Gold Leaf Fixations

As writers, I think we cycle through various fixations. At different points of my life, I have been obsessed with silent film stars, describing snow, the personal effects of dead people, and medieval tapestries. The list goes on... Currently, I can't stop myself from Googling images and clips of classical ballet dancers. Curiosity feeds my art, even when there will be no pointe shoes in what I'm writing now, and only a little snow. Sick, sniffly, and cranky today, I combed through my own writerly archives and found these quite ancient poems. They brought me right back to my medieval portraiture/gold women fixation of seven years ago. I had just traveled to Europe that summer, and saw the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in person. I loved those arch, stiff figures, and the symbolically mysterious cornucopia of creatures fixed at awkward angles around the maidens. Back in Seattle, I was cutting apart an old calendar of Botticelli's most famous paintings, and his flaxen-haired maidens painted centuries later called me back right away to the tapestries. Those same blonde maidens with the same faces, cast again and again as Madonnas and Venuses and Muses. I guess I'm still a little in love with them. Anyway, these two ekphrastastic (new word!) poems came directly from two of those uber-famous works. I post them here because, truth be told, I never was a very good poet, and this is really the only venue informal enough to share them. Also, they are oooolllldddd. Don't judge.

After Botticelli’s Birth of Venus

I am the bone white Venus.

I cut my feet when I walked to shore;

I wore clothes that were not my own

but my breasts glinted as pearls

inside my raiments.

The children came to touch my skin.

It wouldn’t be hidden

but glowed.

You are a body of fireflies!

They exclaimed.

My hair looped around the room like the rings of Saturn

and I spit seawater onto my plate.

Excuse her for she has just been born

they said in embarrassment.

I did not know the language yet

and my old tongue fled quickly,

twisted away like gilded fish.

They could not tell I wept

thought my tears a remnant of my salted womb

like the drippings from my limbs,

bursting into bloom on the plank wood floor.

Bless us!

they clamored.

I gurgled words I knew to them, uncomprehending;

the nymphs stole in at the sound and stole cheeses from

the bell dumb crowd

as I rang and rang them with a sound like whale calls.

That wicked baby who has dogged me flew in,

pinched my nipple.

I was dreaming of the shell, tongue-pink

my kelp body, drifting

insensate

just another unfound treasure in the deep

and now diminished, diminishing

trawled out and flaking light

like the most common catch,

Caught.

After Botticelli’s Madonna del Magnificat

Oh mother of the milky skin cry the angels.

There, I shall write in your book, pageboy;

you are prettier than girls.

The corona of my baby cuts into my breast,

my fingers slide over the slick seeds of the pomegranate.

Your wrists are lilies cry the angels.

My baby is fat and transfixed and heavy;

my skin is taut over my forehead.

I can feel the angels rotating my crown like a poker traced ‘ore my scalp

ear to ear.

Your hair golds like wheat cry the angels.

Your face is beautiful and fine like a shell.

I want them to waft this baby, this weight, away;

my robes stripped off

and float aimless like a star

unknown, unheralded, unflaxed with gold,

empty as I was born.

(all images: Wikipedia)

Back On The Chain Gang

Remember those chain letters you used to send by hand until email took over and then email became Facebook "Notes" and then the threat of malware made us wary of chain anything altogether? Well, I am happy to report that the chain letter is alive and well, but in a much more edifying, safe form. The "Next Big Thing" Blog Chain invites writers to interview themselves regarding upcoming projects and then tag writer colleagues in kind. I've tagged a couple of amazing writers at the bottom of this post. I myself was tagged by the lovely and multi-talented Paullette Gaudet, who blogs over HERE. In her self-interview, she discusses her novel-in-progress about acrobats on the Gulf Coast (how cool is that?!) and her forthcoming short story, which will be published in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. As a recent convert to BBC's Sherlock series, I am very excited about this story. I met Paullette through the University of Washington MFA program, and I can tell you that she is a trifecta talent: wicked smart writing, sassy salon skillz, and very kind and funny to boot. She's also an Artist's Trust grant recipient!

