Answer Girl

Janus

2012-01-01T09:08:00.001-05:00

Associated with: Roman mythology
Also known as: Bifrons
Earliest recorded mention: Depends on how far back you want to identify a two-faced god with Janus. Some scholars trace the worship of Janus all the way back to ancient Sumer, c. 4500 BCE.
Major texts: Cicero, De Natura Deorum; Publius Nigidius Figulus, De Diis

Janus is one of the oldest and most important of the Roman gods, with authority over thresholds — gates and doorways, entrances and exits, transitions both literal and metaphorical. "January" comes from Janus, as does the word "janitor," in the sense of a doorkeeper.

One story says that Janus was originally human, a king of Latium, the region of Italy that later became the site of Rome. According to this legend, Janus offered sanctuary to Saturn after his defeat at the hands of Jupiter. He also introduced agriculture, money, and laws. He became a god after his death, and in that capacity, served as protector of Rome. His temple gates were open when Rome was at war, so that Janus could offer his protection to the city.

Years ago a therapist offered me the observation that change is always loss. In my mid-20s, I had never formulated this into words, but it comforted and reassured me in a way that was almost physical. Because if change is always loss, loss is also simply change. We trade people, things and experiences for other people, things and experiences, or maybe for their absences. Janus is often described as the god of beginnings, but his two-headed nature reminds us that every beginning is also an end — and vice versa.

I feel cautiously optimistic as 2012 begins, with no real resolutions other than to be more present in my own life, and keep closer track of myself, for myself. It is a little startling to find myself deep in mid-life, since it feels — when I look backward — that I was a kid just a couple of days ago.

Happy new year, everybody.

Krampus

2011-12-24T14:41:00.002-05:00

Associated with: Germanic mythology
Also known as: Klaubauf, Bartl, Niglobartl, Wubartl, Pelzebock, Pelznickel, Gumphinckel, Krampusz
Earliest recorded mention: unknown, but BCE
Major texts: None, really, as Krampus is an oral tradition, but Austrian governments have been trying to discourage belief in the Krampus since at least the 1930s.

While naughty American children might feel mildly anxious about coal in their stockings at Christmas, Austrian and Hungarian children have spent centuries worrying about the Krampus, a forest demon whose stories predate Christ. Krampus doesn't bother with coal in stockings. He whips children with birch switches or drags them off to hell in a tub that he carries on his back.

The world's a dangerous place for children. In the days before electricity and central heating, it was even more dangerous. A child who wandered away from her parents or stayed out too late at night could be lost for good, frozen to death, snatched by evil strangers or mauled to death by wild animals. It only takes three or four days to die of thirst, and not much longer to starve to death in winter. Before floodlights, helicopters, fingerprints or photographs on the back of milk cartons, parents could keep children safe only by emphasizing the dangers of disobedience. These dangers form the basis of many folktales, from Little Red Riding Hood (keep to the path, don't talk to strangers) to Snow White (don't take food from scary old ladies) to Hansel & Gretel (seriously, don't take food from scary old ladies).

Krampus was the parents' tactical nuclear weapon, and too valuable to abandon even once the southern Alps embraced Christianity. Krampus survived as traveling companion to St. Nicholas, dealing with the naughty children as St. Nick hands out candy, nuts and presents to the good ones.

I'm glad I didn't know about Krampus until fairly recently. I was anxious enough as a child, and almost always worked myself into nervous hysteria at some point before every Christmas. Santa Claus, like God, knew all my meanest thoughts and impulses, and kept score of every pinched brother and undone homework assignment. If I'd had Krampus to deal with on top of that, I'd never have made it to adulthood.

Here's wishing you all a Krampus-free holiday, and all the blessings of the season. Merry Christmas, and God bless us, every one.

Saturn

2011-12-21T08:21:00.001-05:00

Associated with: Greek and Roman mythology
Also known as: Cronos
Earliest recorded mention: c. 700 BCE
Major texts: Hesiod's Theogony, Macrobius' Saturnalia

For the past several years, the one consistent social event of my week has been Tuesday night pub trivia at The Liberal Cup in Hallowell. I was lucky enough to join a team that usually does pretty well, though more and more often lately they seem to do best on nights I'm not there. It's not a coincidence, I'm afraid; all too often, I'm absolutely sure about things I'm absolutely wrong about.

Last night it was the question of why Christmas falls on December 25, which has only been the formal practice of the Catholic church (and its successor Christian religions) since the fourth century. Quizmaster/Brewmaster Geoff asked what Roman celebration this was specifically meant to supplant. The answer he was looking for was "the winter solstice." The answer our team gave — which I'm sticking by, even though it got us no points — was Saturnalia.

Saturnalia was, in fact, a solstice celebration, in honor of the great and ancient god Saturn, patron of agriculture, justice and time. Saturn was a Titan, one of the children of Earth and Sky, and the father of most of the gods of Olympus. Told that one of his sons would overthrow him, Saturn devoured his children as they were born. His wife, Ops (Rhea in Greek mythology) finally managed to deceive him after the birth of her sixth child, Jupiter (Zeus). She gave Saturn a stone wrapped in a blanket, which he ate; Jupiter/Zeus grew up to lead a rebellion against the Titans, installing himself and his siblings as rulers on Olympus.

What I'm less clear on, and would like to know more about, is what was supposed to have happened to Saturn and the Titans once they were defeated. Gods are immortal. Saturn was conquered, not killed, and cast into Tartarus, the lowest point in the universe. He was imprisoned for all time with his fellow Titans — but he was never quite forgotten, and in the later years of Roman Empire he became a symbol of a mythical Golden Age, when humans lived in harmony with each other and nature, and feasted off the bounty of the land without having to do any real work. The Romans even built a temple to Saturn, right on the Forum — so his defeat was not exactly permanent, and I'd like to know whether Saturn's followers honored him in Tartarus, or believed that he had somehow escaped.

Saturnalia, which began as a single day (Dec. 17) and became a week-long celebration, commemorated this Golden Age with feasting and revelry, and particularly the suspension of regular order for the duration of the festival. During Saturnalia, masters served their slaves, and slaves became masters; people partied, gambled, wore outlandish clothing, and took various other social liberties. The festival began with a ritual sacrifice at the Temple of Saturn, and concluded with a day of gift-giving on December 23. It was celebrated well into the fourth century, and its practices influenced similar holiday celebrations in Zoroastrianism and Mithraism as well as Christianity.

It feels appropriate to me that a year-end celebration would honor both justice and time, as we tally up the year's gains and losses, evaluate successes and failures, make amends where necessary and plan for the year ahead. Happy Solstice to everyone.

Mary

2011-12-08T10:38:00.001-05:00

Associated with: Christianity, especially Catholicism
Also known as: Miriam, Our Lady, the Blessed Virgin, the Immaculate Conception, many others
Earliest recorded mention: c. 70
Major texts: The Gospel of Luke

I'm courting trouble here, because the whole point of the Church's reverence for Mary is that she is not divine. She is human, and her humanity is what makes her so special and precious. She is like us but better than us, and what makes her better than us is the mystery of her Immaculate Conception, which the Catholic Church celebrates today.

The Immaculate Conception is one of the great stumbling blocks of Catholicism for non-Catholics, and also one of the hardest doctrines to explain to outsiders. It's reckless of me as a layperson even to try, but that's never stopped me before.

The Immaculate Conception is too often confused with "virgin birth," the Catholic belief that Mary conceived and bore Jesus without having sexual intercourse with a man. But the two doctrines come together in the story that introduces us to Mary: her visit from the angel Gabriel, as reported in the gospel of Luke.

Gabriel tells Mary that she will bear a son to be called Jesus, who will rule over the House of Jacob forever. Mary asks how this could be, since she is a virgin. Gabriel explains that the Holy Spirit will come upon her, and that the child will be the Son of God. He also tells her that her elderly cousin Elizabeth, long thought barren, would bear a child as well, "for nothing is impossible to God."

Think about what this would have meant to Mary. She was young, probably only in her mid-teens. She was engaged to be married to Joseph, a carpenter, and looking forward to a happy, normal life. What would any ordinary person have done in this situation? You or I would have done what Sarah did when the angel told her she would have a son in her old age. We would have laughed. Or we would have said, "No," because that was not part of our own plans, and would have interfered — maybe even have subjected us to humiliation, pain, terror and grief, as indeed it did to Mary.

Instead, Mary said, "I am the handmaid of the Lord. Let what you have said be done to me." This, right here, is the essential mystery of the Immaculate Conception. Unlike the rest of us, Mary was born without the original sin that drives human beings to choose our will over God's. That is what Immaculate Conception means: conceived without sin, born without the fundamental weakness that keeps us separate from God. Mary did not have to work at her faith. She never held herself separate from God. She never preferred her own choices.

That is not a life the rest of us can really imagine. Our own selves are always too present, too loud, too demanding. I am not entirely sure it's something the rest of us should even aspire to. In real life it would look too much like madness, and isn't presuming to know God's will the sin of pride? Mary had a uniquely mysterious relationship with God even before the conception of Jesus. She serves as a role model and as a bridge between us lesser humans and the Almighty, and it is this we celebrate on the solemnity of the Immaculate Conception.

The Holly King

2011-12-05T06:41:00.001-05:00

Associated with: Celtic religions, Neopaganism
Also known as: Lleu Llaw Gyffes, Lugh, Gwyn ap Nudd, Lord of the Greenwood
Earliest recorded mention: Depends on whether you buy the theory
Major texts: The White Goddess by Robert Graves

The one thing this year's blog theme has shown me is how little I know about this subject, despite a lifelong interest in myths and comparative religions. I have not, for instance, read all of The White Goddess by the poet Robert Graves. If anyone wants to give me a copy for Christmas (or of Graves' memoir, Goodbye to All That, or of his collected poems) I'd be grateful.

Robert Graves is best known for the historical novels I, Claudius and Claudius the God, although his poetry deserves to be better read. He was a complicated man — to put it mildly — who did a good bit of damage to the people who loved him. He was a Romantic in the most complete and classic sense of that word, meaning that he considered emotions rather than reason the most powerful life forces. Carl Jung's theories of archetypes buried in a collective subconscious made sense to him, and The White Goddess is "a historical grammar of poetic myth" that traces all Western mythology to a single belief system involving a triple goddess of love, birth, and death (maiden, mother, crone) and her adjunct deities.

Among the mythic archetypes Graves identified were the Holly King and the Oak King, gods who battle for the world twice a year but rely on each other for life and identity. The Holly King presides over the waning of the year, from the Summer Solstice to the Winter Solstice; at the Winter Solstice, the Oak King triumphs, and life returns to the world.

Up here in Maine, we feel this waning acutely, and it does carry a feeling of portent and doom. The sun will set at 4:00 this afternoon; we are losing more than a minute of light a day. We battle it by decorating for Christmas: lights and greenery, things that sparkle, food full of butter and sugar to carry us through the months ahead. It was smart of early Christianity to co-opt this festival for its own purposes. The historical Jesus was probably born in early autumn; almost all of our western Christmas customs come from the old feast of Yule. The official stories might correlate Santa Claus to St. Nicholas or St. Basil, but the image of the bearded man in red is all Holly King.

My sisters gave me a light box for my birthday. It does help, though I feel irritable rather than sad, which probably doesn't make me any easier to be around.

Persephone

2011-11-06T07:38:00.000-05:00

Proserpine, Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Associated with: Greek & Roman mythology
Also known as: Proserpina, Kore, Nestis, Despoina
Earliest recorded mention: c. 1400 BCE
Major texts: Iliad, Odyssey, Aeneid, Pindar's odes, Hesiod's Theogony

I'm going to stop apologizing for the long absences from this blog, and I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up with it any better going forward. It's pressures of work, partly, but it's also a general malaise that has me feeling strangely detached from anything I could call "mine." This is an issue for a therapist, not a blog, but in the absence of decent health insurance I may check in here periodically to wrestle with some of this.

The goddess Persephone is one of the oldest of what we call Western civilization, predating the Olympian gods as part of the Eleusinian mysteries celebrated in Mycenaean Greece. Persephone's name has many variants in Greek, possibly because it came from a language other than Greek and was hard for the Greeks to say or spell. She is the daughter of Demeter, goddess of the harvest, and in her own right the Queen of the Underworld.

Persephone is also known as Kore, a name that means only "the Maiden." Her beauty and innocence captured the attention of Hades, King of the Underworld, who came up from below and kidnapped her (with the explicit or implicit permission of her father, Zeus). Demeter, anguished at the loss of her daughter, walked the earth in search of her. While she did, nothing grew or bloomed or bore fruit, and the world starved. Persephone, pining for her mother, refused to eat or drink in the Underworld, and would not let Hades woo her.

Finally Demeter learned what had happened to her daughter. Zeus ordered Hades to release her — and Hades agreed, except that he had managed to cajole Persephone to eat just a few pomegranate seeds. And anyone who ate any food in the Underworld would have to live there forever . . .

Persephone was returned to her mother, but as penalty for the six seeds, would have to return to the Underworld for six months of the year. During those months, the earth dies, and is renewed again when Persephone comes back to her mother.

Nathaniel Hawthorne's story "The Pomegranate Seeds" was my introduction to this myth. It's a children's story, so it softens the edges of what must originally have been terrifying. The adult Persephone, in her role as Queen of the Underworld, is a terrible figure in later Greek mythology. In Hawthorne's version, the child Proserpina comes to love her captor (Stockholm syndrome was well known before we had a name for it), and doesn't really mind returning to the Underworld for part of the year. Hawthorne's ending feels benign.

But up here in Maine, at this time of year, nothing feels benign about Persephone's return to the Underworld. We've already had one snowstorm, and frost is heavy on the ground right now. I need to replace my winter coat. I need to buy new ice spikes for my shoes. This may be the year I buy one of those lights to treat seasonal affective disorder. In the meantime I reread Swinburne's "Garden of Proserpine," and am grateful for the extra hour we got last night.

Eris

2011-10-10T10:21:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Greek & Roman mythology
Also known as: Discordia, Enyo
Earliest recorded mention: c. 700 BCE
Major texts: Works and Days, Theogony, the Iliad

The name "Eris" is also the Greek word for strife, and Eris is the goddess of chaos. She's a troublemaker who never gets invited anywhere; she is either a daughter of Nyx, goddess of the night, or a true daughter of Zeus and Hera, and thus one of the highest-ranking immortals.

Hesiod distinguishes between two different goddesses named Eris, one of whom is destructive and one of whom's just restless. Even the restless one, however, is "unwholesome for men." The Greek ideal was placid and peaceful; nothing good could come of discontent.

If I were a serious historian or sociologist, I might study this question: why is the Greek ideal (and many of the Eastern ideals) peace and tranquility, when it is obvious that human progress comes only from discontent and conflict? People who are happy and have all their needs met might create beautiful works of art just for the joy of it, but they don't invent technology. Technology comes from need and want, and it's the simple truth that many of mankind's greatest technological and medical advances emerged from war.

Anyway, Eris is another object lesson in the dangers of leaving people off your guest list. According to Homer, the gods of Olympus gathered to celebrate the marriage of the human Peleus to the sea-nymph Thetis (over Thetis' initial objections, but that's another story). No one invited Eris, because she was a known troublemaker — but she showed up anyway, throwing an apple with a tag reading "For the fairest" into a group that included Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. They asked Paris, prince of Troy, to be the judge, and bribed him with the best they could offer: power (Hera), military might (Athena), or the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen, already married to Menelaus of Sparta (Aphrodite). Paris, poor fool, chose Helen, and the Trojan War began.

The children of Eris were as dangerous as she was, including (among others) the previously-mentioned Ponos, god of labor; Lethe, forgetfulness; Limos, famine; Algos, pain; Hysminai, combat; Makhai, battles; Pseudologoi, lies; Ate, folly; and Horkos, god of false promises.

In the present day, Eris is hailed as the patroness of Discordianism, "a sort of self-subverting Dada-Zen for Westerners" which its adherents say "should on no account betaken seriously but is far more serious than most jokes." For more information, check out Robert Shea andRobert Anton Wilson's novel Illuminatus!

Grendel

2011-10-08T08:15:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Old English folklore
Also known as: nothing
Earliest recorded mention: sometime after 1000 CE
Major text: Beowulf

As I wrote yesterday's post I found myself thinking about the nature of bullies and bullying. I have been a bully in my time, and once in a while, I'm afraid I still am. I'm ashamed of that. It's something I've worked hard on since childhood, when my mother got in my face — literally — after I punched my younger brother in the stomach. I'd scared him, and she scared me: "How do you like it?" she said. I didn't. I try to remember that, but I don't always know when I'm scary. I'm taller, larger, smarter and more articulate than average. Sometimes it's just too easy for me to make other people feel terrible, and I don't realize I've done it until it's too late to take back.

