I did begin to admire Picasso, after his museum in Paris. I could see that he was trying to show the inside of things, or even sometimes (it seemed to me) the nature of form itself. I hated the displays in The Museum of Contemporary Art in Barcelona though. Aside from one piece about Fascism and another inspired by Guy Dubord, they seemed purposefully obscure, self referential, pretentious. Hey, I'm an American--my ignorance does not prevent strong opinions.

tourist in Barcelona

9 July
Fighting my way through The Rambla crowd (Lorca once said this was one street he wished would never end, but surely it was different during Lorca's time) to the subway, on my way to #1 must see tourist attraction: Goudi's Church of La Familia, when I turned back and found my way, finally, to this small cafe where I sit now, at a table by the window, drinking a glass of wine and listening to the other patrons talk. I do think there is something sweet about tourists, fascinated by places, examining maps, photographing each other next to beautiful buildings. I want to go home and be a tourist in Oregon, as George says Béatrice is, in Paris. Nonetheless, I truly cannot go to one more tourist attraction, no matter how attractive. Four people sit at the bar, young, European, mostly English, talking to the bartendar. They are quizzing each other in their knowledge of Catalan. Now talking about a bullfighter who was killed by a bull. Whether this was a good or bad thing, they disagree. Janis Joplin on the stereo.

not a very good tourist

3 July, Paris

People have very small cars here, if they have a car at all. Late afternoon, men ride bicycles home, long loaves of bread tucked under their arms.

I have unsuccessfully tried to figure out if a machine near my hotel is a money machine or if it a ticket or a stamp machine.

Today I am going to the park, Parc' des Buttes, to read. I found a book in English, at a used bookstore down the block, although I'm not sure I've figured out the price.

I'm not a very good tourist. I don't like going to many places, only a few. I like sitting and feeling things.

Now I will try to buy that book, The Constant Gardener, by John Le Carré.

full of beauty

2 July

You can walk around a corner in Paris and see an ancient Roman bathhouse, a gorgeous building or monument, a garden, a plaque that says Manet was born here.

I'm in the La Villotte neighbourhood. Parc' des Buttes Chaumont is nearby, with a cave and waterfalls. Our room is too small for the two us, but right now I'm downstairs in the garden where it is pretty and fresh. Four round tables, orange tableclothes, pink hydrangas, phlox. From here, I can see the windows of apartments and balconies. Birds land near my feet, eating crumbs the receptionist has thrown out. Rachel is afraid of birds, but I can't see why.

private property

In England you can cut right through a farmer's field, or go right up someone's driveway to a path beyond it, and no one bats an eye.

Lewes

24 June from Portland Airport

You'd think I was awaiting execution, instead of the dream trip of my life, for all the worrying I've done. My naturopath says that anxiety and feelings of dread are not necessarily normal, which is news to me.

28 June on the ferry between Newhaven and Dieppe
I guess I had imagined an open air boat, windy and crowded, huddling around cars, but the ferry across the English Channel is dignified, big, and comfortable. I'm sitting on what seems to be the 6th floor, by a window. I can see two boats in the distance. Two young English children sit behind me, with their boisterous voices and sweet British accents. When I feel braver, I'll get a cup of coffee.
I've been visiting friends in Lewes, England, former home of Thomas Paine, taking walks by the River Ouse with my friend Rachel and her dog. Rachel is the great granddaughter of Roger Fry, but when we went on a tour of the Bloomsbury Estate, she would not let me say it.

not irreplaceable

12 June 2009

Yesterday was my last day of work at my school, after 13 years, which was more odd than sad. I will miss sitting in my rocking chair reading Bark, George; How Squirrel Got his Stripes; Pete, Smartypants at School; The Lorax; The Viper; The Greatest Power; Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People's Ears.

My hardest moment came when Robbie came to say goodbye. See you next year! he said and I lied. See you! I've had him since Head Start. Mother gone and father in jail. He learned to read sitting on the floor with me, sounding out words. Hi, Fly Guy; A Friend for Dragon; Nate the Great. The thing is: we are not irreplaceable. Someone else will have these feelings and do these things. That is both the good part and the sad part of it.

Billy Hults

My friend Billy died on Friday. He was a rascal. He was wild and irreverent and generous and funny. I'll miss him.

my question about the Iranian election

Today BBC had a program discussing Iran's election. I sent this question and they read it on the air..........

How can we have a discussion about the stolen election in Iran without mentioning the two stolen elections in the US? The primary difference seems to be that the Iranian people are more serious about democracy than we Americans.

the day I fell in love and lost all hope of earning a living wage

I hardly knew Chuck when he came to the bar where I worked years ago and gave me a copy of Ivan Illich's book, Deschooling Society. I read it and dropped out of college. Illich, in case you don't know, argues that education isn't really about learning but about maintaining class structure. More broadly, he argues against experts mediating and defining our experience.
Chuck says that if he had his way no employer would be able to discriminate based on educational background.

chekhov and twitter

I signed up for Twitter once, and, although I never got past creating an account, I get messages that people are following me on it. Really? I think Chekhov, if he were alive, might be a Twitter fan.
"I have developed a mania for brevity. No matter what I read —my own or others' writing—everything strikes me as too long." ~Anton Chekhov

the self-absorbed traveler

I've discovered that there is, after all, something more self-absorbed than a writer with a newly published book, and that is me, getting ready for a trip.

end of the school year librarian question

How can the kids figure out how to take care of the world we're leaving them if they can't take care of their dang library books? This is one of the philosophical questions I wrestle with.