So, here goes! Self-interview, commence:

1. What is the working title of your project?

The Minister

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?

The bossy, drank-the-Koolaid voice of my main character sprang into my head, fully formed, after I read an article online about Squeaky Fromme, who was a member of the infamous Manson Family. The accompanying photo of Fromme as a young girl–defiant, brazen, and mousy—became the first image of the novel and my guiding Muse for the protagonist. I should note, however, that my novel is entirely a work of fiction, and not based on real people or events.

3. What genre does your book fall under?

Literary fiction? I always have a hard time answering this question.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Although for parts of the novel, the characters are older, let’s be honest: the young, glamorous fantasy casting is the most fun.Willie, my criminally insane spitfire of an anti-heroine would be played by a young Holly Hunter (around the era of “Raising Arizona”). The Minister himself is meant to be highly beautiful and highly sinister. A snake-tongued Paul Newman would do the trick. To round out the quartet of young characters, I would cast Robin Wright Penn as my soulful, pained blonde and Jonathan Rhys Meyers as my Byronic-beauty-in-decay.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Two women reflect on their relationship with a highly charismatic--and dangerous--cult leader, and the havoc their incendiary youths wrought upon their adult lives.

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Represented…hopefully.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I began working on the novel in 2009, and pecked away at it intermittently until I became more serious about finishing in 2011. Since moving to Wyoming to focus more intensively on the novel, I have completed the remaining 2/3. I am now in the process of quilting my two primary tales together.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

In terms of the storytelling style, I aim towards some tints of Duras’ The Lover or Louise Erdrich’s first person narratives. While not overlapping in subject matter or content, I think that those authors succeed at a hypnotic sort of lyrical narration, even when their characters are being nasty or cruel. My goal is to hit the same mark: create a voice that lures the reader in, even as the reader thinks Hey, this person isn’t someone I’d necessarily want to know…

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I worked in a criminal defense legal office for several years, and this experience has informed my novel writing, as well as my inspiration points in general. Two of my characters narrate from prison, and I have been very influenced by the real incarcerated voices that I've been privileged to know. There's a combination of grandiose writing, a belief in fatedness, a delusional insistence on blamelessness (even when evidence mounts to the contrary), and an awareness of the abject loneliness, privation, and suffering that incarcerated men and women experience that I believe I will carry with me forever. Phew, that's a long sentence!

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It’s a double love story. Happy Psychotic Valentine’s Day, everyone!

Thank you for taking the time to read about my current project/obsession. Now, please take a gander at the blogs of the two talented writers below!

Jaimie Gusman is a fellow graduate of the University of Washington's MFA program who has continued on to the enviable shores of Hawaii, where she is a PhD candidate at the University of Hawaii and instructs and investigates poetry. Her prolific writing has appeared in DIAGRAM, Juked, and Pacifica Review, among many others, and she also has three books under her belt. Her two recent chapbooks explore the Gusman-created concept of the Anyjar. To quote Jaimie herself, "'Anyjar', as object-idea, is a mediator of sorts, as it gives agency to language and all her movements through a world that is all at once alarming and comfortable, surreal and ordinary, serious and full of play." One Petal Row, which was the first of the series, spent a good couple months living in my purse being read and re-read. Jaimie's expert word play, incisive emotional and intellectual grappling, and technical brilliance had me completely floored. As if that weren't enough, she is also featured in a new anthology from Tinfish Press and curates an interdisciplinary art series entitled M.I.A. (Mixing Innovative Arts). She is a busy, talented, and all-around awesome person, and probably one of my favorite folks to stalk on Facebook.