But most bullies don't realize they're bullies, and most monsters don't realize they're monsters. Most evil in the world isn't deliberate evil; it's expediency, or laziness, or maybe even misplaced good intentions. Eugenicists, for example, honestly believe they're improving the human race. The Westbrook Baptist Church honestly believes - I think - that they're working toward God's glory.

The monster Grendel appears early in the saga of Beowulf, "a fiend of hell:/The wrathful spirit . . . The joyless being". Grendel, whose appearance is never clearly described in the original text, is identified as a descendant of Cain, banished from human society for all time. Compare him to the "Scylding's beloved folk-king," Beowulf, the perfect hero, admired and loved by all.

Grendel didn't ask to be the descendant of Cain, any more than Cain had asked to have his offering rejected by the Almighty. (Genesis 4: "Yahweh looked with favour on Abel and his offering./But he did not look with favour on Cain and his offering, and Cain was very angry and downcast.") It is one of the very oldest human questions: why? Why are some loved, and some not? Why do some have much, and others have none? Why are some people golden from birth, and others permanently outcast?

Cain killed Abel. Therefore he chose to be evil, even if he wasn't evil to begin with, and thus God's rejection seems justified in retrospect — look, he didn't deserve to be loved in the first place. And Grendel, Cain's descendant, is cursed from birth, and never deserves to be part of the community. So he decides to wreck it. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't any of us?

John Gardner's wonderful novel Grendel explores this at great length, and made a huge impression on me when I read it in 10th grade. Grendel knows that he is something other and outside, and the only way he can deal with that is to see the world as something rotten and not worth having: "...the world was nothing: a mechanical chaos of casual,brute enmity on which we stupidly impose our hopes and fears. Iunderstood that, finally and absolutely, I alone exist."

This, of course, is Evil with a capital E: the idea that your will is the only thing that matters. But what terrible sorrow, rage and despair drove Grendel to this conclusion. If someone had invited him to dinner, or offered to brush his hair, all of English literature might have been different.

Apep

2011-10-07T10:58:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Early Egyptian mythology
Also known as: Apepi, Aapep, Apophis
Earliest recorded mention: c. 4000 BCE
Major texts: Book of the Dead

I've been neglecting the "demons" aspect of this blog (actually, neglecting the blog altogether, but I resolve once again to do better). Apep is a big, early one, embodying many of the most basic human fears: darkness, chaos and snakes.

Apep was the brother of Ra, the sun god, and Sobek, the creator god. Ra is often depicted with the head of a falcon; Sobek always has the head of a crocodile. Apep has no human form at all, but is always shown as a giant serpent, who kills not by strangling but by poison.

Apep constantly battled Ra, fighting the sun every day and losing again at the end of every night. Solar eclipses were seen as Apep's temporary triumph, thwarted by the prayers and sacrifices of priests. Apep was also responsible for earthquakes and thunderstorms. Because humans could not see an actual snake in the sky, they believed that Apep lived in the underworld, keeping himself deliberately hidden.

Those who believed in Aten, the single god who temporarily replaced the Egyptian pantheon, believed that Aten defeated Apep permanently. But even once the old gods were restored (after the death of Akhnaten), Apep just kind of . . . faded away, superceded by Set, the better-known god of darkness and chaos.

Ancient religions did not worship these evil gods as much as they tried to appease them — they prayed against them, but they also offered sacrifices to fend them off. It's human nature; as above, so below. Earlier this week I made the conscious decision, not once but twice, to appease a bully rather than confront them, because it was easier and saved time. But all that does, in real life as well as in the otherworld, is encourage them. Who wouldn't stick around in hopes of another sacrifice? Apep's fate proves the truth of what my mother used to tell us about the boy next door: ignore them, and they'll go away.

Asclepius

2011-10-04T12:10:00.001-04:00

Associated with: Greek mythology
Also known as: Asklepios
Earliest recorded mention: c. 8th century BCE
Major texts: The Iliad, Pythian and Nemean Odes, Bibliotheca 3 of Pseudo-Apollodorus

One of the more interesting aspects of the Greek & Roman belief system was that you didn't have to be divine to become a god (yes, I'll probably get to Caligula later). It's quite possible that Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine, was a real human being, who made pioneering advances in medicine and was later remembered as a god, or at least godlike.

Some myths say that Asclepius was the son of Apollo and a human woman - either Arsinoe, an Egyptian princess, or Coronis, daughter of Phlegyas, king of the Lapiths. It strikes me that this was a convenient explanation for illegitimate births, especially among the nobility: a resourceful young woman could always claim that Zeus or Apollo or some other god had happened on her unawares, and had his way.

But Asclepius survives to this day as a symbol and patron of physicians, although I haven't found much that describes his specific practices. Pindar reported that he treated "all who came to him . . . plagues with sores of festering growths, some wounded by the stokes of weapons of bright bronze, of by the slinger's shot of stone, others with limbs ravaged by summer's fiery heat or by the winter's cold, to each for every various ill he made the remedy, and gave deliverance from pain, some with the gently songs of incantation others he cured with soothing draughts of medicines, or wrapped their limbs around with doctored salves, and some he made whole with the surgeon's knife."

Some legends say he had the power to raise the dead, which made Zeus so angry he destroyed Asclepius with a thunderbolt. The dead Asclepius became divine as a star in the constellation Ophiochus, the Serpent Bearer.

I'd like to know more about ancient Greek medical practices. Certainly until about 100 years ago, doctors did as much harm as good. My own great-grandmother died of puerperal fever after giving birth at home, because hospitals were considered too dirty and dangerous. But I actually have a friend who suffers from hemachromatosis, a relatively rare blood disorder whose only effective treatment remains — yes — bloodletting.

So today, as I recover from something that might have been a cold or the flu or something bacterial, I'll push fluids and take some Alka-Seltzer Flu formula, maybe catch a nap, and skip the doctor. For now.

Lir

2011-10-03T10:30:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Irish and Welsh mythology
Also known as: Ler, Llyr
Earliest recorded mention: c. 900
Major texts: Sanas Cormaic, Leannaí Lir, the Welsh Triads

Apologies for the two-week hiatus. It's hard to blog from the road, as I don't have access to my bookshelves, but I've also been more than usually distracted by family and work demands. New month, new goals, new discipline: among other things, I'm going to try to do my own work first.

Ler (the correct nominative form of the name) is the ancient Irish god of the sea, which feels appropriate, as yesterday was my dad's 70th birthday — a birthday his children could not celebrate with him, because he's on a Navy supply ship somewhere in the Mediterranean. In the modern way, we all left him messages on Facebook. I hadn't even mailed him a gift because I thought he'd be home this week, and I feel bad about that. So sorry, Dad, and happy birthday.

The better-known Irish god of the sea is Manannán mac Lir, Ler's son ("mac Lir" meaning "son of the sea"). Scholars speculate that Ler was an older god whose worship was superceded by his son's. Both are associated with the underworld as well as with the sea, and why not? It seems natural to see the sea as a gateway to that other world, or maybe that's just my own heritage.

We remember Ler now mainly because of the legend of the Children of Lir, which I first read as a child of 7 or 8, in a collection of fairy tales I wish I'd hung onto. Ler and his beloved wife Aoibh had four children, a daughter and three sons. But Aoibh died, and Ler married her sister, Aoife, to comfort himself and give his children a new mother. Aoife was jealous of the children, and tried to have them killed. Instead of being killed, the children were turned into swans. In the version of the story I remember, the curse would last until a bell rang to call them back to their home — but when the bell rang, almost 1,000 years had passed, and all the people and things they loved had gone. The children of Lir became human again, only to die and be reunited happily with their parents in heaven.

This story made a huge impact on me when I was 7 or 8, and even now I can't say exactly why. Ler's hardly in the story at all; the story's about the children. It wasn't his fault that the children turned into swans. The swans lived hundreds of years in exile, waiting to be called home, only to find that home had vanished when the call finally came. When I was 7 or 8, this was the saddest story I had ever read. Almost 40 years later, I think it still is.

Frigg

2011-09-17T12:01:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Norse mythology
Also known as: Frigga, Frige
Earliest recorded mention: Unknown, but before Tiberius' conquest of the Germanic tribes in 1-4 CE
Major texts: Poetic Edda, Prose Edda, the Ynglinga Saga

The name Frigg comes from a word that means "beloved," and Frigg, wife of Odin and co-ruler of Asgard, is the goddess of marriage. According to the legends, Frigg has the gift of prophesy but chooses not to tell what she knows — which seems particularly appropriate, as marriage may be the most mysterious and marvelous of all human relationships.

My Claire and her Zach are getting married this afternoon. If Frigg still rules in Asgard, I hope she will look in. Either way, we will be marking the occasion with words that recognize how extraordinary every wedding is:

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

e.e. cummings, the man with the answers.

Ogma

2011-09-15T16:37:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Irish and Scottish mythology, possibly Gaulish as well
Also known as: Oghma, Ogme, Ogmae, Ogmios (spelling is not a strength of the Irish language)
Earliest recorded mention: c. 1000 CE, although based on a much older oral tradition
Major texts: Lebor Gabála Érenn (The Book of Invasions)

Once upon a time, giants and heroes walked the earth. Among them were the Tuatha Dé Danann, the people of the goddess Danu, who captured Ireland from the Fir Bolg. I've never been quite clear on what was wrong with the Fir Bolg; maybe nothing, it was just that the Tuatha Dé Danann were so great. In the original stories, they were almost certainly gods, possibly gods brought over and adapted from the religious practices of Gaul (modern France). When it came time to write the stories down, however, the people who knew how to do that were Christian monks. Mindful of the first commandment ("you shall have no other gods before me"), they turned gods into heroes, something less than divine but still something more than ordinary human beings.

Ogma was a great champion, sometimes linked to depictions of Hercules because of his feats of strength. With his brother (or in some stories, father) the Dagda and his half-brother Lugh he is one of the "three gods of skill." Besides his strength, he is known primarily as a great orator and the inventor of the Irish written alphabet, called Ogham in his honor. The customary epithets for Ogma are "sun-faced" and "honey-tongued."

It's a major turning point in any society's development when it begins to value eloquence as much as physical strength, and the introduction of a written alphabet just about defines civilization. Say what you like about our current President, but I see value in having a head of state who can deliver a good speech when he needs to.

Selene

2011-09-12T19:52:00.001-04:00

Associated with: Greek and Roman mythology
Also known as: Luna
Earliest recorded mention: c. 700 BCE
Major texts: Hesiod's Theogony; Virgil's Georgics; The Bibliotheca of Pseudo-Apollodorus

Selene was the original Greek moon goddess, a Titan who was the daughter of Hyperion and Theia. Her brother was Helios, the sun god, and her sister was Eos, the dawn. When the gods of Olympus overthrew the Titans, Artemis (Diana) supplanted Selene as goddess of the moon.

Selene was famous for falling in love. The most famous of her loves was Endymion, a human shepherd (or, in some versions of the story, a hunter or a king). Because he was human, and therefore inconstant and mortal, Selene put him to sleep permanently (or, in later versions of the story, asked Zeus to do so). She kept the sleeping Endymion with her forever, and managed to have 50 daughters by him — exactly how, I'm not clear, and perhaps it's better not to ask.

The full moon was enormous as it rose tonight. I'd have taken a picture, if I took pictures. Of all the nature-inspired gods, a moon god or goddess makes the most sense to me. Unlike the sun, the moon has a face. It ebbs and flows, seeming to draw closer to us and then pull farther away. Its 28-day cycle controls the tides, within and without. Although a few civilizations had moon gods, is it any wonder most civilizations saw the moon as female?

Shiva

2011-09-11T08:15:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Hinduism
Also known as: Rudra, Nataraja, Mahādeva, Maheśhvara, Parameśhvara; 10,000 additional names
Earliest recorded mention: c. 1700 BCE
Major texts: the Upanishads, the Mahabharata (including the Bhagavad Gita)

"Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."
— Bhagavad Gita, ch. 11, v. 32

Shiva is one of the major gods of Hinduism — depending on the sect, the major god, one of the top three, or one of the top five. Eternal and omniscient, Shiva is the god of destruction but also lord of the dance. He is always depicted as a handsome and smiling young man, but he covers himself with ashes. One of his names, Rudra, means "terrible," while another, Śaṇkara, means "beneficent." He is ascetic and celibate, but also married to the goddesses Sati and Parvati, and father of Ganesha and Kartikeya. With his many hands he gives, and he takes away.

To call Shiva the god of death, as my 9th grade World Cultures textbook did, is telling only half the story, and missing the point in a major way. A belief in reincarnation is central to Hinduism, and Shiva is a god not so much of death but of transformation. Everything dies, but everything is reborn. Shiva, who is eternal, expands rather than reincarnates, and symbolizes the constant balancing and renewal of the universe.

This idea of transformation is powerful and feels like a fundamental truth. We see it in the change of seasons and in the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians: "I will tell you something that has been secret: that we are not all going to die, but shall all be changed."

I don't remember much about September 11, 2001. I was living in Los Angeles, and in the habit of getting up very early, as most of my clients were on the East Coast. I took Dizzy for a walk around the block, then booted up my computer. The headline on my web browser announced that a plane had struck one of the World Trade Center towers. At 6:30, the phone rang. It was my friend Meredith, who shared an apartment with my cousin Moira in West Hollywood. She told me to turn on the television, that it was terrible.

Within the hour several of us had gathered at Meredith and Moira's. We spent the day there, watching the television and calling everyone we knew in New York and Washington, as the telephone lines jammed and we waited for the next attack. When I eventually drove home, the streets of Los Angeles were as empty as if a neutron bomb had hit it.

We were all transformed that day, and the transformation continues. Shiva reminds us that joy comes from sorrow, that life comes from death, and that even the gods dance.

Thor

2011-09-08T12:30:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Ancient Germanic and Old Norse belief systems
Also known as: Þunor, Donar and 14 other names, most frequently Atli ("the terrible"), Einridi ("the one who rides alone"), Hloridi ("the loud rider"), Rym ("noise") and Vingthor
Earliest recorded mention: Unknown, but before Tiberius' conquest of the Germanic tribes in 1-4 CE
Major texts: Poetic Edda, Prose Edda

I could not help but wonder, when I saw (and thoroughly enjoyed) Thor at the movies this summer, how modern Christians would react to a movie that portrayed Jesus as a Marvel superhero. But then, Jesus didn't make a habit of smiting his enemies, and many of the stories of Thor in the Eddas would fit perfectly well in a comic book.

Thor was, of course, the god of thunder, and is the source of the name Thursday. He was the son of Odin, the Allfather, and of Jord, who personifies the Earth Primeval. Thor's hammer Mjollnir throws lightning, while thunder comes from Thor's chariot, drawn by the goats Tanngrisnir and Tanngnost. He has a red beard and red hair, and many children born of several different goddesses. He was the strongest of the gods, with his strength doubled by a magic belt, Megingjard.

The Roman historian Tacitus, describing the religious practices of the Germans, associated Thor with the Roman god Hercules, and noted that Thor did not require human sacrifices, while Odin did. This willingness to settle for animals instead of human was one element that made Thor the most popular of all the Norse gods, especially once Christian missionaries reached the tribes of Germany and Scandinavia. The worship of Thor survived well past the official Christianization of Norway; it was easy to disguise Thor's hammer symbol as a cross, and archeologists have found quite a few of these amulets. The swastika was also a symbol of Thor, especially popular with women, before Adolf Hitler adapted it to his own uses. The Grimm brothers recorded references to Thor in the fairy tales they collected from Germans in the 19th century.

At the end of the universe — Ragnarok, in Norse mythology, and the Gotterdammerung, in German — prophecies say that Thor will battle Jormungandr, the Midgard Serpent, who will rise up and cause the seas to flood and boil. Jormungandr will poison the earth and soil before Thor finally kills him, but Thor himself will be poisoned and die as well. The worlds will burn, the earth will sink into the sea, but from this devastation a new world will emerge. Two human survivors, Lif and Lifthrasir, will start a new civilization.

