out. Oh well.

Are you a fiction writer, nonfiction writer, poet, or screenwriter? If so and if you’ve never attended the Summer Writing Workshops in Squaw Valley, then you are missing out.

For the past two summers, I attended the week-long writers workshop and found it to not only enjoyable and intense, but life-changing as well. Squaw Valley is a gorgeous place and this workshop is staffed by some of the finest writers writing today. (here is my post for Squaw 2004 and here are my posts for 2005, setting, workshop, readings & panels, the one-on-one, the people)

So, if you are looking for something to do this summer, you should consider applying:

Poetry Workshop: July 21 – 29. 2006
Writing Workshops in Fiction, Narrative NonFiction & Memoir: August 5 – 12, 2006
Screenwriting Workshop: August 5 – 12, 2006

For more information, visit our website: http://www.squawvalleywriters.org

Financial Aid is available.

Deadline: Submissions must arrive by May 10, 2006.

This year, I’m going to be at Tin House Workshop, which I am really looking forward to. If you go to Squaw Valley I hope you will report back on your experience there.

For your reading pleasure today, I offer you Katrina Denza’s Lit Mag Roundup. No one I know reads either as much as Kat does and she is a true patron of lit journals–so if you are looking for the inside scoop, you’ll find it in her words.

Allen and I are on a mini-vacation this week–so I apologize for being so quiet. Check back here later today when I document our trip to IKEA.

Yes, that’s right, an IKEA opened up in our neck of the woods with much fanfare. It was a big story (sadly, I am not joking) with all of the local news venues covering it.

And today, I shall enter the hallowed walls of the vast furnitured expanse of IKEA nation. Allen tells me that he expects I will be overwhelmed, hyper, and perhaps even bitchy.

Cheney accidentally shoots fellow hunter:

Harry Whittington, 78, was “alert and doing fine” after Cheney sprayed Whittington with shotgun pellets on Saturday at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas, said property owner Katharine Armstrong.