Scott Herman and I met through the trivia domination of Team Stimulus Package at my local Seattle pub, and I then had the pleasure of learning playwrighting craft from him in a class that he designed himself. Scott earned his MFA in creative writing with an emphasis in dramatic writing at Goddard College. Last year, his original full-length play, Octopus's Garden, was staged by San Francisco-based theatre company PianoFight to rave reviews. In the Seattle area, his work has been seen at Open Circle Theatre, Pony World Theatre, and 14/48: The World's Quickest Theater Festival. An avid motorcyclist, Scott is affiliated with ACT Theatre and is also a frequent performer at Seattle's The Moth's storyslams. He is an associate editor of T(OUR) Magazine, which is a collaboration of art related to the queer experience, and features a variety of writing and art in each issue. As associate editor, Scott often posts about the uber-fun parties T(OUR) throws for its issue releases, and I kick myself every time that I am stranded in Wyoming and unable to attend. I hope that will not be the case for the next play he has staged!.

Image Credit: http://cdn.sheknows.com/articles/crave/Paul%20Newman(1).jpg WOWZA!!

Verse & Reverse: A Daily Poetry and Friendship Project

Yesterday, my dear friend Maggie and I hatched a scheme over Gchat (known font of inspiration for schemes of all kinds) to trade a photograph and poem with each other every day. She will snap the photo; I will compose the poem. Our goal in all of this is to have fun, commit to a simple artistic (and low stress) exercise each day, and to emulate the Donne quote that "letters mingle souls." Below is our inaugural poem and photo pairing. Sometimes the two may inform each other, and sometimes not. You can check out Maggie's own blog and tracking of Verse & Reverse here.

Thank goodness for friends;

they make this blargish epoch

more palatable.

Late Night Writing Tangent

I have eaten the Velveeta cheese intended for the dog; I have re-vivified the frozen peas; this is my dinner. I can feel the drift of my ass across the seat cushions. Did you know that to sit is to kill? When we die, our buttocks renounce the seat. I cannot sustain an interest in anything, not even the hair on my chin. Yesterday, I could. Yesterday I believed I was fair of face and at least destined to ride in a hot air balloon. Funny, that, because I am afraid of heights, no matter how beautiful and bulbuous. When I stand at the top of the cathedral, I do not feel closer to God, merely closer to the casual jointmanship of disgruntled 14th century stone masons. Thus, realism kills the grace. Writing with my discarded sweater set to the side and my one foot encased in a fur slipper, I am sure to be remembered by the ages. I am sure to remember about Norwegians. I am sure to forget what I ought to have remembered. I cannot even sustain the attention to fashion this memory. I shall have to stand and admit surrender.

(Stephansdom, Vienna)

Miscalculation of the Day

A Dvorak Pandora station does not necessarily create a soothing soundscape for writing. Am now tempted to add bayonets, homicidal swans, and men with florid noses to my story-in-progress.

On Deadlines and Resisting the Hot Dog

I recently challenged myself to write a page per day of my novel-in-progress. I finished most of the beginning almost a year ago before being distracted by other projects, other calamities, other beers, and other vacations. But no more! I am pleased to say that I have stayed true to my goal since I made it...a few days ago. (7 pages must be the gross product of a week; make-up pages can be turned in on Sundays by midnight). It's really amazing how well I work under a deadline or artificial mandate. That's why I've often preferred to write short pieces: I generally finish them in one sitting, and the sense of the finite time around the act of writing itself tends to make the stories sharper, leaner, and better. So far, I've been rather pleased with how I've kept to this fledgling goal. The only problem is when my one page go-get-'em attitude kicks into gear, it is almost invariably 1:30 in the morning. This work ethic was slightly more okay in college and grad school, when I had occasional mornings off from work, class, and teaching, or only had to fill a seat rather than engage. It doesn't work as well with a lifestyle that includes an every day job. It's not even that I'm not sitting in front of the computer before the 1:30 mark. Not at all.