Scandinavia and Iceland, in particular, are harsh climates subject to almost every extreme natural phenomenon: volcanoes, earthquakes, blizzards, terrible storms, floods, droughts, etc. The prophecies of Ragnarok explained these phenomena and offered the promise that humanity would survive them, in some form, even if the gods did not. It's pretty radical, if you think about it: a religion that promises that humanity will outlive its gods. It's a worldview with deep implications for German history, in particular, inspiring (among others) Nietzsche, Wagner and Hitler himself.

Tefnut

2011-09-07T08:46:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Ancient Egyptian mythology
Also known as: Tefenet, Tefnet
Earliest recorded mention: c. 2400-2300 BCE
Major texts: Pyramid Texts, Coffin Texts, Book of the Dead, etc.

"I united myself to my shadow, and I sent forth Shu and Tefnut out from myself; thus from being one god I became three"
— The Egyptian Book of the Dead

The name Tefnut is a best guess, as the goddess's name is transliterated TFNT, with no indication of how it was was pronounced. It means "she of moisture," and Tefnut was the goddess of rain, among other things. Born of Amun, the creator (also called Aten and Ra), she was the twin sister and the wife of Shu, the god of air, and the mother of Nut (the sky) and Geb (the earth).

It's hard to imagine how important the rain must have been in ancient Egypt, but the fact that the rain goddess was one of the first three gives us some idea. Tefnut is always shown with a scepter, the symbol of power, and an ankh, the symbol of life. She wears the sun disk as a headdress and her head is a lion's, reminding us of how powerful the rain can be. Even during the time when Akhnaten tried to convert Egypt to the worship of the single god Aten, Akhnaten and his wife, Nefertiti, were sometimes depicted as Shu and Tefnut.

An ancient legend tells the story of a time when Tefnut and her father, Amun-Ra, had a serious argument, and Tefnut left Egypt for a distant land. In her absence, Egypt suffered drought; the crops failed and the people starved. Amun-Ra repented, and sent Thoth (god of medicine, magic and the underworld) and Shu to get her back. When Tefnut returned, the lands were flooded, and the people rejoiced.

It's raining today. It rained some yesterday and it's supposed to rain more tomorrow. We don't rejoice over floods any more, but I'd rather have rain than drought.

Xiuhtecuhtli

2011-09-06T08:17:00.002-04:00

Associated with: Aztec mythology
Also known as: Huehueteotl, Chantico
Earliest recorded mention: uncertain, but before 1545
Major texts: the Florentine Codex

Xiuhtecuhtli, the Lord of Turquoise, was the Aztec god of both fire and time, and one of four Aztec "creator gods." As Xiuhtecuhtli he is young and virile, but in his incarnation as Huehueteotl, he is "the Old God," and as Chantico, he is female, the goddess of the hearth. The Florentine Codex, a record transcribed by the Franciscan monk Bernardino de Sahagun, calls him the mother and father of the other gods, and says that he lives in a turquoise enclosure in the center of the earth. He is also, appropriately, the god of volcanoes.

Xiuhtecuhtli was lord of the calendar, so crucially important to every element of Aztec life. The Aztec calendars were far more sophisticated than its European counterparts, and the people of Mesoamerica figured out leap years (among other things) earlier and more accurately than other civilizations. In addition to a 365-day calendar that reflected the solar year, the Aztecs followed a sacred 260-day calendar called the tonalpohualli, or day-count. Each of 20 days corresponded to a different god, and these days were paired with numerical designations from 1 to 13. Xiuhtecuhtli's day was Atl (water); the Aztecs believed that the world survived in a fragile balance of opposing forces. Atl was a day of conflict and purification, as the combination of fire and water must always be.

The combination of the 20 daysigns and 13 calendar numbers took 52 years to complete a full cycle. At the end of those 52 years the Aztecs celebrated the New Fire ceremony, the Binding of the Years, in Xiuhtecuhtli's honor in order to prevent the destruction of the world. After five days of preparation by fasting, ritual bloodletting, ritual cleansing and silence, the ceremony was performed on an extinct volcano, and included - yes - human sacrifice, an important element of several Aztec rituals. The last of these New Fire ceremonies was held in 1507, before the Spanish conquest of 1519-21. Bernardino de Sahagun, who recorded the ceremony, never saw it himself.

The calendar says that today is Tuesday, September 6, but for most of us in the US, no matter how many years out of school we are, it still feels like the first day of the year. Fires are raging in Texas and Louisiana, and the Great Dismal Swamp is still burning even after 12 inches of rain from Hurricane Irene. It's probably fortunate that we no longer practice human sacrifice.

Ponos

2011-09-05T09:01:00.003-04:00

Associated with: Greek and Roman mythology
Also known as: Ponus
Earliest recorded mention: c. 700 BCE
Major texts: Hesiod's Theogony, The Aeneid, Cicero's De Natura Deorum

Ponos, the god of labor, was one of the children of Eris, goddess of discord, and brother to the personfications of almost every other imaginable human evil: forgetfulness, starvation, battles, murders, lies, anarchy and ruin. Virgil shows us Ponos in the Underworld, between Death (Letum) and Sleep (Sopor) and just down from Gaudia, the soul's empty joys. Cicero says that Ponos is one of the children of Erebus (Darkness) and Nox (Night), although Greek mythology tells us that Nyx (Nox) was the mother of Eris, which would make her Ponos' grandmother. Ponos is also identified as the god of hardship, and the name shares an etymology with the word for pain.

It tells us a great deal about Greek and Roman society that they personified physical toil as one of the evils inflicted on humanity. The Greek philosopher Epicurus (341 BCE - 270 BCE), who said that gods did not concern themselves with human matters, famously said that pleasure was good and pain was bad. The Epicurean ideal, however, is not one of excess, because excess causes pain. Instead, it is a life free from anxiety, in the company of friends, with only as much work as necessary for self-sufficiency. Of course, this is an easier worldview to maintain when you live in a temperate climate where fruit grows on trees and sheep and goats feed themselves on hillsides.

Here in the United States, where it is Labor Day, we take a different view, rooted in the Calvinism of our pilgrim ancestors. The paradox of the Protestant work ethic, however, is that the Calvinist doctrine of predestination holds that the Elect are saved whether they work hard or not — but because the Elect are role models for the rest of us, they must work so that everyone else recognizes their virtue and their standing as those who are already saved.

This idea depresses me. Work just to make sure everybody knows you're virtuous? (Thus the unshakable American scorn for vacations and the terrible shame of unemployment, which is exacerbating our current economic crisis.) I prefer the Catholic model, which says your work actually earns you something. What it earns me is freedom from anxiety — so I too, in my own way, am pursuing the Epicurean ideal.

Ahriman

2011-09-03T09:59:00.000-04:00

Associated with: Zoroastrianism, Manichaeism
Also known as: Angra (Anghra) Mainyu
Earliest recorded mention: Uncertain, but believed to be c. 1200 BCE
Major texts: Avesta, Pahlavi texts (the Bundahishn, the Book of Arda Viraf, Jamasp Nameh)

Zoroastrianism, the religion expounded by the prophet Zarathustra (Zoroaster), was the dominant religion of the Persian Empire (c. 550-330 BCE). It was the most widely-practiced world religion during the life of Jesus, and still has many adherents in Iran and India. The 1907 Catholic Encyclopedia offers "Parsee" (Parsi) as a synonym for Zoroastrian, but Parsi is only one of the major communities within Zoroastrianism.

Zoroastrians worship Ahura Mazda (Ohrmazd), the creator of the universe and a source of only good. Evil in the world comes from Ahriman, or Angra Mainyu, the "destructive spirit" or "angry man" that is the exact opposite of Ahura Mazda. In various parts of the Avesta, Ahriman rules the nether world and is the chief (though not the creator) of the daevas, false gods that personify evil.

The Zurvanite sect of Zoroastrianism posits that Ahura Mazda and Ahriman were born as twins, and that Ahriman chose evil. The Zurvanite creation myth says that Ahriman was born of Zurvan (Time, the First Principle)'s doubt. Zarathustra prophesied that Ahura Mazda would ultimately defeat Ahriman, not only because his powers are superior (Ahura Mazda is omniscient; Ahriman is not) but because humans will choose good over evil.

In the third century, the Persian prophet Mani synthesized the principal teachings of Zoroastrianism, Christianity and Buddhism into a single faith. In Manichaeism, widely practiced between the third and seventh centuries, Ahriman rules the World of Darkness, composed of five evil kingdoms. He is the father of a son, Az, who in turn is the father of Adam and Eve — born after Az swallowed huge quantities of light. Adam and Eve, therefore, are the products of both light and darkness, with the freedom to choose between them.

This power of free will is a distinguishing element of Zoroastrianism, which, along with Judaism, was one of the first religions to recognize humans' ability to choose between good and evil. Ahriman answers the fundamental question, "Why does evil exist?" without forcing believers to see the universe itself as evil. The universe itself is good, but evil exists within it and outside it, a constant challenge. Likewise, we as humans are beings filled with light, though heirs to darkness. Therefore we all, as individuals, have not only the power but the responsibility to choose between the two. Zoroastrianism teaches that light will ultimately triumph, and that Ahriman's eventual defeat is inevitable — but "ultimately," as we see, is a long time coming.

Yahweh

2011-09-02T05:57:00.004-04:00

Associated with: Judaism, Christianity
Also known as: Jehovah
Earliest recorded mention: c. 1400 BCE
Major texts: Torah (Old Testament)

Then Moses said to God, "I am to go, then, to the sons of Israel and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you.' But if they ask me what his name is, what am I to tell them?/ And God said to Moses, "I Am who I Am. This," he added, "is what you must say to the sons of Israel: 'I Am has sent me to you.'"/ And God also said to Moses, "You are to say to the sons of Israel, 'Yahweh, the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you.' This is my name for all time; by this name I shall be invoked for all generations to come." (Exodus 3:13-15)

The oldest books of the Bible, Genesis and Exodus, combine two separate traditions that refer to the deity by two different names. One of these is Elohim, a Hebrew word for God that can be either singular or plural (which I find fascinating, and will probably discuss at length down the road). The other, more familiar name is Yahweh.

"Yahweh" is our best transliteration of the Tetragrammaton, four Hebrew letters that were Romanized as YHWH, without vowels. Its precise meaning is a matter of scholarly debate. The Catholic Encyclopedia says that it is a noun derived from the Hebrew verb "to be," and means, "He who is." The Encyclopedia Britannica gives its meaning as "He Brings Into Existence Whatever Exists.”

Nor do we know how the name was pronounced — in large part because the name was not pronounced, because it was considered blasphemy to utter the name aloud. This teaching is still part of not only Judaism, but Catholicism as well. In 2008, the Vatican directed churches to stop using the name Yahweh in songs or prayers.

"As an expression of the infinite greatness and majesty of God, it was held to be unpronounceable and hence was replaced during the reading of sacred Scripture by means of the use of an alternate name: 'Adonai,' which means 'Lord,'" said a Vatican letter on the subject. "Avoiding pronouncing the Tetragrammaton of the name of God on the part of the church has therefore its own grounds. Apart from a motive of a purely philological order, there is also that of remaining faithful to the church's tradition, from the beginning, that the sacred Tetragrammaton was never pronounced in the Christian context nor translated into any of the languages into which the Bible was translated."

In my third-grade CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, the Catholic version of Sunday school) class, we learned that God was a being omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent. Then, of course, we had to learn what those words meant: all-knowing, all-powerful, everywhere at all times. Infinite and unknowable. God had no gender, but we referred to Him as the Father Almighty because — because — because why? Well, that's a post for another day, but it was mainly because humans had to translate God into something we could recognize and relate to.

This, to me, is the mystery and the paradox of Yahweh: infinite and unknowable, the God of the Old Testament wants to be known. He gives us His name, which we cannot say. He shows Himself to us through symbols and messengers, because our human brains are simply not capable of taking in the enormity of God's existence. He is.

This being the case, how can any person or religion claim to know the single truth of God? We cannot. Instead, we choose a frame that shows us only the aspects we can get our minds and hearts around. The value and truth of the frame we choose does not invalidate anyone else's frame, because when it comes to the great I Am, none of us are more than blind men looking at an elephant.

Of Gods and Monsters

2011-09-01T08:28:00.002-04:00

Good grief, is it September already? As usual, August flew by, and as usual, I took no meaningful time off, nor did I make any progress on the two big long-term projects I'd hoped to devote time to. So it goes. In this environment I'm grateful for the work, and the important things will all get done eventually.

This year's blog takes a fairly radical turn, although like every year it's all about one of my own particular interests. The theme is "Gods and Monsters," and before I kick things off in earnest, I'll lay out what I hope to do with it, and set some crucial ground rules.

The "Gods and Monsters" title is a loose description. Each day's post will be a quick introduction to a major figure in world religions and mythology, with links for more information when available. I will do my best to treat each topic with respect, and I ask commenters to do the same. Politics and religion are supposed to be the great taboos of polite conversation, but I hope we can have one here.

To that end, I'm going to be a lot more stringent about policing comments than in previous years. I will delete anonymous comments immediately. You don't have to register, but you do have to sign your name. Most of us have strong beliefs. We will respect each other's faiths here, and that includes the faith of people who have no faith. (I believe that atheism is its own religion, but we'll get to that down the line.) Disagreements are fine, but disrespect is not. This is my blog, and I'll delete anything I consider offensive or pernicious.

My own background is Irish Catholic and Jesuit-influenced. I still call myself Catholic, although I am not as observant as I should be. I feel tremendous sorrow about certain teachings of my Church. Religions are families; I don't agree with everything my father says, either. Conflicts between one's personal beliefs and the teachings of one's Church are only human, not only to be expected but also an important part of the faith journey. I don't believe in predestination and I don't believe in revelation without effort. I believe that questioning strengthens and rewards our faith, and makes that faith more precious. That said, I also believe that grace is a gift offered to all of us, without a quid pro quo, and that we are all loved absolutely. Yes, even Hitler.

One Sunday morning when I was five or six years old, fidgeting in a pew at St. Leo's Church in Fairfax, Virginia, I realized that there had been a time when I did not exist. The world had existed before November 1965, but I had not. Where, then, had I been? I asked my mother and she said, "You were in the mind of God."

That made sense to me then, and it makes sense to me now. At one time was Nothing, but now we have Something. Why is there Something instead of Nothing? Why is there order (however disorderly) instead of chaos? Why is there life as well as death?

Humans have been asking these questions since we had words. In fact, these questions distinguish humans from other species. Sharks don't wonder why they're sharks. Dogs don't wonder why they're dogs. The answers we have come up with, however imperfect or ignorant or immature they may seem, form the basis of all our gods and all our monsters. Over the next year, this blog will explore them.

I'll be tinkering with the blog template over the weekend, but it will include a list of the major texts I'll be consulting during the year. Suggestions for further reading are always welcome.

"Some people say/You can make it on your own/Oh, you can make it if you try/I know better now..."

2011-07-31T13:33:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Real Real Gone," Van Morrison. Words & music by Van Morrison. Track 1 of Enlightenment, 1990.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1992.
Listen/watch here.

The horns at the beginning of this song are an automatic mood-lifter. I wish I could play the trumpet, or better yet, the trombone -- I would love to know how to make a note slide like that.

Here it is the 31st of July already. I'll be real real gone for the month of August, at least from this blog. In fact, I'm going to try to take two days completely off this week, and visit a couple of friends who are renting an island house. We'll see if I can manage it.

When the blog returns in September, the new theme will be "Gods & Monsters." Every day I'll feature a different god, hero, monster or villain, with due respect to believers. I'm a believer myself, which the blog will explain and explore, and I'll welcome contributions from interested parties. I expect to learn a few things along the way, and I hope you do, too.

Between now and then I may post the occasional book review, or just check in to say hello. Happy August, and see you in September.

"I don't know much but I'd like to know why."

2011-07-30T14:30:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Maybe It's Imaginary," Kirsty MacColl. Words & music by Kirsty MacColl. Track 10 of Electric Landlady, 1991.
When/how acquired: Purchased used CD, c. 1994
I couldn't find this online, but you can see a pretty good cover here.

A former boss of mine once said he knew everything when he was 26, and had gotten dumber every year since. I might have peaked a few years later, maybe in my early 30s -- but without a doubt, I'm losing brain cells every day.

I'm surprised that this is only the second song from this album I've quoted this year. Electric Landlady is another one of my Desert Island Discs, and I'd ask for "The One and Only" to be played at my funeral except it would come off as maudlin.

That sound you hear is my deadlines rushing by you. Back to work, but I'll post tomorrow to close this year and announce next year's theme.

