Blog A Go-Go

In which we learn a Spanish love song

Because sometimes you just need mindless entertainment, I give you The First Semester of Spanish Love Song. I would like to point out that my daughter brought this to my attention because her English teacher showed it to her. I am pretty sure she is the coolest English teacher in the free world. This is a woman who plays violin and forced her classes to listen to her read The Princess Bride while she read all the parts. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." I could seriously hang with her.

In which I am not a killer

But if I were, you can bet I'd have a better name than The Milkshake Murderess. If I were going to embark on a killing spree, or even a modest domestic murder, I would probably want Donny Deutsch to think up some tremendous concept, a catchy nickname for the press, and perhaps get Donna Karan on retainer to whip up some fabulous but tragic and simple ensemble for the trial. (No Louboutins, though. I'm pretty sure NO jury would acquit a woman wearing Louboutins. Too self-indulgently glamorous.)

Short posts for a few days because I am out of pocket, as my friends say. The husband and I have decamped to the glittery big city with our girlchild for a weekend of museums, shopping, theatre and general fabulousness. We're returning today, and then it is STRAIGHT back to the grindstone for me as the very last tweaks to Silent on the Moor are due May 30. And then I can throw myself like an Acapulco cliffdiver into the preparations for the next book. I am completely atwitter, let me tell you.

In which we get medieval

A poster on a messageboard I frequent posted a link to the BBC Outlaw/Villain Game recently, and I was rather surprised to find that I am Marian. Who are you? Robin Hood? Guy? And since we're on the subject of Robin Hood, why hasn't there been a DEFINITIVE Robin Hood? I'm talking about a big-screen epic, with proper period details and a superb cast--Alan Rickman is the ONLY saving grace from "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves"--and a GOOD script. Every version I've ever seen has left me saying, "I see where they were going, BUT..." Sigh.

In which I am bossy

If you haven't read The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice, stop reading this and go out and buy it instantly. No, I mean it. It's one of those books I resisted reading because I thought the book couldn't possibly live up to the hype. I was so, so wrong. It is divine. Imagine I Capture the Castle, but with a slightly more sophisticated cast of characters. I actually checked it out of the library to read, but at the end of the first chapter I turned it back in and went to buy my OWN copy because I knew I would want to read it more than once. It is funny and deft and so very British in all the best ways, full of people you wish you actually knew. A word of warning--do not even THINK of trying to travel with this book. I am very certain it is the pernicious sort of novel that would keep you tucked up in bed far too late or so enthralled that you miss your boarding call. Don't say I didn't warn you.

In which a labyrinth is not a maze

Despite the fact that all of us were taught in school that labyrinths and mazes are synonymous, they are not. Strictly speaking, Theseus did not use Ariadne's ball of scarlet thread to find his way out of the Minotaur's labyrinth. The Minotaur lived in a maze. What's the difference, you ask? A crucial one, as it turns out. Mazes are laid out with the intention of confusing and misdirecting us, of challenging us to find a way out of the puzzle, forcing us to rely upon our wits and perception.

Labyrinths are a cat of a different color. A labyrinth is a spiritual path, always drawing nearer to the center, designed to lead you to the heart where enlightenment awaits. They were created for the purpose of meditation, a prayerful walk to add to one's spiritual practice, a visual representation of the soul's journey as it moves closer to grace. A labyrinth is the walking equivalent of a rosary or a string of Tibetan prayer beads. The very act of walking is an act of contemplation and spirituality within a labyrinth, and it is no accident that so many were paved into the courtyards of the great cathedrals.

In short, mazes befuddle, labyrinths reveal. And if you want to find your own way to the heart of the mystery, may I suggest the Labyrinth Finder? Simply plug in your zip code and the labyrinth locator will tell you where to find them in your area, with opening times and a description of the type. Some are whimsical, some are serious, but all are designed to aid in contemplation. And doesn't that sound nicer than scurrying past a Minotaur's lair?

In which we remember classics

I'm posting this link to the Forgotten Classics blog and podcast without listening to a single episode, I am THAT SURE it is fabulous. I'm sure I've already confessed my mad girl-crush on Heather Ordover of CraftLit fame on this blog. I am STILL playing catch-up with her archives, and I recently listened to the episode where she played the Forgotten Classics promo. Naturally, I pootled right over and guess what I found? China Court, by Rumer Godden.