Allow me to illustrate for you: let's say I am baseball player with a decent hit (no idea why I would choose a sports metaphor given my lack of knowledge about sports, but bear with me). I head to the field, or, erm, the batting cages to practice my swing. Except, I don't practice my swing at first. Even thought it's afternoon and there are other people around practicing their swings and catching and pitching and waving my way, I'm not ready yet. I think about getting a hot dog and then I DO get a hot dog. While there, I do a bit of a condiment taste test. Oh, yeah, sauerkraut is disgusting. Now I remember! How hilarious. I find someone to talk about condiments with. Actually, you know, the more I think about it (alone now with just my thoughts and the hot dog), there's something so relatable about a hot dog; something that taps into a shared experience of America, ya know? Hot dogs. They tie together the tipsy person on the street corner at 2 a.m., the weekend weenie roaster, and anyone with a functioning microwave. I even made a hot dog solar cooker when I was eight years old using tinfoil! At this thought, I tear up. And, suddenly, I am filled with the conviction that HOT DOGS are where the meaning really lies. Why have I wasted my time on something so comparably esoteric? My pastime is neither delicious nor sandwiched by an oblong bun. It's a fool's pastime. You know what? Maybe I should get into hot dogs. I've always liked them, after all. Almost as much as hitting.

(time passes...like, maybe, five minutes of time)

Anywhere, where was I? Oh, hot dogs? Yeah, I'm not going to finish this one. They are soooo unhealthy. I can't wait to hit a perfect ball. THAT'S what I really want to do. But first I need to have this conversation about why astroturf is weird. Yes, I know, I've said it before, but this is an essential conversation, and it clearly needs to be had. I have different points than yesterday. Like, maybe one slightly less rehashed point about the qualities of fluorescent greens as illuminated by floodlights. So, I chat about astroturf with whomever happens to be handy. Odd how that guy that sweeps the edges of the field always seems to be on the other side of the field whenever I'm in the mood to have this discussion.

(time passes)

Man, where has the time gone? I am EXHAUSTED! It must be all those fine motor skills I used wiping that ketchup off my shirt. Wait, was that five hours ago?! I guess that astroturf conversation was pretty gripping. Or maybe when I was wandering around trying to find the bathroom....? Regardless, I don't even know if I have the energy to hit today. I mean, I hit a few yesterday, right? Some people have never even been to a major league game before! Hitters like me are rare, after all. I can probably pat myself on the back just for, you know, dreaming of hitting a homer now and again. Or you know what? Even driving here. I mean, I put my bag in a car and I drove here. That's pretty good, right?

So, I start getting my gear together and start heading off the field. I notice that all my other teammates are gone; even the guy that sweeps the edges of the field is gone. Someone is turning off the floodlights, one by one, and darkness whooshes into each portion of the field where the lights have been shining. Finally, there's just one lone floodlight still going--perhaps they've left it on for me and are even now waiting for me to get the hell off the field.

Except I'm not. Suddenly, I'm ready. Drop my bag to the ground. Get my bat out, and magically, a ball pops my way from somewhere off in the darkness (don't think too much on the details) and I swing and swing, the cracks of wood meeting canvas echoing throughout the stadium. And one or two of those hits might even be good (I'm not totally sure, since they're flying off into unlit stadium stands, but whatevs). It feels good, though. It feels really good, like--

--and the last floodlight is switched off. Crap. And I had a really good metaphor for that feeling, too.

That, in short, is my writing work ethic if I were actually a baseball player. You might not want to pick me for your team, but I am still going to finish this novel. One page, one day at time.

From the Annals of Rentals Past

From an email written to a past landlord:

10/27/07

Hello,

The past couple of days, I've been noticing an unpleasant smell in the living room area. I couldn't figure out what it was, since there's nothing in there but the usual things, but I think I may have figured it out. It seems like there might have been an animal underneath the house that died and that's what the smell must be--it's a familiar one, and only really strong in one part of the room. Anyway, I don't know if there's anything that can really be done except wait for it to go away, but I wanted to let you know that I do think there have been some kind of animals beneath the house. Occasionally, I've heard loud scratching/hissing coming from underneath the bathroom tub. Did previous residents ever mention this? Well, I know that's a bit unsavory, but thought you might like to be aware.