"The right to work is traded in for the right to refuse admission."

2011-07-29T07:18:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Clubland," Elvis Costello & the Attractions. Words & music by Elvis Costello. Track 1 of Trust, 1981.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1984
Listen/watch here.

"Clubland" was the first song Elvis Costello and his band played off the Spectacular Spinning Songbook last night, and felt even more pointed in today's world than it did 30 years ago.

The show was fantastic, and Costello himself is uncanny. I don't see well in dim light, but on stage he looked ageless, just like the skinny kid he was 30 years ago. More than that, he looked like he was having a great time. We should all be so lucky; the man will be 57 next month, and he seems to be doing exactly what he wants to do.

Elvis Costello's gotten more posts in this year's blog than any other artist, and what I love about him is how wide his vision is. When he was burning out on New Wave in the early 1980s, he peeled off and made a country album. Later, he made an album with Burt Bacharach (Painted from Memory) that is still one of my favorites. After Katrina, he made The River in Reverse with New Orleans R&B legend Allan Toussaint.

Last night's set included covers of the Rolling Stones ("Out of Time"), Prince ("Purple Rain"), Johnny Cash ("Cry, Cry, Cry"), Jesse Winchester ("Payday"), Chuck Berry/Elvis Presley ("Promised Land"), and a version of "Tracks of My Tears" that segued from "Alison" and made me realize those are basically two versions of the same song. Elvis Costello understands his place on a river of music, and rides the river where it takes him. I admire that.

I said I'd talk about books this week and haven't really, but last night's show reminded me of one of my favorite reads of this year so far, which I don't think I've mentioned yet: NASHVILLE CHROME by Rick Bass. It's a novel based on the real-life story of The Browns, a brother-and-sister trio (Maxine, Bonnie and Jim Ed) who were early members of the Grand Old Opry, and toured with Elvis Presley. NASHVILLE CHROME is one of the best portrayals I've ever read of music as a job, and that tension between the longing for stardom and the need to make a living.

By the time my friend Richard and I got out of the State Theatre last night, the Spinning Songbook was already dismantled, and the stage was a jumble of boxes and cables and dollies. It's only glamorous from the outside, but on a good night it must be magic for the musicians as well as for the audience. Why else would they do it?

"There's a word in Spanish/Italian and German/In sign language, morse code/Semaphore and gibberish..."

2011-07-28T11:01:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Pidgin English," Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Words & music by Elvis Costello. Track 13 of Imperial Bedroom, 1982.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1983; purchased CD, c. 1994.
Listen/watch here.

Writing a lot this week for various clients, and one of the challenges is switching voices from one to another. An author's newsletter is not written in the same language as a marketing pitch, or a commercial website, or a press release, or Congressional testimony – although of course they're all in English. Switching back and forth, I occasionally come up blank when I reach for a word, and it's hardest of all to find my own voice again at the end of the day.

Tonight I have tickets to see Elvis Costello at the State Theatre, though it feels like playing hooky to take an evening off. I've seen him before, but it's been years. This time he's got the roulette wheel that lets audiences choose the playlist. I'm hoping to hear a lot from this album, which would rank near the top of my Desert Island Discs.

The words Elvis Costello is trying to come up with, in this song, are "P.S., I love you," which I don't say enough. We're three days away from the end of this blog incarnation, so go ahead and take that to heart -- thanks for hanging in there with me this year, and sorry I haven't been as conscientious as in previous years. When I'm AWOL, you can always check out blogs belonging to my cousins Moira and Sheila (who celebrates a birthday today).

"I know it might sound strange, but I believe/You'll be coming back before too long."

2011-07-26T06:49:00.003-04:00

The Song: "(Don't go Back to) Rockville," R.E.M. Words & music written by R.E.M. (Bill Berry, Peter Buck, Mike Mills & Michael Stipe). Track 5 of Eponymous, 1988.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1991.
Listen/watch here.

Yes, I know this track was originally on Reckoning; I don't own Reckoning. Sorry.

So I promised last week that I'd write about books this week, because I've gotten so far behind on my reading lists here. It's not that I haven't been reading; it's that I've been reading things for work, and reading things in bits and pieces, and reading works still in progress or at various stages pre-publication.

Of the finished books I've read this year, though, I've noticed a strange spike in stories about kidnappings. Joseph Finder's BURIED SECRETS is about a teenaged girl who's kidnapped and buried alive; Linwood Barclay's FEAR THE WORST is another story about a missing teenager, with his trademark revelations of shocking family secrets; Michelle Gagnon's KIDNAP AND RANSOM is an interesting look at the international paramilitary industry of kidnapping.

The most powerful kidnapping thriller I've read this year, though, is also the shortest: Megan Abbott's THE END OF EVERYTHING. (I almost used a line from that Chris Isaak song as today's lyric, but there isn't much to the song.) I've read the book twice now -- I needed to give myself a couple of weeks to digest it, then went back for a second look. If anything, it punched harder the second time around.

THE END OF EVERYTHING is set in a wealthy Michigan suburb, sometime in the 1980s (the book includes at least one anachronism, but it's a memory piece, verging on the surreal, so I didn't mind). It's narrated by Lizzie, who is 13 the summer her best friend Evie disappears. Lizzie and Evie are next-door neighbors; Lizzie's parents are divorcing, and she longs for a father like Evie's. The mystery of where Evie has gone, and with whom, is solved quickly enough. The book is more about why, and what happens to Lizzie and the others who are left behind.

Some of the published reviews of this book, while positive, have missed the point in quite a spectacular way. This is not a conventional thriller: it is almost an emotional autopsy, a fearless look at the violent boundaries of adolescence. Thirteen-year-old girls are chimeras, extraordinary creatures who are neither girls nor women, but both. It's a strange and dangerous time, and I'm not sure I've ever read a book that examines this as ruthlessly as THE END OF EVERYTHING does. When I finished it, I told Megan that I felt a little afraid of her. She took it as a compliment, which was my intention, but I wasn't kidding. We should all be a little afraid of anyone who sees the world this sharply, and isn't afraid to report what she sees.

I finished this book and wished that I belonged to a book group, so I had someone to discuss it with. I have discussed it, at length, with a couple of friends, and have not been surprised by how viscerally everyone seems to respond to it. It's made at least one of my friends downright angry, which I take as proof of the uncomfortable truths at its center. Exactly what those truths are I don't want to say, for fear of giving away too much of the story -- but if anyone wants to discuss the book in the comments section, go right ahead. Everybody else, skip the comments to avoid spoilers.

Special Bonus Post! Five Exotic Major League Pitches

2011-07-25T07:22:00.002-04:00

Tim Wakefield is one of only two knuckleballers pitching in the Major League today (the other is R.A. Dickey of the New York Mets). I realized yesterday that I don't actually know what a knuckleball is, nor could I explain several of the other pitches Wakefield threw yesterday. So for my edification and yours, a quick rundown.

1. Knuckleball. A pitch thrown deliberately to minimize the ball's spin in flight, which creates erratic speed and motion. Knuckleballs are hard to throw, hard to catch, hard to hit and hard for umpires to call. The pitcher who brought it to the Major Leagues, Eddie Cicotte of the Chicago White Sox, actually held the ball with his knuckles before throwing it; Tim Wakefield holds it with his fingertips. Knuckleballs are slow -- 55-75 mph -- so it's their unpredictability that makes them hard to hit.

2. Cutter. A fastball that breaks slightly toward the pitcher's glove side as it reaches the plate. Most effective against opposite-handed batters.

3. Splitter. A split-fingered fastball, related to the changeup, sometimes called a forkball (though a forkball differs slightly, and I'll be grateful to anyone who can explain how). Splitting the fingers when throwing a fastball makes it behave more like a knuckleball, but (obviously) faster. The ball drops and moves right or left as it reaches the plate, forcing the batter to try to chase it with the bat.

4. Slider. A pitch slightly slower than a fast ball that breaks sideways and down as it reaches the plate, and is thus a type of breaking ball.

5. Changeup. Sometimes called a slow ball or an off-speed pitch, it's created by changing the grip on the ball. Pitchers generally use two fingers to throw a fastball; changeups use three, with the ball held closer to the palm, or cradle the ball in a circled hand. The goal is to fool the batter about the speed of the approaching ball, so that even if the batter makes contact, the ball flies foul.

"You'll be a bust, be a bust, be a bust/In the Hall of Fame."

2011-07-25T07:01:00.004-04:00

The Song: "We Welcome You to Munchkinland," original cast members. Words & music by E.Y. Harburg and Harold Arlen. Track 5 of The Wizard of Oz, original motion picture soundtrack, 1939.
How/when acquired: This is a cheat, as I don't actually own this track. I did once, on vinyl, as a tiny child; years later I did again, on a floppy disk, as part of a screensaver package. But this track I found on Spotify, which I just got and love like a new pet.
Listen/watch here.

Yesterday I went to Fenway Park for the very first time, to see the Red Sox clobber the Mariners and Tim Wakefield pitch his 2,000th career strikeout (and the 2001st, too). It was Maine Appreciation Day; thanks to my friend Richard for bringing me along.

Tim Wakefield turns 45 next week, and has been pitching for the Red Sox since 1995. He is currently the oldest active player in Major League Baseball, and yesterday marked his sixth win of the season, bringing his record to 6-3 for the year. Last year he won the Roberto Clemente Award (after being nominated eight times) as the player who "best exemplifies the game of baseball, sportsmanship, community involvement and the individual's contribution to his team."

What makes Wakefield's performance even more remarkable is that he didn't start out as a pitcher at all. He came to the majors (after being told he never would) as a first baseman, with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1988. He decided to try to learn to pitch, and worked his way back up from the Carolina League (single-A ball, if you remember Bull Durham). He spent most of the first half of the 1990s in the minor leagues, eventually being released from the Pirates and winding up with the Red Sox in 1995 basically because he and they didn't have many other choices. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Tim Wakefield just wanted to keep playing, and has found a way to do it for 23 years. Whether or not he ever gets elected to the official Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, he's already a Hall of Fame player, and I'm so very glad that I got to watch him play. It makes me want to work on a knuckleball of my own.

"I wish that I could push a button/And talk in the past and not the present tense."

2011-07-22T11:09:00.007-04:00

The Song: "Brilliant Mistake," The Costello Show (Elvis Costello). Words & music by Declan MacManus (Elvis Costello). Track 20 of The Very Best of Elvis Costello & the Attractions, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1994.
Listen/watch here.

This track appeared first on the 1986 album King of America, which my then-boyfriend owned on vinyl, but I never did. For some reason the songs on this album are credited to Elvis Costello's birth name, Declan Patrick Aloysius MacManus, which reminds me that I've always wondered what his friends call him. Surely his wife doesn't call him Elvis? "Aloysius" was my own grandfather's middle name, and I always liked it, although you probably couldn't call a kid that today.

Anyway, I digress. We're having a heat wave in central Maine, along with the rest of the country, and my brain is melting and slowly leaking out of my ears. It seems impossible that a month ago I had the heat on, and I know that a month from now we'll already be looking at autumn. That does not make today's 90-degree temperatures any easier to take. Dizzy lies in front of my floor fan and whimpers; I'm sitting here with a cold pack draped around my neck, although it's turned lukewarm and clammy. Disgusting. I could go work at the state library and probably will, since the heat's making my computer erratic (at least, I hope it's the heat). But I feel both worried and guilty about Dizzy, who will probably need a trip to the river or the reservoir in another half hour or so.

I realize it's been a very long time since I posted a reading list, and since it has, I'll make all of next week's posts about books. The problem is that I've been reading too much for work, and some of that is confidential, so I need to figure out what I can and can't admit to having read.

Still, I have no reservation about recommending my current reading material, which is Hodder's UK trade paperback reissue of NINE COACHES WAITING by Mary Stewart. I read this book first when I was nine, I think. It was one of the very first grown-up books I ever read, and I reread my mother's paperback copy until it fell to pieces. It is a modern (well, 1958) updating of a classic Gothic tale: Linda Martin, English governess, comes to the remote Chateau de Valmy to care for the nine-year-old Comte, an orphan whose uncle Leon serves as guardian. Leon's son is a handsome rogue named Raoul, who sweeps Linda off her feet -- but soon enough, Linda realizes that all is not as it seems, and that both she and her young charge are in deadly peril.

At nine years old, I wanted to live in this book. I wanted to ride in the passenger seat of Raoul de Valmy's Cadillac, taking the Alpine turns at reckless speed. I wanted to be able to make my own ball gown from Italian gossamer found in a small mountain town. I wanted to drink cafe fine, not that I knew what cafe fine was, and quote William Blake to handsome strangers.

I do occasionally quote William Blake to strangers. And I drink my share of coffee, though I'm still not completely sure about the definition of cafe fine.

"I'm the devil and the king of lies."

2011-07-19T10:37:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Crime," The Pietasters. Words & music by Todd Eckhardt. Track 9 of Willis, 1997.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1998.
Listen/watch here.

I have a lot of work to do. A lot. My apartment is a mess. My kitchen sink is full of dishes. And what am I doing?

Watching the Murdoch hearings on MSNBC. It's not our scandal, it's not even my country, but I cannot look away. "Are you familiar with the term 'willful blindness'?"

The facts of this case are compelling enough, and get more astonishing every day. (The Guardian is the best source of comprehensive coverage, though it can hardly claim to be a disinterested party.) But what's sucked me in is the sharp suspicion that this kind of thing has been happening for quite a while, may even happen all the time, and this is the inevitable product of our society's insatiable greed for gossip. In fact, I've heard a few people say they weren't particularly bothered by the idea of celebrities' cell phones being hacked, as it was part of the price of fame; they weren't outraged until they discovered that private individuals had been victimized.

I don't know where we got this idea that celebrities traded in their basic human rights as the price of fame, but I hope this scandal makes the whole gossip and "reality" industry stop and step back. People have a right to keep secrets, even if they're selling other elements of their personas. The public doesn't necessarily have a right to know, except about public actions being performed with public funds.

Imagine this level of aggressive reporting and national scrutiny being turned on our medical system, or on the Afghanistan campaign, or on any public matter that costs us money and shapes our lives.

The breakup of NewsCorp seems inevitable in light of these hearings, falling hard on the heels of yesterday's announcement of Borders' liquidation. I would like to think this presages an end to the dominance of the global corporation, and a new era of start-ups and small businesses and independent entrepreneurship. I don't know whether one thing necessarily follows another.

The lesson that emerges from this hearing, however, is that as soon as an organization becomes large enough to obscure personal responsibility, it does.

"I want a feeling for a dog."

2011-07-18T12:43:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Dog," El Perro del Mar. Words & music by Sarah Assbring (El Perro del Mar). Track 5 of El Perro del Mar, 2006.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2009
Listen/watch here.

Sarah Assbring, the sole member of El Perro del Mar (Dog of the Sea), is Swedish, and while I know her English is better than my Swedish, I wonder why the songs on this album are written in a language that is obviously not her own. Then again, would we buy pop music recorded in Swedish? Possibly not, although the friend who gave me this CD probably would and has.

Anyway, this is a nice, bouncy chorus that's been running in my head all day, because Dizzy does not seem to be feeling well at all. I hope it's just the heat, which is brutal for Maine (although, in only the high 80s, would seem gentle in Washington or Los Angeles). Dizzy didn't get up until after 9:00 this morning, and is currently strategically positioned to catch the cross breeze between the fans in my living room and my bedroom.

I want to believe that Dizzy's life is a good one and mostly cheerful. He always seems happy to go out, happy to get a treat, happy to go for a ride. He's much slower than he used to be, though, and gets confused about things. His eyes are a little cloudy, and I'm not sure how well he hears any more. I've just made an appointment for his annual checkup, in two weeks, and found myself tearing up over the phone, just talking about the fact that he's suddenly an old dog.

The Pedigree Dog Age Calculator says he is between 82 and 89 in dog years. The vet's been saying for a while that Dizzy's in great shape "for an old guy," but until quite recently I've been able to forget that he's aging much more quickly than I am, and will not be with me forever.

I don't think he knows. I don't think dogs are that self-aware. Yesterday I took him down to the river and let him wade for a while, and he was perfectly happy. He wanted to say hi to everyone and sniff things and roll in the grass. At some point, the bad days will outnumber the good, and it'll be time to say goodbye. I hope I recognize it when it comes, and don't wait too long just because I'm not ready.

I'll never be ready.

"I only want to be left to my own ways/The rulers of one leaving all things undone."