Watching Rhonda Honey

My agent asked me to write a summary of my new novel and here it is:

Watching Rhonda Honey is about a woman who, as a foster child, saw her hopes of becoming part of a family crushed by her would-be sister’s lies. Years later, an accidental encounter offers her a chance for revenge, but only if she’s willing to risk her own chance for love. It's a psychological novel and love story.

true for me, too

Yolanda forgot to return her library books, so she couldn't check out the one on polar bears. "I'm sorry," I called after her.  Her friend, turned to me. "Don't worry. In a minute she'll start thinking of something else and then she'll be happy again."

on the other hand

Cold and rainy, cold and rainy.
But in my front yard the plum tree blooms.

Pabla and the agate

Someone objected to my statement that I have been fired, when really I'm only being moved out of my school and into a different one. Okay, fine. I am overly dramatic. 

I am sad about leaving the school where I've worked for 13 years. Today ten year old Pabla gave me an agate and a note that said, Happy St. Patrick's Day, and then she skipped away with her long black braid flying out behind her. I remember when her big sister was a baby. I knew her family before she was born. Her big brother loved my dinosaur books.

schools

Chuck says I can't blog about sex or drugs, even if it's from thirty year old material, because I work at a school and they'll fire me. I'm not sure that's true. 

diary 1980 vegetarian in Antigua

In 1980 Chuck went to Antigua to help members of the Antigua Caribbean Liberation Movement set up a printing press, after the right wing government destroyed the one they were using. We were in Antigua for three months.

February  1980  

Antigua

Saturday is market day and the day we go to JP Market, crowded with people from the countryside. In some of the towns men will set up a table to sell a newly slaughtered cow or pig by the side of the road. On the tables are piles of red flesh. chop chop chop goes the cleaver. The intestines are hung in a string from a nearby tree. Last Saturday the pig's head sat on the table, its ears sticking out. 

1980 Seashell Beach

January 28, 1980

(from St. Barts)

The beach is an ideal setting for lsd: restful and rhythmic and safe. Blue water white sand.  We played in the water nearly all day turning red in the Caribbean sun. Our friend from Dominica, Mantoo, came by to visit. Annalise from Vermont and Leif from Sweden stopped to talk. The French children have gym class yards from our tent. We explore sea life and social life in the cosmopolitan setting that is our living room. 

diary 1980

Today I found a book I created for Chuck, using excerpts from diaries I've written over the years. 

August 10, 1980

Dear Diary, 

Why am I compelled to keep journals and write compulsively about myself?

what happens when you have a small house

I'm at a coffee house here in Corvallis, writing, because my house is 750 square feet and Chuck is home.  I am trying to write a chapter in which my character, Tree, foreshadows the arrival of Jimmy while she and Mavis drink coffee (hey, where did I get that idea?) beside the Salmon Street water fountain in Portland, but mostly I am spying on other customers. Not that they are that interesting, but I can't help it. 

suzy joins the sex club

The Sun magazine just published an anthology, The Mysterious Life of the Heart, and one of my stories is in it. My story is called Suzy Joins the Sex Club, written before I realized that sometimes people actually read what I write.

bourgeois rule about money

You're not supposed to say how much money you make, but why not? The bosses don't want us to know. The people with the big paychecks don't want us to know. It is some kind of bourgeois rule. My new insurance premiums kicked in and my last paycheck was $527. For one month, 30 hours a week. Less than $5 an hour. I work in a school library, as an "assistant," although, functionally, I'm the librarian. Yikes!

Aid Worker Diary

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7802295.stm

Gaza on a Sunday

I'm writing the end of a Young Adut novel, a ghost/mystery/Tarot story. A break from my regular writing. Fun! I'm sitting on my red couch in front of a big window. Every now and then, I google Gaza, to try to find out what's happening. 

Musee des Beaux Arts

~W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong, 

The Old Masters: how well they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along

from Gaza

http://a-mother-from-gaza.blogspot.com

the deadline

I decide that I want my protagonist's wrapping paper to be designed with some detail from the Fool card in the Tarot. I google Fool card and get an image of the card. I mess around with the image, trying to make the little circles on the fool's shirt bigger. They would make a good design for wrapping paper: circles, with something inside them. But what is inside them? Are those stars? I decide maybe Wikipedia will tell me if they are stars.
But when I google Wikipedia, I see an article saying that the Wikipedia guy's appeal for money has worked. Wikipedia has been raking in donations. I read the reader's comments about the donation article. I get pissed off because some asshole complains about Wikipedia's entry concerning global warming. I start to get my debit card out to make a donation. Wait! First I should write a comment, telling the guy to stop being a jerk. Oh, a lot of people have already done that for me. I read through their comments. Most them agree. Shut up. Wikipedia is cool. We love it. Our kids love it.

Stop! I'm on a deadline. The first draft of the novel needs to be finished by Monday. Four days. My protagonist is still standing in the doorway with her present. I think they are little stars, little stars set inside circles. Just make the wrapping paper yellow and get on with it.

But first I want to go blog about all the things that pull at us, when really we just want to write a little scene.