Thanks a lot and hope you are having a nice weekend.

Kirsten Rue

Just Shelved

Bossypants by Tina Fey

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


This book is exactly what you think: funny, easy to read, and also, funny. Go, Tina!



View all my reviews

Hello, Muse!

It's funny, this sudden pocket where I want to write, where I can divine the thread of perception, where I know there are words there: supple and willing like the best lovers. From whence? Wherefore? It would be easy to believe that I am not also this person. It would be easy to believe that this is not also my brain. It would be easy to believe so many things (untrue! unjust!), and yet here, the simple fact remains. And the word on the page. And the word on the page.

Funny pocket: dear, lined in ermine. Silvery, with a silky feel. Slide into you like a tongue over the teeth: accustomed to the old drops and crags, but not the slick, hard surface which is suddenly new and sheer. Suddenly alliterative; suddenly in a fine shape. Playful like a bird with its questing beak, moving seed to the side, and moving seed to the other side. Metaphors winging up with all their associations, unspooled, suddenly saved. Months of things hoarded, moving up in an unseemly parade. Like Noah and his menagerie: two by two of timbre and shade. A trope on parade. And hope on parade.

Rare, precious, timely you came. Invocation to play; invitation to praise.

Miscalculation of the Day

♫ I just mistook a basket of of rocks for a basket of chocolates. Glad I did not attempt to bite one.

They All Want to Play Hamlet

My friend and I were discussing the production of "Hamlet" we'd seen two weeks ago, and how we'd continued to probe it, remembering versions we'd seen in the past and the thoughts we'd had reading the text as younger versions of ourselves. As young women, we had fixated on the doomed romance of Hamlet and Ophelia. Ten years later, however, I identify far more with Hamlet himself and his classic wavering between thought and action; stunted resolve, and distrust of thought itself. To think and to do: these strike me as two of the greatest challenges of my twenties. The self emerges slowly, many-pointed. The world the self desires exists across a gap that can only be crossed through action, but how to turn those half-formed desires and images into the right action? That can also be the question. Of course, the character of Hamlet is far, far deeper than the mere action vs. inaction dilemma. In fact, discussing him, and how we might self-importantly identify with him, led my friend to introduce me to the following delightful poem by Carl Sandburg:

THEY all want to play Hamlet./They have not exactly seen their fathers killed/Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,/Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,/Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,/Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers, /flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play the/inkfish, Shakespeare, ever wrote;/Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad/and to stand by an open grave with a joker’s skull in the hand and then to say/ over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a heart/that’s breaking, breaking,/This is something that calls and calls to their blood./They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be/particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.

Our hearts are breaking, breaking, and we are sad like all writers are sad. Self-importance pops, fizzes away: a deflated balloon. Still, it's interesting to consider how our relationship to texts and the characters therein change over time--in concert with our own situations in life, our richening perspectives. Once I have children, will I identify more with the blustering Polonius or the aching, mistake-riddled Gertrude?

I remember that I used to root for a reunion between Arthur Dimmesdale and Hester Prynne; now it seems preposterous that she could even tolerate his cowardly form in the first place. Jean Rhys has given me new perspective on the mad woman in the attic and her perceived "threat." I've realized that there aren't that many interesting women in The Lord of the Rings. I get bored with love stories. "But what's your job?" I feel I want to ask. I'm no longer so perturbed by Dickensian coincidence: coincidences can be magical, after all, and that's sometimes good leavening to serious bread.

So, my question is this: How has your relationship changed towards some of the beloved books and characters of your youth?