2011-07-13T20:50:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Rulers, Ruling All Things." Words & music by Midlake (Paul Alexander, Eric Nichelson, Eric Pulido, Mckenzie Smith and Tim Smith). Track 6 of The Courage of Others, 2010
When/how acquired: Purchased MP3, 2010
Listen/watch here.

I don't quite know what the words of this song mean, but they felt more than appropriate for me today, as I worked quite hard on a number of things and finished nothing. With luck, everything will be finished at once, sometime between now and Friday.

"Let the other forty million, three hundred and seven/People who want to get famous."

2011-07-12T06:56:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Mr. Sellack," The Roches. Words and music by Terre Roche. Track 3 of The Roches, 1979.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1987
Listen/watch here.

Last night I turned on the TV when I couldn't work any more, and found absolutely nothing to watch. No baseball, because of the Home Run Derby; none of the usual Monday night shows, because it's summertime. Instead, I had my choice of reality-based shows. I did not want to watch "The Bachelorette." I did not want to watch "America's Got Talent." I did not want to watch "Celebrity Chef Housewives of Peoria." I wasn't even in the mood for the series return of "No Reservations," although that's one of the few reality-based shows I do watch.

I wanted a story. I wound up ordering Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I on demand, because friends invited me to come along to the midnight show of Part II on Thursday. Most of what I watch on TV these days is movies, in fact -- not pay-per-view but Turner Classic Movies, the Sundance Channel, and the odd films that pop up on the Ovation network. I want to watch people pretending to be other people, not pretending to be themselves.

Something about that desperate desire to be on television breaks my heart. Are people so small, in their lives, in their worlds, that they need to be on TV just to prove to themselves that they exist? Do people think that being on television will turn them into something that they're not? I suspect they do. Of course, being on one of those shows does change them. For one thing, those shows need conflict to attract viewers, so I have no doubt that people being filmed look for opportunities to create that conflict. More conflict means more camera time -- more camera time that shows them to be people no one would want to know in real life. But they're famous, at least for a little while, and that seems to be the goal.

Where I notice this most of all, strange to say, is the supermarket checkout line. Tabloid covers used to be full of movie stars; now they're about reality TV "stars." This makes me weirdly sad, as I think about people looking through old copies of The Enquirer 40 years from now and having absolutely no idea who any of those people are. We're still watching 40-year-old episodes of "Bewitched." No one's going to be watching 40-year-old episodes of "Teen Moms."

"You might need me more than you think you will..."

2011-07-11T06:32:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Brainy," The National. Words & music by The National (Aaron Dessner, Bryan Devendorf, Bryce Dessner, Matt Berninger & Scott Devendorf). Track 3 of Boxer, 2007.
When/how acquired: Purchased MP3, 2009
Listen/watch here.

Hi there. I know I've been away too long when friends start to write to ask whether I'm okay, because I haven't posted in a while.

Last week was an object lesson in many things, but most of all in the fine art of asking for help. My friends and family are constantly bailing me out in some fashion, and I realized last week that this is because, paradoxically, I do not ask for help in a timely manner. I don't want to admit that things are beyond me, and therefore I keep that secret (or flatter myself that I keep it secret) until it's obvious to everyone that I'm not coping, and then I do look like an idiot.

Had I gone to the doctor when I first got sick, no one would have accused me of faking it or malingering or being a big baby whiner. (Why I should accuse myself of those things, I do not know.) And had I gone to the doctor when I first got sick, I would not have missed the trip to New York I had planned, not only for a variety of work-related reasons but also to spend quality time with friends I hadn't seen in a while.

Now I am a week behind, because I got very little done last week, and will have to do all the things I'd hoped to do in person over the phone or by email. And that, at least, I might be a big baby whiner about.

I don't remember how or when I first heard this album, but it was probably through my brother-in-law, Scott. If you click through to the YouTube video I've linked to, you'll see the comment, "Every time someone listens to the national, my diary gets invaded by a stranger." I feel the same way. The whole album is a mine tunnel through my soul, and this song in particular kills me.

"I ain't nothing but tired/Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself."

2011-07-07T10:42:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Dancing in the Dark," Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 11 of Born in the U.S.A., 1984.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1984.
Listen/watch here.

This is not my favorite track off this album, which is not my favorite Springsteen album, but it was the record that made him a star, and "I'm on Fire," "Bobby Jean" and "No Surrender" stand with Springsteen's very best work.

I was supposed to go to New York today, and instead am going to the doctor about a cough I have had, off and on, for the past six weeks. If I am honest about it, I've had this cough, off and on, for considerably longer than that. I don't go to doctors. I feel ashamed of myself when I get sick, and going to the doctor feels like an exercise in ritual humiliation, besides being horrifyingly expensive. Once upon a time I had a regular doctor; once upon a time I had good health insurance. See my earlier post about living like a refugee.

This will change, I think, sooner rather than later. Exactly how, I couldn't yet tell you. In the meantime, I'll try to be better about posting for the rest of the month.

"Abe says, 'Where do you want this killin’ done?'/God says, 'Out on Highway 61.'”

2011-06-30T09:06:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Highway 61 Revisited," Bob Dylan. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Track 7 of Highway 61 Revisited, 1965.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2008.
Listen/watch here.

The Old Testament reading in today's missal is the Bible story that bothers me most, the story of God's demand that Abraham sacrifice his son Isaac as proof of his devotion. Abraham takes Isaac up the mountain to the place of sacrifice, and begins to prepare him as he would a lamb; at the last minute God intervenes and spares Isaac's life.

This story is a foundation myth of three of the world's religions, and was presented to me as a child as evidence of God's great mercy. I don't see it that way. I see it as something much more mysterious and terrifying. What kind of God demands so great a sacrifice? (What kind of God, for that matter, demands a sacrifice at all?) And then, when God sees that Abraham is willing to make that sacrifice, what kind of God disrespects that by saying, "Never mind, I was just testing you." I find the reprieve even more disturbing than the original demand. Are we not to believe what God tells us, what God asks of us? Is God so capricious and careless of our feelings and our faith?

The Catholic theologians who taught me said that this was both a paradox and a promise, a mystery solved by God's own sacrifice of Jesus as a symbol of God's love for us. I wasn't sure about that as a child, and I am not sure about it now. If God exists everywhere and in all times simultaneously, how does God learn? How is God's nature revealed to God? Is God self-aware? How can God not be? (I am deliberately avoiding pronouns; "God the Father" is a convenience but in my mind a limiting form of reference to that aspect of the Almighty.)

I'm not saying I don't believe. I do believe, which is why this troubles me so much. Later, in the book of Job, God blasts Job for challenging God's decisions -- "Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?"

Ultimately, the only way a thinking person can get through a day, much less a life, is to accept that we never know when we're going to wind up on Highway 61. Things happen for reasons we don't understand. As the proverbs say, the beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord.

"But what you gonna do when you/Slowly fade... I go invisible"

2011-06-28T11:15:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Invisible," Michael Penn. Words & music by Michael Penn. Track 7 of March, 1989.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1990; purchased MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

It is something that happens to middle-aged women: we become invisible. The author Laura Lippman has written about it more eloquently than I can, though I can't find a citation right now.

I am, by nature, vocation and profession, a facilitator. I am most comfortable behind the scenes. I do not like to have my picture taken. I don't usually mind it when people don't remember my name, and don't expect people who call me Clair to be able to spell it correctly.

But today, this week, I am having a hard time with it.

If you see a news item about an incident of mayhem in a small New England town, you will know that I simply had one too many days of invisibility.

"Who knows why you wanna lay there and revel in your abandon."

2011-06-24T10:30:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Refugee," Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers. Words & music by Tom Petty & Mike Campbell. Track 1 of Damn the Torpedoes, 1979.
When/how acquired: Gift bootleg cassette, c. 1981.
Listen/watch here.

If I were ever to make a playlist that tried to explain my life, this song would be on it. I live like a refugee. I admit it. I have for most of my adult life, even when I didn't need to. I don't need to. I can't seem to help it. At this point, which is midlife if I live to be 90, I probably ought to get some help for it.

"Hey, you could be/A hero in your own hometown."

2011-06-22T15:34:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Hero in Your Own Hometown," Mary Chapin Carpenter. Words & music by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Track 2 of A Place in the World, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
I can't find a version of this song available for preview. You should probably just buy the album.

Yesterday I went down to Boston for the launch of BURIED SECRETS by Joseph Finder, at Brookline Booksmith. Brookline Booksmith is one of the world's great bookstores, and if I had any money I would spend a lot of it there. It made me feel great to see such a wonderful collection of books, new and old, on topics I might otherwise never think much about -- science, sociology, phrases for travelers visiting Poland.

And it was great to see so many people turn out for Joe's book launch. Joe lives in Boston, and the crowd was about evenly split between fans and personal friends. It is not a small thing to have your friends turn out for a book launch. It often seems easier for people to stay home, especially when the Green Line is full of people trying to get to a Red Sox home game. (They lost, by the way. Everyone would have been better off going to Brookline Booksmith.)

BURIED SECRETS, which I did a very little bit of work on, is the second adventure for Joe's series character, Nick Heller, a "private spy." As the book begins, Nick has returned to his hometown of Boston to set up his own practice, and an old friend asks for help with a problem he can't go to the police about.

Many things make Boston a particularly good setting for a hero like Nick, and I wish I'd thought to ask Joe about that last night. Undoubtedly there will be other chances, as it looks like Nick will be fighting crime on the streets of Beantown for years to come.

"And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment/And try to make an honest stand..."

2011-06-20T19:15:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Jungleland," Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 8 of Born to Run, 1975.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, 1980.
Listen. Watch.

There was rock and roll before Clarence Clemons, and there will be rock and roll after him. But this song was the dividing line. It changed everything. Even now I listen to it in awe. It is poetry in words and music, and Clarence's solo disembowels us and breaks our hearts and makes us believe in whatever it was we hoped for when we were sixteen years old.

The rest of us have to live without him. Rest in peace, Big Man.

"C'est la vie, said the old folks/It goes to show you never can tell."

2011-06-18T08:38:00.002-04:00

The Song: "You Never Can Tell," Chuck Berry. Words & music by Chuck Berry. Track 9 of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1994; downloaded MP3, 2010.
Listen/watch here.

It was not quite a teenaged wedding yesterday — my nephew George is 23 — but the old folks, including me, certainly wished them well. Today's quotation might have been "I knew the bride when she used to rock & roll," but George's bride Carissa actually does still rock & roll, so it wouldn't be nearly as appropriate.

Most of the people who read this blog are going to turn up at breakfast in about 15 minutes, so all I'll say is that yesterday was lovely, and I hope it's the first of many lovely days ahead.

"Feels like home to me/Feels like I'm on my way back/Where I come from."

2011-06-17T10:20:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Feels Like Home," Mae Robertson. Words & music by Randy Newman. Track 12 of Smile, 2002.
When/how acquired: Downloaded MP3, 2008.
I can't find Mae Robertson's cover online, but you can listen to/see Randy Newman's original here.

The air hit me like a wet, smoky blanket when I walked out of the Jacksonville airport last night. I had forgotten what real humidity felt like, and will not be complaining about Maine's weather for the rest of the summer.

But I grew up in weather like this (minus the smoke, coming from the fires throughout central Florida), and was surprised by how much it felt like home.

Homesickness, as I've said before in this space, is the essential human condition. It's one of my rationalizations for living in Maine: I will always be a stranger in a strange land there, so will never relax and fool myself into thinking I'm at home when I'm not. But the longing for home is powerful, if we could only be clear about what home is.

This song offers the possibility that home might just be the right person. I hope that's true, and I especially hope it for my nephew George and his fiancee Carissa, who are getting married here later today.

"I've got no time for you right now/Don't bother me."

2011-06-16T08:20:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Don't Bother Me," The Smithereens. Words & music by George Harrison. Track 7 of Meet the Smithereens, 2007.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2009.
Listen/watch here.

Oy, I just realized it's Thursday and I haven't been here in days. Sorry. Scrambling on many fronts, getting ready to leave for Florida this afternoon for my nephew George's wedding, and fighting something that started as allergies and became bronchitis. I'm still coughing, although I must be better, because if I hadn't gotten better from earlier in the week I'd be dead.

This CD, a gift from my friend Tom, is one of the more delightful oddities in my collection. It's a track-by-track cover of Meet the Beatles, which my mother owned an original pressing of. God only knows what that would be worth now; my dad might still have it, but it can't be in very good shape. We played it to a wafer when I was a kid.

The Beatles were my earliest exposure to popular music. My mother was an executive secretary in Capitol Records' distribution office from 1960 until her marriage, in 1965; she had a front-row seat for Beatlemania, and took Cynthia Lennon shopping during the Beatles' first New York visit. She met them all, and George was her favorite. At a reception for the Beatles at the Plaza Hotel, during their first visit, George spilled a drink, and immediately got down on the carpet with a napkin to blot it up. Mom never forgot that.

I'm embarrassed to say that I don't own Meet the Beatles in any format, although I have almost all the other Beatles album on CD. The Smithereens' cover version is terrific, faithful to the original arrangments but adding their own distinctive jangle. I recommend it.

"When the change was made uptown/And the big man joined the band/From the coastline to the city/All the little pretties raise their hands."

2011-06-13T10:22:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out," Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 2 of Born to Run, 1975.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1980.
Listen/watch here.

Turned on the news this morning and could not understand what everyone was talking about, because the only news that matters this morning is that Clarence Clemons had a stroke. The Big Man is 69, amazingly enough -- the same age as my father -- and this song is 36 years old, but come on: we're not ready to say goodbye.

It's impossible to explain or overstate this album's place in my life. I have a signed copy of the album cover on my bedroom wall, a long-ago gift from my high school boyfriend, who won it from a radio station. The music is hardwired into my DNA. Virginia Beach wasn't the Jersey Shore, but it was close enough, and these songs gave my friends and me stories we could tell about ourselves, or at least aspire to.

By coincidence, this morning's Wall Street Journal reports on a scientific study that seems to prove what most of us already knew: the music we love as teenagers strikes something deep in our brains, and stays there. I was 12 or 13 when I first heard this song -- at a dance recital, of all places -- and I'll be able to sing along to it when I'm 90, I hope.

Here's hoping that Clarence will play it when he's 90, too.

"Words are very unnecessary/They can only do harm."

2011-06-07T08:19:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Enjoy the Silence," Depeche Mode. Words & music by Martin L. Gore. Track 6 of Violator, 1990.
When/how acquired: I have no idea. It's in my iTunes; I suspect I borrowed it from a housemate, sometime around 1995.
Listen/watch here.

Violator is one of those albums that everyone of a certain age and worldview owns, or should. It's telling that I have absolutely no idea how or when I acquired it. I just have it, as if it magically appeared in my music collection because it knew it needed to be there.

On a semi-related subject, I recently saw a list of people's greatest regrets at the end of their lives. It was touching and much what you'd expect: spent too much time at work, didn't take enough risks, didn't give themselves credit for being the person they were. To that list I would add: I didn't spend enough time at gay discos. Seriously, I didn't. I didn't spend enough time dancing in a safe place when I was the right age and body shape to do that. If I had it to do over, I've have gone dancing a LOT more. A lot.

I digress. Today's song was an obvious choice, especially after my client and friend John Connolly played it on his Internet radio show ABC to XTC this morning. It had been in my head since yesterday afternoon, when I made the mistake of watching Rep. Weiner's press conference. Congressman Weiner's press conference was one of the weirdest pieces of Washington theater I've ever seen, and I watched the Whitewater hearings pretty much gavel-to-gavel (I was recovering from back surgery, flipping between C-SPAN and "Animaniacs").

The first moral of yesterday's squirmfest was, don't be late to your own press conference.

The second, and most important, is Image Management 101: stop talking as soon as possible. State your message and get off the stage. Answer as few questions as possible. Do not solicit additional questions. Really, just stop talking after you've said what you had to say.

Rep. Weiner's initial statement was fine, if painful. (And Chris, credit where credit is due: you were right, about all of it.) I'm glad he didn't put his wife through the humiliation of joining him on the platform. All the humiliation was his, and I feel certain that was the source of the tears, not any true repentance — although I shouldn't say that, because who knows? Once he started taking questions, though, he slashed himself back open and legitimized further speculation. Idiotic, and enough to make any self-respecting press secretary quit. (I fully expect to see an announcement of that resignation before the end of the week.)