Rumer Godden is one of those authors I am bitter about. I should have discovered her YEARS ago, and I could weep that I am just now beginning to explore her work. I started with A House With Four Rooms, one of her memoirs. Delicious. And China Court is the novel I am most intrigued by--I will read almost anything set in an English country house. There are all sorts of other lovely things over at Forgotten Classics, but don't take my word for it. Go and find something wonderful for yourself.

In which we snoop through bookshelves

My friend Kristen sent this link to a fascinating blog entry about books. The author maintains that you can judge--if not a book by its cover, then a man by his books. I suspect this is entirely true. I am always darting surreptitious glances at people's bookshelves and assessing their character accordingly. And like one of the commenters on her blog, I also find that I identify with readers in a way that I simply never do with non-readers. With non-readers, it's like one of you is American and the other French, and you're trying to communicate by speaking Swedish. Something is always lost in the translation. (I once had a doctor proudly tell me he NEVER read anything. It was only after I left his office that I wondered if that included medical journals. I was darkly suspicious of him from that moment on, and he did end up being one of the worst doctors I've ever had. Coincidence? I wonder...)

In which I do NOT look like Andi MacDowell

Last week this link was posted on a messageboard I frequent (by whom I cannot remember--mea culpa!) It is a celebrity morph, and I can only say, prepare to enjoy yourself. You will need a photo of yourself, head on, and a few minutes for the morph to run. It will compare your facial features to its database of celebrities and then perform a match. Once the match is done, you can tell it to run the morph and watch your face transform into the celebrity in question. (In spite of what the site says, you do not have to register.) Some people get several matches; I got only one--Andi MacDowell, 71%--and I don't see it AT ALL.

In which I dream about socks

Literally. Saturday evening as I was getting ready for bed, I paged through my latest stack of library books, ending with Vogue Knitting's The Ultimate Sock Book. And there on page 163 they were--the most beautiful socks I have ever seen. Now, let's be clear: I do not make socks. I rarely wear socks. (They don't work so well with heels.) I do, however, have a beloved pair of cowboy boots that I wear often and a lovely pair of handmade socks would suit them well. That's why I perused the book in the first place. Flipping through a book about sock knitting is, for me, akin to trying to read a book in Mandarin. I can admire the pictures, but that's about all. (Remember, I don't knit in the round.)

But these socks! Embroidered stockings, to be precise, and absolutely gorgeous. I lusted for them, and if you wonder why, look here. Gorgeous, aren't they? But I looked at the instructions and sighed. While I fully intend to become a better knitter at SOME point, those stockings are far beyond my ability, and since I have a book to write this summer, I won't be improving my skills anytime soon. (When I'm writing, I like undemanding handwork. When I finished work on Friday I sat watching "The Birds" while I altered two skirts and put a zipper in by hand, which sounds rather accomplished, but wasn't at all. The point was, I didn't have to read a pattern or count anything.)

Oddly enough, when I fell asleep Saturday night, I dreamed of those socks. I walked into a shop and there they were, hanging from a peg, perfectly made and just waiting to be taken home. I took them off the peg and they were mine, in that instant and fairy tale way of dreams. The dream dictionaries I consulted seem to think that dreaming of socks means that one has received big news or is protecting one's foundation. I just think they were part of the great cosmic stew of subconscious--something pretty to warm my feet.

In which I ponder grace

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the word "grace" in all its many forms, noun and verb, blessing and action. I think about it in yoga class when I'm trying to keep my balance, and I think about it in my daily life--when I'm also trying to keep my balance. And I am trying very hard to see it when it tiptoes across my path. (Grace is very polite. It never stomps or waves its arms or demands attention. It walks quietly and waits patiently to be noticed.)

Yesterday morning I was shopping with my husband and daughter. As we walked from one store to another, we passed an older black gentleman with a duffel bag. For reasons I cannot fathom, the thought flitted through my head that he was a traveler of sorts, and not the casual-tourist variety. He seemed like an old soul who might well be just passing through this life. He was holding a cigarette and patting his pockets as if looking for a match. We exchanged brief nods, and just as I passed him, I heard him say, "Excuse me a moment." I turned, my heart sinking. I was afraid he was a salesman or wanted to ask for a light. Either way, I knew I would only disappoint him.

But I turned back and he simply smiled, a broad beautiful smile, and nodded again in that courtly way that many older men in the south still use to greet women. "I hope that you have a very happy Mother's Day tomorrow, ma'am." And that was all. I smiled and thanked him, and walked away, moved by the kindness of this stranger. It was a very tiny moment, but it was a very large grace. Happy Mother's Day to all of you as well.