(poem published in 1922, found online here: http://www.bartleby.com/231/0206.html; image credit: http://www.theatrehistory.com/british/art_of_hamlet.html, Hamlet and Ophelia by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

Strutting, Sorting, and Sisterhood

So, there has been a lapse. Not a lapse in desire, but certainly a lapse in time, in motivation, in words. A lapse here at my poor neglected blog. Now, I am not going to make any grand promises about getting back to the entry-a-week pace I had going when I first began this humble outpost last year, but I do have quite the backlog of things that I have been involved in/thinking about, and so I think it's time to give them a due and catch up on a few projects.

First off, I participated in an event called Versus a few weeks ago. This was a project lovingly produced by The Heroes, a local arts collective in Seattle who have put on an array of cross-genre productions (plays, readings, etc.) in the past year or so. Versus was an interdisciplinary fashion show with the theme of "conflict resolution." To that end, each designer worked within a theme of resolving opposites (carrier pigeon vs. text messaging, paper vs. plastic, etc.). I was lucky enough to strut the runway for two designers: Angel Gehm (Joan Jett vs. Jellyfish) and Paige Sandilands (Dreams vs. Reality). Anyway, it was a pleasure to be part of this hub of artistic excitement and endeavour for the day. I got my hair teased out to ridiculous proportions by a genius stylist, enjoyed my leonine eye makeup, and had a ball socializing with all of my supportive friends who came out to support the show. For those intrigued, here are some photos of the event. Props to The Heroes and the way they've brought the artistic community together in their events thus far.

As for sorting, I've begun a new series of short pieces inspired by the idea of objects, especially objects belonging to strangers or people who have passed away. I'm really happy with them so far. On that note, I've found out more family history facts for those interested (on my mom's side of the family). I tracked a family of Talleys (spelled as Tally) in the 1840 and 1850 census rolls in Pontotoc, Mississippi (a place name so rich in alliteration, it's nigh-Faulknerian). A "Guilford Tally" is listed as the head of the household in both census entries, with a young son named "Major G." The idea of a young boy named "Major" delights me to no end. He seems to me like some sort of young Twain protagonist -- getting into scrapes and outsmarting the adults of the town. The members of the household are listed as being born in South Carolina or Georgia, so I think they might represent the first generation of Tallys in the town. My supposition is that young Major G. could be the father of my great-grandfather, D.G. (Demus Gordon), who was born in 1889, although admittedly, that would make young Major pretty old at the time of his birth, especially for that time period. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to access later censuses online to verify this (although a "D.G. Talley" of Pontotoc, MS is listed as buying a hog in 1906 -- certainly my relative. The internet never ceases to amaze). I could be wrong on all of this, but nevertheless, I'm having a grand old time being a sleuth on this trail of of yellowed papers.

On the other side of the family (Underwoods), I did a little searching about my great-great-grandfather, W.H. Underwood. From some of the correspondence and photos I now have in my possession, I know that he was a Methodist preacher, and that he and his wife worked as the heads of a Methodist home for the elderly in Beatrice, Nebraska. These are their photos (last seen gracing my grandaddy's mantle in Dayton, Ohio.

I had a hunch that information on this preacher might be more possible to dig up online than information on the Talleys, who were farmers. Bingo! I discovered the following fairly quickly:

William H. Underwood was born in Hamilton, Illinois, June 30, 1860, and is a son of Rev. William and Eliza (Hewitt) Underwood, who were well known early settlers of Illinois. He received his early education in the public schools of Illinois, and in 1877 and 1878 attended the Wesleyan University at Bloomington, Illinois, for two years. During 1879 and 1880 he taught school in his native state, and then started railroading following the work for about one year. He returned to school at Bloomington and after at year spent in study began teaching and continued about two years.