Today is the publication date of INK FLAMINGOS, the fourth and probably final installment in the Tattoo Shop Mysteries by my dear friend Karen E. Olson. INK FLAMINGOS is not only a solid, entertaining thriller (with a really nice edgy romance folded in), but also has the distinction of being the very first book ever dedicated to me. Yes, really. I may need to go buy ten copies today just to prove it to my family.

"For this bleak existence/Man is never bad enough/Though his sheer persistence/Can be lovely stuff."

2011-06-04T10:25:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Song of the Insufficiency of Human Endeavor," C.K. Alexander. Words & music by Bertholt Brecht & Kurt Weill; translation by Ralph Manheim and John Willett. Track 17 of The Three Penny Opera (Broadway Revival Cast), 1976.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, 1984; purchased MP3, 2011
Can't find this online to share, but you can go buy it on iTunes or Amazon. Do it. Youll thank me.

By sheer luck this morning I discovered that this recording, which I've been hunting for at least ten years, is now available for purchase online, and has been for two years. How could I have missed it?

As far as I'm concerned, this is the definitive English-language production of this show. I saw a much feebler version, with Sting as Macheath, at the National Theatre in 1990 or so; Sting, while a charismatic presence on screen and at rock concerts, simply could not carry the role. Mask & Bauble did its own version as its spring musical in 1984, which was pretty terrific, if memory serves. It was an impressionable time for me, and this show was a major force in shaping my worldview even to this day.

Between this acquisition, the gorgeous weather, a long walk with Dizzy and last night's excellent audience for Earnest, I'm having a pretty good Saturday morning. Hope yours is equally good. Special birthday greetings today to my dear friend, colleague and co-conspirator Tom Ehrenfeld, who is responsible for this blog in many ways, and has been a support to me in more ways than one for - erk - more than 25 years.

Earnest closes tonight with one last performance. I'll be sad when it's over.

"I sleep with my fists clenched tight/When I don't lie awake all night."

2011-06-03T09:57:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Tears Before Bedtime," Elvis Costello & the Attractions. Words & music by Elvis Costello. Track 2 of Imperial Bedroom, 1982.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1983; purchased CD, c. 1994.

I can't find this version online. You can check out two very different versions of this song here and here.

It surprises me that I haven't quoted Imperial Bedroom more often in this blog, because it was the soundtrack of the summer after my senior year in high school, and is one of my Desert Island Discs. It is pure genius, beginning to end, and has probably had way too much influence on my romantic history.

Anyway, I do sleep with my fists clenched, when I sleep. No idea why, but this morning I woke up with my right hand clenched so tightly that I'm still having trouble typing, even after a shower and washing the dishes and walking the dog. If I won the lottery I would go to one of those sleep centers and let them evaluate me, and give me drugs if necessary. I don't play the lottery.

Dizzy sleeps with a purple winged dragon I bought him over the winter. It was an expensive toy, advertised as being exceptionally durable, and so far the advertising holds true. He's very attached to it; if it's still up on the bed in the morning after our walk, he'll bark at me until I get it down for him, so he can nap with it. I would love to know what it represents to him.

"What's a man now/What's a man mean/Is he rough or is he rugged/Cultural and clean?"

2011-06-02T08:38:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Real Men," Joe Jackson. Words & music by Joe Jackson. Track 8 of Night and Day, 1982.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette copy, 1984; purchased MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

I admit I'm paying more attention than I should to the Anthony Weiner Twitter uproar, in which someone Tweeted a photo of an excited man in his underwear to a Seattle college student. Rep. Weiner's response to all of this has been, to put it mildly, bizarre. The photo might be him, he says, but he didn't send it.

The most logical explanation, which I haven't heard anyone offer, is that Rep. Weiner doesn't manage his own Twitter account. I can't imagine that most public figures do, or at least not full-time. Twitter is fun, but a terrible distraction. I have one author client who rations himself to an hour in the morning and an hour at the end of the day, and another who treats Twitter as a sort of online bar, which I think is exactly right - an entertainment, not a serious medium of communication.

It's an extremely tricky medium for politicians, because it doesn't allow for nuance or consideration. Twitter's about knee-jerk reactions in 140 characters or less, and that's not something any serious politician should be doing. Twitter's also interactive, and engaging the public in an open forum that leaves a permanent record is a high-risk political activity.

So I would guess that most elected officials delegate their Twitter feed to their legislative correspondents (LCs). LCs are the lowest-ranking professional staff in a Congressional office. Their title is their job description: they handle letters and emails that come into the office, providing routine responses where they can and routing action items to legislative assistants, district-office caseworkers, and other branches of government where appropriate. The typical LC is under the age of 25, right out of college, and might be making $27,000 (which is not enough to live independently in Washington, DC; junior Hill staffers almost always live with roommates or in group houses).

Therefore, my first thought when I heard about the Weiner scandal (!) was that an LC had gotten drunk one night and decided to use the Congressman's Twitter account to send a photo of his anatomy to his girlfriend. When the Congressman's office first bungled its response, I assumed it was because Rep. Weiner didn't want to admit that it's not him Tweeting. But now his series of non-explanation explanations and non-denial denials have just gotten weirder and weirder, and I've given up trying to come up with any new theories.

Today's quotation, though, was almost another Joe Jackson line — "Don't you know that it's different for girls?" — because in all seriousness, this is not a situation that a female legislator would ever find herself in. Who takes photos of their own genitalia, clothed or unclothed? Who assumes that anyone else would want to see them? Good grief.

Lady Bracknell and I both disapprove. You have three more chances to see her, tonight, tomorrow and Saturday at Gaslight Theater.

"All romantics meet the same fate someday/Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe."

2011-06-01T08:45:00.002-04:00

The Song: "The Last Time I Saw Richard," Joni Mitchell. Words & music by Joni Mitchell. Track 10 of Blue, 1971.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette, c. 1984; downloaded MP3, 2008.
Listen/watch here.

Romantics are just people who believe that life is supposed to follow a narrative, and that that narrative is supposed to be driven by emotions rather than practicality. I would not describe myself as a romantic, though I certainly was in earlier days. Young people should be. Young people should believe that life is supposed to go in certain ways. Character emerges from how we react when we discover that the universe laughs at "supposed to."

This month marks the 40th anniversary of Blue. I first heard it in high school, but didn't really discover it until the summer of 1984. I was sharing a basement apartment in Glover Park with my best friend, Laurie, who listened to it on a more or less continuous loop. It's a very different album now, as I listen to it at 45, than it was when I listened to it at 18. It's still just as wondrous, which marks it as a true work of art.

"I could have been a signpost, could have been a clock/As simple as a kettle, steady as a rock."

2011-05-31T06:34:00.005-04:00

The Song: "One of These Things First," Nick Drake. Words & music by Nick Drake. Track 4 of Bryter Layter, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2004.
Listen/watch here.

My elementary school library was small, but at least three shelves were dedicated to Bobbs-Merrill's "Childhood of Famous Americans" series, biographies that humanized the great names of American history by showing us episodes from their early years. These episodes may or may not have been true; the books were meant to be moral guides as much as anything else, and most people who become famous as adults don't have biographers keeping track of their childhood achievements.

Typically, my favorite of these books made no pretense at all at nonfiction. This was Virginia Dare, Mystery Girl by Augusta Stevenson, who wrote about a dozen of these books, including volumes on Benjamin Franklin, Molly Pitcher, Buffalo Bill and the Wright Brothers. Virginia Dare was, of course, the first English child born in the New World, part of Sir Walter Raleigh's Lost Colony. She disappeared with everyone else sometime between 1587 and 1590, but legends persisted of a blonde girl who lived among the Chowanocs, and an 18th-century surveyor reported meeting Hatteras people who had gray eyes.

Virginia Dare, Mystery Girl was pure speculation about the young Virginia's life as an adopted member of a native tribe (adopted by the chief, naturally). The book was originally published in 1958 and has not been brought back into print with other titles in the series -- maybe because it was fiction, maybe because its treatment of native cultures would now seem ignorant and insensitive. The book's hard to find; I'm seeing only two copies on ABEBooks.com right now, one priced at $30, one at $87.19. My birthday's in November . . .

Anyway, I read the book so many times my mother told me to stop checking it out of the library, and what I remember about it was a climactic scene in which the young Virginia proved her standing as a member of the tribe by beating a rival at something called "mudwalking." According to this book, the Chesapeake Indians hunted waterfowl in the swamps, and used their children to walk across the surface of the marshes in order to retrieve fallen birds. The mud is like quicksand, full of sinkholes, and adults were too heavy; children were light and could move fast enough to get across and back without being sucked in.

That image of mudwalking, of moving fast enough to avoid breaking a surface, captured my imagination. According to Ms. Stevenson, the key was to keep your feet moving, and not look down. I tried it myself, in puddles and muddy fields, but could never get it right. My feet stuck, and I knew that if I'd been Virginia Dare, I'd have drowned in quicksand.

But I never forgot the image or the metaphor, and sometimes I think I've been mudwalking ever since. As another month ends and another season turns, I understand that my days of mudwalking are coming to an end. At some point I will have to stop moving from task to task, look down, and get real about all those other things I could have been or done.

"She said, 'I'm tired of the war/I want the kind of work I had before/A wedding dress, or something white/To wear upon my swollen appetite."

2011-05-30T08:26:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Joan of Arc," Jennifer Warnes. Words & music by Leonard Cohen. Track 4 of Famous Blue Raincoat, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987.
Listen/watch here.

Today is both Memorial Day and the feast of St. Joan of Arc, which feels appropriate. Joan was 16 when she left home -- at the direction, she said, of the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine -- to fight for Charles VII against the Burgundians and the English invaders. At the age of 17, she led Charles' troops to victory and watched as he was crowned King of France.

Some records say that she wanted to go home then, but she saw that the English remained in France and needed to be expelled, and that Charles' policy of appeasing the Burgundians would lead to disaster. Indeed, the Burgundians kept fighting, despite Charles' ruinous truce with them, and Joan was captured in Compiègne in May 1430. John of Luxembourg, an ally of the Duke of Burgundy, sold Joan to the English for a fortune, and the English used a corrupt Bishop to try Joan for witchcraft.

Joan was charged with heresy and with "difformitate habitus," degenerate or monstrous dress -- the military apparel that disguised her gender and protected her from rape. She was heard to say that she wanted to wear a dress, but wearing a dress in prison left her even more vulnerable to threats of rape. Her friends brought her soldier's clothing again, and she insisted on wearing it -- the trousers tied to her blouse and jerkin, offering her some protection -- even though she knew it would prove the charges against her.

She was burned at the stake as a heretic on May 30, 1431, looking at a cross and calling the name of Jesus. The campaign to clear her name began within a generation, but her sainthood was not finally proclaimed until 1909. She is, of course, the patron saint of France, but also of soldiers (particularly female soldiers), prisoners, captives, and rape victims.

Her story reminds us that death is not the worst thing that can happen to soldiers in wartime, and that devotion to a righteous cause can often approach the divine.

Today, on Memorial Day, I particularly remember my father's college roommate, LTJG Danny Moran, killed in action off the USS Coral Sea on January 15, 1967. I don't remember Lieutenant Moran, but his widow, Kelly, was a much-loved presence of my childhood, and she would probably be surprised to know how often I still think of her.

"I find sometimes it's easy to be myself/Sometimes I find it's better to be somebody else."

2011-05-28T11:31:00.002-04:00

The Song: "So Much to Say," Dave Matthews Band. Words & music by David J. Matthews, Peter Griesar, and Boyd Tinsley. Track 1 of Crash, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
Listen/watch here.

I was first on stage at the age of five, in an adaptation of Peter Pan by the Linden Knoll School. My twin sister and I played Lost Boys, and sang "I Won't Grow Up" and -- if memory serves -- "A Pirate's Life." We wore ugly olive-green shirts and shorts, and sported very short haircuts. It was the best time I had had in my life to that point. I liked the glamor of it, I liked the applause, but most of all I liked the pretending.

Theater is one of the oldest human art forms. I would argue that it is the most valuable. Of all the fine arts, theater is the one that teaches us empathy. It challenges us to imagine what it's like to be someone else, dealing with situations we'll never face in real life.

Those performance reality shows don't interest me -- not "American Idol," not "X Factor," not "The Voice," -- because that culture of stardom is diametrically opposed, even inimical, to what I value about live performance. Live performance, to me, is not about adulation of the individual. It's about exploring alternate realities with others in order to find new ways to connect. It's about diffusing oneself, not concentrating it, trying new selves on in an effort to make our real selves kinder and more insightful. The best theatrical productions are not star vehicles; they're ensembles in which the whole is greater than sum of its parts.

I think, I hope, The Importance of Being Earnest is that kind of ensemble. We're all having a great time up there. We make each other laugh and admire each other's work, and I think that shows. I'm so glad to have had that experience, and sad we only have five performances left. I'll miss it when it's over.

If you'd like to come see us, performances continue tonight, tomorrow, and next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Call 207-626-3698 or visit Gaslight Theater's website for details.

"Having been some days in preparation,/A splendid time is guaranteed for all."

2011-05-27T06:43:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!" The Beatles. Words & music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Track 7 from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, 1967.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1977.
Listen/watch here.

The Importance of Being Earnest opens tonight at Gaslight Theater. Shows run tonight, tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, next Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. We're having a good time with it. The weather's supposed to be crummy again this weekend, so if you're in the area, you should come see us.

This was one of the first albums I ever owned, and is one of a handful I've owned in three formats. It's one of those permanent works of art I take for granted. I won't listen to it for months, or even longer, but will hear something from it again and think, "Wow, that's just amazing." It always sounds fresh to me, and I hear new things in it every time.

"You know I like it, though/I like this car a lot."

2011-05-26T08:16:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Dodge Veg-O-Matic," The Modern Lovers. Words & music by Jonathan Richman. Track 9 of Rock N Roll with The Modern Lovers, 1977.
When/how acquired: Purchased cut-out cassette, c. 1984.
Listen/watch here.

When haters call Jonathan Richman "precious," this is probably the album they're talking about. It is unapologetically a kids' album for adults, featuring not only this song but others called "Ice Cream Man" and "Rockin Rockin Leprechauns," plus a cover of "The Wheels on the Bus" that features a monster. (I used to sing that one to a little girl I babysat, whose mother wasn't thrilled that her two-year-old was singing about monsters.) Still, I defy you to listen to this album and stay in a bad mood.

My own car is still moving, unlike the Dodge Veg-o-Matic. It does need some work, which I'll probably have done sometime in the next couple of weeks. It's not a small amount of money, but it's less than a car payment plus insurance on a new car would be, which makes it acceptable.

We're having a second consecutive day of sunshine here in central Maine, which is making me feel almost recklessly optimistic. Last night's final dress rehearsal of The Importance of Being Earnest went very well indeed, and I find myself talking like Lady Bracknell even offstage, which is becoming annoying even to me. Still, Lady Bracknell is easier company than my last major role (Sister Aloysius in Doubt). The weather's supposed to get rotten again this weekend, so you might as well come see us, if you're anywhere in the neighborhood. Details are here.

"I need to laugh, and when the sun is out/I've got something I can laugh about."

2011-05-25T08:02:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Good Day Sunshine," The Beatles. Words & music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Side Two, Track 1 of Revolver, 1966.
When/how acquired: Gift LP, c. 1979.
Listen/watch here. (Also check out this truly odd cultural artifact, an episode of "The Beatles" cartoon series based on the song. No, those are obviously not The Beatles' own voices.)

The sun is out this morning for the first time in almost two weeks. It's amazing how much of a difference it makes not only to my mood, but to Dizzy's as well. Things that felt overwhelming last week feel like minor hassles, even the fact that my car's Check Engine light is on AGAIN.

My relationship with my car has become dysfunctional. I love my car. It's been with me for 11 years now, and it has more than 140,000 miles on it. It's paid for, and costs almost nothing to register or insure. I don't know how much longer I'll be driving; eventually, as my field of vision continues to narrow, I'll have to quit. I want/need/expect this car to be the last one I own.

But I admit that I need to sit down with someone who can be objective, and figure out just how much I can keep putting into its repairs. The idea of buying anything new (it wouldn't be new, it would be gently used) fills me with despair. This, I understand, is why people stay in jobs and relationships of all kinds well past the point they should leave. And this is also why I find myself making excuses for the car, and keeping secrets on its behalf, to avoid having these conversations with people who would take my side over the car's.

The car, I understand, has no feelings in this matter.

"If I'd have paid attention to what others were thinkin', the heart inside me would have died."

2011-05-24T17:29:00.006-04:00

The Song: "Up to Me," Bob Dylan. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Disc 2, Track 3 of Biograph, 1985.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1985.
Listen to an excerpt here.

It's Bob Dylan's 70th birthday. Happy birthday, sir.

These are lines I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone:

If I'd have thought about it I never would have done it, I guess I would have let it slide
If I'd have paid attention to what others were thinkin', the heart inside me would have died
But I was just too stubborn to ever be governed by enforced insanity
Someone had to reach for the rising star, I guess it was up to me.

This cassette box set was a Christmas present from my parents, my senior year of college. I needed it. I needed this song in particular.

When I present myself to be judged, I won't be able to take credit for anything good I ever did, because those were the things I did without thinking, the things I did just because I had to. When I've thought about things, I've made some pretty bad decisions.

That is not in any way to say that I am good by nature.

"When I think of heaven/Deliver me in a black-winged bird/I think of flying."

2011-05-23T09:41:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Rain King," Counting Crows. Words & music by Adam Duritz and David Bryson. Track 7 of August and Everything After, 1993.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen/watch here.

It's still raining here. Watching the news from Joplin, Missouri and Minneapolis, I can't complain. I hope the Family Radio left-behinds will rally to help the victims of this weekend's disasters. Ways to help are here.

This album came out in the fall of 1993, but I don't think I bought it until after the year turned. It was an essential part of the soundtrack of my summer of 1994, when I got back into amateur theater (playing a housekeeper, of course; servants are my specialty), took my first solo vacation, and had back surgery. I spent a big chunk of 1994 on the road, and have a vivid memory of listening to this album on the drives to and from Dulles Airport.

"A lot of people won't get no supper tonight/A lot of people won't get no justice tonight."

2011-05-21T08:15:00.005-04:00

The Song: "Armagideon Time," The Clash. Words & music by C.S. Dodd & Willi Williams. Track 10 of the Grosse Pointe Blank soundtrack, 1997.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1997.
Listen/watch here.

It's early in the morning on the East Coast of the United States, but it feels safe to say that predictions of the Rapture were premature, at best. Cultwatch.org offers compassionate advice for people who genuinely believed that Jesus would return today, but it's hard not to feel impatient with them. It's hard to imagine a greater sin of pride than presuming to know the mind of God, especially since the Gospel of Matthew is explicit: "Therefore, stay awake, for you know neither the day nor the hour" (Matthew 25:13).

If that weren't enough, the rest of that chapter makes it even more clear: preparing for the second coming has absolutely nothing to do with predicting dates for the end of the world. It's about looking for Christ in everyone, and doing what we can for each other while we can. All those people who battened down the hatches in preparation for being taken up to heaven don't seem to have read to the end of Chapter 25.

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit upon his glorious throne, and all the nations will be assembled before him. And he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will place the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

Then the king will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father. Inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.

"For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me."

Then the righteous will answer him and say, "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? When did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? When did we see you ill or in prison, and visit you?"

And the king will say to them in reply, "Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me."

So all you Rapture believers, unless you were out there in the food banks and the shelters and the hospitals and the prisons, I'm not interested in a word you have to say. Disappointed, you say? Ungrateful, I call it.

"There’s only one step down from here, baby/It’s called the land of permanent bliss"

2011-05-20T08:48:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Sweetheart Like You," Bob Dylan. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Track 2 of Infidels, 1983.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1984.
Listen/watch here.

On any given day, this is my favorite Bob Dylan song. People say it's sexist. I don't hear it that way. I hear it as a conversation held very late at night, at closing time, between a man and a woman young enough to be his daughter. It's a song that got me through some hard times when I really needed the help.

Bob Dylan turns 70 this month. I'm grateful to him for this song, and for so many others. So much has been written about him, more has been said, and I don't have much to add. I suspect he's not a particularly nice guy. That strikes me as spectacularly irrelevant. He's brought us all along on his personal journey, which has helped me feel less alone. For that, I am grateful.

My friend Tom Ehrenfeld introduced me to this album in the summer of 1984, and I have owned it in some format ever since. It gets dismissed as "minor" Dylan, which annoys me. Who gets to say what's minor? What Infidels is, is personal. Even its overtly political songs ("Neighborhood Bully" and "Union Sundown") feel like laments over personal betrayals rather than efforts to change the world. Dylan, 42 when he made this record, is taking stock at midlife and mourning his losses, including the loss of the better self he hoped he'd be.

The quantum physicists talk about an infinite number of parallel universes, in which, theoretically, an infinite number of parallel selves are living the lives we didn't choose in this one. In at least one of those universes, I am celebrating my 22nd wedding anniversary today. All things considered, I think I'm better off in this one.

"I am trying not to have a bad day/Now everybody knows the way that is."

2011-05-19T10:45:00.002-04:00

The Song: "The Train," The Roches. Words & music by Suzzy Roche. Track 6 from The Roches, 1979.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1987; purchased CD, c. 1990; downloaded MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

My dear college friend Laurie Richardson introduced me to The Roches in our freshman year, and the songs on this album have been part of the soundtrack of my life for almost (erk) 30 years. Lines from this song, in particular, come up for me almost once a day. Today's quotation might just as easily have been "He's miserable and I am miserable/We are miserable..."

It's been raining all week. They say we might see some sun tomorrow. I'm trying to have a sense of humor about this, but the week has not gone well, I am very behind on almost everything, and I spent most of yesterday in tears for reasons real and imaginary. Even standing on my head, which almost always helps, made no difference at all to the bleakness of the landscape.

The world turns. Things are bound to get better. They always have before.

"You look surprised/You shouldn't be/This world is full of creeps like me."

2011-05-18T10:29:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Creeps Like Me," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 5 of I Love Everybody, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994
Listen/watch here (that's a live version with John Hiatt).

I may have to declare a news boycott this week, as the Creep Parade just goes on and on. It's more than distracting; it's demoralizing, even depressing, as the rain continues in central Maine and I feel more and more overwhelmed.

I'm supposed to go to Portland tonight to see Steve Martin, but am not sure I'll get there. It's a dark drive at night, made much worse in bad weather. I do not want to be that person who pushed her luck once too many times. I have an extra ticket, and I could also use a ride; if anyone's interested, send me an email.

"You can't call it cheatin'/Cause she reminds me of you."

2011-05-17T09:44:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Cheatin," Gin Blossoms. Words & music by Jesse Valenzuela and Doug Hopkins. Track 12 of New Miserable Experience, 1992.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1992.
Listen/watch here.

It's shaping up to be a good week for tabloid reporters, as powerful men are forced to deal with the consequences of their actions. These situations are often more complicated than we want to admit, though these complications never reduce anyone's personal responsibility. No, there's no excuse for a man who simply takes what he wants; but how many people had to conspire, for how long, to make him believe that he could?

The most troubling part of the news about Arnold Schwarzenegger's secret child is not the child, but the secrecy. This was a secret that he and the child's mother kept for a decade, possibly even from the child. How could any marriage survive its revelation?

We all keep secrets, sometimes for very good reasons. I know a bit about that. I'm not someone who believes that honesty is always the best policy. But except for sociopaths, what secrets do is divide the self into pieces - the part the world sees, living the secret, and the part that remembers the truth and hides it. The more secrets, the more pieces, until it becomes harder and harder to keep track of who knows what and what the truth actually is.

Which is why it is literally true, sometimes, that the truth can set one free. I don't expect or want any more information about the Schwarzenegger family than we've gotten. But I hope that the revelations set at least a couple of people free.

"Give blood/But don't expect to ever see rewards."

2011-05-16T13:04:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Give Blood," Pete Townshend. Words & music by Pete Townshend. Track 1 of White City: A Novel, 1985.
When/how acquired: Purchased cutout cassette, c. 1987.
Listen/watch here.

An easy choice today, as I'm giving blood this afternoon. If you can, you should.

I still have a case of cassette tapes in my car, and another big box of them in the spare bedroom. I don't play them -- my car stereo still has a cassette player, but that's the only one I own -- but I can't bring myself to give them away. They were all so precious to me, in their time: hunted for, saved for, purchased when I'd have been better off spending the money on something practical.

This tape I remember buying, though I don't remember exactly when. It was in a cutout bin at the Kemp Mill Records store that used to be at 19th and M Street in Washington, DC. I found it during my lunch break on a weekday. It cost $1.99, and I was as delighted as if I'd found a dollar on the sidewalk.

White City is, as its full title suggests, a story cycle. A video was made at the same time, but I've never seen it. It's similar in subject matter, if not in tone, to another of my favorite acquisitions from around this time, the soundtrack to the 1985 movie Absolute Beginners. Which I also, as it happens, own only on cassette.

"I also dreamt, which pleased me most/That you loved me still the same."

2011-05-11T09:53:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Marble Halls," Enya. Words & music by Alfred Bunn and Michael William Balfe. Track 10 of Shepherd Moons, 1991.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1992.
Listen/watch here.

I am not ashamed of loving Enya, nor of loving this album in particular. It is infallibly soothing, and this song is probably my favorite track.

This version is part of the soundtrack of The Age of Innocence, but the song itself is quite old. It was written as an aria for the 1843 opera The Bohemian Girl, and is probably the only part of that opera anyone still remembers. It features prominently in James Joyce's short story "Clay," when the elderly spinster Maria sings it at a Christmas party, after making a choice in a game that predicts her own death.

Has everyone heard/seen these predictions about the end of the world on May 21? It's not the first time people have predicted the end of the world, and will certainly not be the last; in fact, I think the Mayan apocalypse is supposed to be coming in 2012, so we'll see whose gods prevail. I feel pretty complacent about this, as I have a hard time believing the Almighty keeps much track of human calendars.

And if the world DOES end on May 21, I won't have to worry about knowing my lines for the opening night of The Importance of Being Earnest on May 27. So that's a bonus.

"President say, 'Little fat man, isn't it a shame/What the river has done to this poor cracker's land.'"

2011-05-10T07:03:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Louisiana 1927," Randy Newman. Words & music by Randy Newman. Track 1 of Good Old Boys, 1974.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, 1987.
Listen/watch here.

Today's post is going to be a little scattered, I'm afraid. I'm a little scattered. Yesterday I got lost two separate times, driving to two familiar places in daylight, just because I missed the turns I needed to take. It's more than a metaphor.

But things could be worse. I live on top of a hill, in part of the United States that is not currently underwater. Nothing, not even fire, is as devastating as flood; as Randy Newman says, it washes everything away, and ruins even things that may look unharmed. It's time for me to make another blood donation, and while I do that I'll see what spare change I can scrape together for the Red Cross. It's important.

This album may have been the last I bought on vinyl. It was either this one or the New York Shakespeare Festival recording of Threepenny Opera (which I lost somewhere, and would love to have again in any format). I didn't even own a record player, though my then-fiance did.

I bought this album when I had no money to spend on anything. It was the soundtrack for Arena Stage's production of the musical adaptation of All the King's Men, which I had seen as my friend Carla's guest (she was working there). That's still one of the best things I've ever seen on stage, and I don't understand why it's not produced more often. Candy Buckley was devastating as Sadie, Casey Biggs was remarkable as Jack Burden, and the great Stanley Anderson was phenomenal as Willie Stark. All the King's Men was, in fact, a play before it was a novel, and its roots in Greek tragedy are obvious on the stage.

But I digress. I've been digressing. I feel flooded myself, and need to shake things out and dry things off and save whatever's salvageable. And yes, I know that's cryptic. I don't quite understand it yet myself.

"Most of the time/I'm clear focused all around/Most of the time"

2011-05-05T08:08:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Most of the Time," Bob Dylan. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Track 6 of Oh Mercy, 1989.
When/how acquired: Purchased MP3, 2005.
Listen/watch here.

Between one thing and another, it's been a tough week. I'm a little overwhelmed, and if you're waiting for a work project from me, I thank you for your patience and promise you'll hear from me very soon.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to stay offline for most of the next couple of days. I'll check emails in the morning and evening, but if you need an immediate response on something, call.

I was late to this album, which I've come to consider one of Dylan's very best. My friend Allison Burnett used to rave about it, but I don't think I ever even listened to the whole thing until reading the first volume of Dylan's memoirs, which discusses the making of this album at length. Allison was right, as he so often is, and Oh Mercy probably stands third among my favorite Dylan albums, after Blood on the Tracks and Infidels.

"I know I will be loosened/From bonds that hold me fast/And the chains all around me/Will fall away at last"

2011-05-04T07:49:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Fisherman's Blues," The Waterboys. Words & music by Mike Scott and Steve Wickham. Track 1 of Fisherman's Blues, 1988.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1989; purchased CD, 1990.
Listen/watch here.

My dad leaves for Crete today, to join the USNS Big Horn (T-AO-198) as an ordinary seaman for a Mediterranean cruise that will last at least four months.

I don't know what to write about this that would not be much too personal for him, me and the rest of the family. But I can and do say congratulations and good luck, and I hope it brings you everything you're looking for. Fair winds and following seas, Dad, and safe journeys wherever you go.

This song makes me feel better about almost everything. I think I need to listen to it a few more times.

"May your strength give us strength/May your faith give us faith/May your hope give us hope/May your love give us love."

2011-05-02T00:42:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Into the Fire," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 2 of The Rising, 2002.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2002.
Listen/watch here.

On my flight back to Portland over the weekend, I had the privilege of sharing my seat with Banks, a seven-year-old black Lab who works for the Federal Emergency Management Agency. He and his handler were on their way to a kennel outside Portland for a week's R&R, having recently returned from Japan. His handler said that Japan had been worse than Haiti, although the destruction in Haiti had been worse, because "at least in Haiti some of the people we found were alive." She's been doing this work since the Oklahoma City bombing, in 1995.

Banks let me pet him, and licked my hand, but looked at me with eyes that have seen things I hope I never see. He is so good at his job that he's coming up here for breeding purposes, in hopes of making more puppies that will search for victims, and save them if they can.

This world has heroes, and not all of them are human.

I am sitting here much later than I'd expected to be up, watching the celebrations after the announcement of Osama bin Laden's death. This is not a death that brings anyone back. It might even lead to more deaths, if bin Laden's followers decide to retaliate. I have a nephew serving on an Air Force base in Japan and a father who's about to fly out to a Navy supply ship in the Mediterranean on Wednesday. They're not safer today than they were yesterday.

And yet I'm grateful, and I'm astonished, and relieved in a way I can't explain. Brave, brave men went into that compound in Pakistan and did what was necessary. So many people have died, over the past 10 years, to get to that one firefight, and I am grateful to them all.

All of us Americans need to live in a way that deserves such courage, such dedication. All of us people do.

"Precious time is slipping away/You know she's only queen for a day/It doesn't matter to which god you pray/Precious time is slipping away."

2011-05-01T09:07:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Precious Time," Van Morrison. Words & music by Van Morrison. Track 9 of Back on Top, 1999.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1999
Listen/watch here.

Today is my mother's 70th birthday. I miss her so much, and would like to think of something good to do to mark the occasion. Instead I'm going to build sets, I'll do some manuscript work for a client, some copywriting for another, some publicity work for a third. I'll pick Dizzy up from the kennel late this afternoon and work well into the night, scrambling to catch up after three days in New York. I guess those are all good things, although if Mom were alive we'd all be in Virginia Beach helping her celebrate. I wish we'd thought to do that anyway, even without her. I live too far away from my family.

"Universe man, universe man/Size of the entire universe man/Usually kind to smaller man/Universe man."

2011-04-26T10:14:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Particle Man," They Might Be Giants. Words and music by John Flansburgh and John Linnell. Track 7 of Flood, 1990.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1990.
Listen/watch here.

I woke up this morning with this song in my head for no reason, then logged onto Twitter to discover that it is TMBG Awareness Day. So well played, gentlemen, and now that I've downloaded your new MP3s, will you turn the mind control ray off, please?

We don't listen to enough polka music in modern life, and the accordion is a seriously underrated instrument. Flood is one of my favorite albums, and since it never fails to cheer me up, it's in heavy rotation in my iTunes playlist. It too was one of the CDs the smasher/grabber stole in Montreal, so maybe those lost CDs will be this week's theme.

Anyway, you should take two minutes from your day and watch the independent "Particle Man" cartoon I've linked to above. I have no idea what the lyrics of "Particle Man" are supposed to be about, but they inspire me with a random existential cheer. Triangle Man hates Particle Man, for no reason, but Universe Man is generally kinder. Also, he has a watch with a minute hand, a millennium hand, and an eon hand. Those blown deadlines look pretty insignificant against the power of the millennium hand, don't they?