He then took up three hundred acres of land in South Dakota and farmed there for three years, at the same time substituting for various pastors, and organized and helped to build up Sunday schools in that locality. In 1887 he took his first appointment at Castalia, South Dakota, having charge over eight preaching places in the county, and remained one year, then was transferred to Alpena, South Dakota.
Mr. Underwood was married at Edgerton, South Dakota, on January 15, 1888, to Hannah Marie Johnson, of Yankton, South Dakota, and after two years spent in that vicinity, the young couple located in Lincoln, Nebraska, where Mr. Underwood entered the service of the H. and M. railway company and followed that work for two years. In the fall of 1891 he took up his ministerial duties at Springfield, Nebraska, making that his home for five years, then was transferred to Papillion, Nebraska, remaining one year, then located at Arlington and filled the pulpit there for one year.
In May, 1898, at the begining of the Spanish-American war, he was the prime mover in organizing Company E, of the Third Nebraska Volunteer Regiment of Infantry, and was commissioned first lieutenant, later being made chaplain of the regiment, and went to Cuba with the company. He was mustered out of service in May, 1899. The third Nebraska, which was commanded by William Jennings Bryan, was first encamped at Panama Park, Florida, from which place it was sent to Savannah, Georgia, and then put aboard the transport Michigan, December 31, 1898, and sent to Havana, Cuba, where they remained three and one half months, then returned to Savannah, afterwards being sent to Augusta, Georgia, and there mustered out May 11, 1899.
Since 1898, Mr. Underwood has devoted his entire attention to his pastoral duties, having various Nebraska charges. In 1905 he was appointed pastor of the First Methodist Episcopal church in St. Paul, Nebraska, and has greatly increased the membership during that time. He is a man of wide acquaintance, and is loved and looked up to by all.
Mr. Underwood's father was a pioneer in the ministry, and he, also has two brothers in the service, all being men of superior mental attainments, broad-minded and charitable, and all have done the utmost in their different localities to better existing conditions and aid their fellowmen.
Five children have been born to Mr. and Mrs. Underwood, namely: Clinton B., who was a teacher in the St. Paul schools, and is now in the junior year at the Nebraska State University; Frances, who attended college at Wesleyan University, and is now a teacher in the Central City schools; Henrietta, Lawrence and Thelma, the three latter at home.

I know from the handwritten family tree I have tracing the Underwood line that W.H.'s wife, Hannah Marie Johnson, was an emigrant of Norway. A quick Google map search located the tiny hamlet of Yankton, South Dakota to a mere two hours' drive from Lakefield, Minnesota, and the home of that other family of Norwegians from which I take my heritage -- my Dad's family, the Rues. I love the idea of all of these Norwegian relatives on two sides of the family, living close by on the open prairies and farmland of the 19th century Midwest. I guess it also reveals to me how in the end, everything reconnects: genes by way of Ohio, Mississippi, Houston, Nebraska, and South Dakota. That's my latest installment (for now) on my ongoing family digging. I'd like to do more, but life and decision-making have been keeping me pretty busy of late. Nevertheless, I'm really excited by what this project has helped me to discover, evoke, and write, so new installments will definitely be forthcoming.

My last note regards the frenzy stirred up a couple of months ago by a debate regarding the acclaim levied on male vs. female writers, cleverly dubbed Franzenfreude by the Twittersphere as the debate began with the rapturous reception of Freedom, Jonathan Franzen's latest hefty book to hit the shelves. A cure for Franzenfreude? Allow me to suggest this book. You're welcome.

(photo: mysterious portraits from my Grandaddy's house, so far unidentified (at least, my mom doesn't know). Who are they?!)

Don't Forget About the Footnotes

"...and also for fops, who call for separate study."

--Simone de Beauvoir, on the rare man who presents himself as a sexual object

Indeed, let's mount a comprehensive study on that elusive fop! On a more serious note, I wish that I had read this book sooner in my life. I wish I had had all of my revelations sooner. But, I suppose you can't have a revelation unless it actually draws the curtain back on something you've long believed to be true. Without those years of dusty drapes, the current light wouldn't look so good. Then what would you learn?

Am I as think as a nerd I am?

Doth my grammar misstep? I recommend that everyone subscribe to Narrative's Literary Puzzler, and nerd their days away. You'll be glad you did.