"London calling, yes I was there too/An' you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!"

2011-04-25T08:55:00.002-04:00

The Song: "London Calling," The Clash. Words & music by Joe Strummer and Mick Jones. Track 1 of London Calling, 1979.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette, c. 1981; purchased CD, c. 1990
Listen/watch here.

On any given day, London Calling is the one album I'd need on a desert island. It's so thoroughly interwoven into my life that I don't remember the first time I heard it, but I suspect it was in Norfolk Academy's art classroom, which doubled as a dressing room for school theater productions. A copy of the CD was one of several stolen from my car in Montreal in 2005, and it's the only CD I actually replaced, even though I'd uploaded it to my iTunes.

You're not going to get any snark about the royal wedding from me, although I doubt I'll wake up early to watch. (I'm supposed to be in New York on Friday. I do plan to be in New York on Friday, but it will depend on what my eye looks like on Wednesday morning. No, I've already explained too much.)

Anyway, I believe in marriage, I love weddings, and I have no objections to the Windsors. They work hard, and I don't envy their lives for a moment. I'm glad Americans don't have royalty, but I see its value, especially as the historical artifact it's become. Modern-day royalty are like ghosts among us, reminders of both the good and bad of how things used to be. I love that Kate Middleton's parents used to be flight attendants, and that the future heirs to the throne of England will have that as part of their heritage as well as the first Duke of Marlborough. And no one can deny that the wedding's been great for the global economy, from tourism to magazine publishing to whatever factories (probably in central America) make those tea towels.

It's been much too long since I traveled to England. It's been much too long since I took any kind of real trip. Invitations are welcome, especially if they come with plane tickets.

Five Random Questions with BRETT BATTLES

2011-04-22T07:29:00.002-04:00

I'm sorry I haven't been around this week. As usual, I'm desperately behind on several projects, and crippled by allergies. Had to cancel plans to spend Easter in Washington, and now I have a full-blown case of allergic pinkeye — I am 45 years old and have never had pinkeye, so this is mortifying as well as painful. Working with one eye open slows me down even more than I would have expected.

Fortunately, my pal Brett Battles has released a new book this week. SICK has the distinction of being my first true e-book; that is, the first book I've ever read to be published exclusively in electronic format. It's very different from his Jonathan Quinn novels, about an international hit man (although those are great, and you should read them). SICK is an apocalyptic thriller set in the near future.

Army officer Daniel Ash wakes up one morning to find his wife dead and his daughter critically ill, victims of a mysterious sudden sickness that has overtaken his whole small installation. Ash, inexplicably, seems immune. These things aren't accidents. SICK is a breathless, nonstop chase-and-race thriller that reminded me of the opening chapters of Stephen King's THE STAND. Its subtitle is "A Project Eden Thriller," and without giving anything away, its ending makes clear that Ash's fight is just starting. It's available from both Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Brett agreed to answer Five Random Questions for the blog.

1. Disneyland or Disney World, and what's your favorite ride?

Disneyland, since I’ve been going there regularly since I was five. And favorite ride? When I was young my favorite wasn’t actually a ride, it was the Swiss Family Robinson tree house. I LOVED exploring that, but it’s gone now, or rather redone and renamed Tarzan’s Treehouse. UGH! These days? Anything but A Small World. I hate that ride!

2. What was the first record you ever bought?

GRAND ILLUSION by Styx.

3. What was your first paying job? ("Paying" as in "got a check," not cash for mowing lawns.)

McDonald's.

4. Who's your favorite James Bond?

I’ve always been partial to Sean Connery, but I gotta say Daniel Craig has become my new favorite.

5. Do you know any poems by heart?

How much wood can an woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood...wait, that’s not a poem, is it?

Five Random Questions with LISA LUTZ and DAVID HAYWARD

2011-04-18T06:55:00.006-04:00

I've gotten very bad about posting my reading lists here, partly because I'm having a terrible time keeping track of what I'm allowed to admit I've read. I get very early copies of books, read books in manuscript, read for clients under confidentiality agreements, read candidates for awards nominations that are obviously confidential, and — well, you get the idea.

But one of my happiest reading adventures this winter was an early copy of HEADS YOU LOSE, a collaborative mystery that becomes a piece of performance art with the addition of emails exchanged between the authors as they wrote the book. This kind of meta-fiction is hard to pull off without becoming annoying, but HEADS YOU LOSE walks that line beautifully. The underlying mystery works — a brother and sister who grow pot in Northern California find a headless body on their land, and decide to hide it rather than call the police — but the emails between chapters are both hilarious and educational, almost a tutorial in novel-writing.

Lisa is the award-winning author of the marvelous Spellman detective novels. David is a recovering poet. They used to date. I am delighted that they agreed to answer Five Random Questions for the blog.

1. What can you cook without a recipe?

Lisa: Eggs.

Dave: Tea.

2. Please describe the circumstances of your worst-ever haircut.

Lisa: Thanks for asking. It was 1997, I think. I asked Dave to take a little off the bottom and he just hacked off several chunks of hair without any clear aesthetic point of view. I should note he was rather drunk at the time. But still, it seemed deliberate to me.

Dave: I tend to steer clear of drunk barbers, so I can’t recall a particularly terrible haircut. But my worst phase was probably a modern rock look in the early ’90s.

3. What's your favorite season, and why?

Lisa: Winter. I’ll take precipitation in any form I can get it and as often as possible.

Dave: Spring and fall (tie) because I’m noncommittal.

4. What's the last nonfiction book you read?

Lisa: Packing for Mars by Mary Roach. Educational and hilarious. If she wrote my science textbooks in high school, I might actually remember something.

Dave: Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip With David Foster Wallace by David Lipsky. Sad and irresistible.

5. Which house would you belong to at Hogwarts?

Lisa: I think I’m a mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin. I’ve got the loyalty part of Gryffindor, and I think I have a bit of the cunning and resourcefulness of a Slytherin. But my blood is not pure. Dave hasn’t read the books, so I’ll answer for him. He’s 100 percent Ravenclaw — intelligence, creativity, learning, and wit. Although, I’m not saying he has all of those qualities, but at least 25%.

Dave: This has to be a trap. I’m keeping my mouth shut.

"That there were sorrows to be healed/And mercy, mercy in this world."

2011-04-16T10:37:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Song of Bernadette," Jennifer Warnes. Words & music by Leonard Cohen. Track 7 of Famous Blue Raincoat, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987.
Listen/watch here.

I have written about this album before. It is one I would need on a desert island, and it's not an exaggeration to say it might have saved my life. Certainly it helped me live with myself at a time when that was very, very hard. This song, in particular, still makes me cry, and if you don't mist up a little at it, how do we know each other?

Today is the feast day of St. Bernadette, unlikeliest of saints. She was a desperately poor, uneducated 14-year-old girl when she saw a dazzling light and a "small young lady" at a grotto outside her small town. Her own parents didn't believe her. The police threatened to arrest her. Her fellow townspeople thought she was insane, but were amazed when a spring flowed clear from a place that had been nothing but mud. Bernadette said that the lady asked for penance, and said that a chapel should be built on the site, and that people should come.

Now that site is the shrine of Lourdes, where 67 people with fatal or crippling illnesses have experienced cures certified by the Catholic Church as miracles. Countless more people give Lourdes credit for miraculous cures of their own, although unconfirmed by doctors or scientists. The water, tested over a period of 150 years, is perfectly ordinary mineral water. Bernadette herself said that the healing came from prayer, not from the water itself.

Bernadette died at the age of 35. Paradoxically, she was sick for most of her life, with cholera, asthma, and finally the tuberculosis that killed her. But she believed that her life was touched by miracles, and was canonized in 1933, 54 years after her death.

A friend once told me that I had lived a magic life, and I agreed that it was true. But I think that magic lives are as much about what you notice as about what actually happens to you. It's about what you keep track of, and how you keep score. Bernadette, poor and sickly, felt blessed. Whether or not you believe she saw the Virgin Mary, her ability to feel loved in the midst of doubt makes her a role model — for Leonard Cohen, and for me.

"Every mother's son's romantic/Every mother's son is frantic."

2011-04-15T08:30:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Faron Young," Prefab Sprout. Words & music by Paddy McAloon. Track 1 of Steve McQueen, 1985.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

Is it just me, or is everyone a little nuts this week? Not saying we don't all have reason, although I suspect that franticness is contagious. I'm just not sure whether it started with me, or whether I caught it from someone and am passing it along. At this point, it doesn't matter.

This album was a Christmas present from a friend, and new to me, although it had been released more than 20 years earlier. It was released in the U.S. as Two Wheels Good, because Steve McQueen's estate objected to the use of his name as a title.

Faron Young was still alive when this album came out, though he hadn't recorded anything since 1980, and was fighting a losing battle with alcohol, emphysema and mental illness. He recorded three more albums in the late 1980s-early 1990s, but as a kid growing up in Tidewater Virginia, I knew him mainly as the spokesman for BC Powder (which, by the way, is still the best hangover remedy I know, though almost impossible to find north of Virginia). He killed himself in 1996, and was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2000.

Click here to see his duet with Willie Nelson on "Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away." It's a beautiful voice, and nice to see the real affection between these two old friends. Faron Young was his own worst enemy, but aren't we all?

"But falling over you/Is the news of the day."

2011-04-14T19:34:00.005-04:00

The Song: "The Ghost in You," The Psychedelic Furs. Words & music by Richard Butler and Tim Butler. Track 11 of All of This and Nothing, 1988 (originally Track 1 of Mirror Moves, 1984, but I never owned that).
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1990; purchased CD, c. 1998.
Listen/watch here.

The Psychedelic Furs rank high among my favorite bands of the 1980s, perhaps second only to The Replacements. On any given day this might be my favorite Furs song (although my favorite of their albums is Forever Now, no contest).

Anyway, it's been a tricky week. Many tasks to be juggled, and I'm distracted and sad for no real reason, or at least no reason I care to look at.

I tripped over Dizzy last night. It was bound to happen; my night vision is pretty much gone, to the point that it takes a fair amount of light for me even to distinguish shadows anymore. The narrowing of my field of vision acts as a sort of letterbox, showing me only a kidney-shaped strip of what normal people see.

Most of the time, that's plenty. I see what I'm looking at, and always will, barring some terrible accident. It actually comes in handy sometimes. I swear it's improved both my bowling and my putting, and I'm a decent shot with a rifle because nothing peripheral distracts me.

I don't know what I don't see, but the brain is marvelous at filling in information when I know what's there. It lets me believe I see more than I do, in familiar settings - which is why I tripped over Dizzy last night. He wasn't in his usual place, and I just didn't see him.

He wasn't hurt, and neither was I. He forgot it almost immediately, but I won't.

"Their walls are built of cannon balls/Their motto is don't tread on me."

2011-04-12T07:01:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Uncle John's Band," The Grateful Dead. Words by Robert Hunter; music by Jerry Garcia. Track 1 of Workingman's Dead, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1991.
Listen/watch here.

My friend Scott, a Charleston native, told me once that he'd heard these lines referred to Fort Moultrie, which has cannonballs in its walls. Kathy and I climbed on those walls as children, during summers in Charleston with our grandparents. They probably don't let you do that any more.

Fort Moultrie is now part of Fort Sumter National Monument, which is getting a lot of attention today as it's the 150th anniversary of the first shots fired in the Civil War. I suspect that not as many tourists visit Fort Moultrie, which is a shame, because I always thought it was even more interesting than its counterpart in the harbor. It was the official federal garrison in Charleston before South Carolina seceded in December 1860; after secession, the federal troops moved to Fort Sumter, surrounded by water, with the idea that it would be easier to defend.

After the Civil War, Fort Moultrie was a working Army installation through the Second World War. My mother remembered seeing German prisoners of war sunbathing there, when she and her family spent summers on Sullivan Island. She was a tiny child then, and her lasting memory was of envying the prisoners because they had chocolate bars, which were rationed.

Fort Moultrie is one of a handful of places I've visited that I would say, beyond question, is haunted. The Seminole leader Osceola died of malaria there, three months after being lured to Fort Payton under false promises of a peace negotiation. He's buried at Fort Moultrie, despite a bizarre scheme to steal his bones as recently as 1966. I don't know whether he haunts Fort Moultrie, but it wouldn't surprise me.

This song is probably my single favorite Grateful Dead tune, and an infallible mood lifter. It's the first track on my "Music for a Bad Mood" playlist, which I created as a mix tape at least 15 years ago, and have updated only slightly in the conversion to MP3s.

"The world was moving/She was right there with it, and she was."

2011-04-10T06:26:00.004-04:00

The Song: "And She Was," Talking Heads. Words & music by David Byrne. Track 1 of Little Creatures, 1985.
When/how acquired: Bootleg cassette copy, 1986; downloaded MP3, 2005.
Listen/watch here.

Once upon a time on a sunny Thursday afternoon, a baby girl was born in a military hospital in Washington, DC. Her parents named her Hope, because that was what was left at the bottom of the box of troubles.

Twenty-five years later, that baby girl is the amazing Claire Bea, who is everything her parents hoped for and more. Happy birthday, baby girl.

"Waving goodbye with tears in my eyes/Well sure I made it but you know it was a hell of a trip."

2011-04-06T14:23:00.005-04:00

The Song: "Flashback Blues," John Prine. Words & music by John Prine. Track 13 of John Prine, 1971.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, c. 1980.
Sorry, couldn't find a version of this online. You should own this album, anyway.

Almost exactly seven years ago, I sat at my desk in Los Angeles and said, "I gotta get out of here."

The phone rang. It was my friend Anna, who had recently married the man of her dreams, and I repeated this to her.

She said, "You should move to Maine."

I scoffed. I had never lived north of the Mason-Dixon line, except for the accident of my birth (in New Rochelle, NY) and the three months my family spent with Dad's parents in the Bronx, before my brother Ed was born. I didn't do winter. I couldn't stand the cold, and Anna knew this perfectly well.

Still, something clicked in my brain, and a series of odd coincidences over the next few months all repeated Anna's invitation: Maine, Maine, Maine. Within a weirdly short period of time, the idea of moving to Maine went from ridiculous to something that seemed like the obvious next step.

Longtime readers of this blog know it took me a while to get there. I'm not going to go back over it; if you want the story, read the first three months of this blog's archives. But get here I did, eventually, and it was Anna who welcomed me and found me a place to live and showed me the ropes of life in Maine. It was Anna who introduced me to Gaslight Theater and Literacy Volunteers, and to my first new friends here.

And now Anna and her growing family are leaving Maine, and leaving me behind. The news was official yesterday afternoon: they're moving to Florida next month.

I am not moving to Florida.

"I believe the angels listen, God hears us pray"

2011-04-05T07:06:00.002-04:00

The Song: "I Believe," Chris Isaak. Words & music by Chris Isaak. Track 12 of Forever Blue, 1995.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1995.
Listen/watch here.

I listened to this record almost constantly for about three months after I bought it, but realized this morning (and iTunes confirmed) that I haven't played it in two years. Chris Isaak is like an old boyfriend: I don't miss him when he's gone, but am always glad to see him again, and then ask myself, "Now why did we break up, again?" Sometimes, as this song points out, things just don't work out, and no one can explain it.

But I do believe that the angels listen and God hears us pray, and this morning's prayers are for my aunt Patricia, who's having some surgery today. I am ashamed that it took a hospital stay for me to call her -- I only have two living blood-relation aunts, plus three by marriage -- but very glad that I did, whatever the reason. My extended family is scattered across the United States, and while this may be good strategy for our long-term plans for world domination, I wish we all saw each other more often.

"What more in the name of love?"

2011-04-04T08:23:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Pride," Nouvelle Vague. Words & music by Adam Clayton, Paul Hewson, Larry Mullen, & David Evans (U2). Track 11, Disk 2 of Best of Nouvelle Vague (Limited Edition), 2010.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2010.
Listen here.

"Nouvelle Vague" means "New Wave," and this French group specializes in bossa nova ("new wave" in Portuguese) arrangements of 1980s classics. A little precious? Maybe, but I love them, and was delighted to get this CD last Christmas from the friend who'd originally turned me on to them.

It's the only version of this song I own, because — and this might surprise even people who know me well — I am not a particular fan of U2. I've seen them live (once), and The Joshua Tree will always be part of my personal soundtrack of 1987, but I never loved them as much as I felt I was supposed to.

That said, this is a great song. It commemorates the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., 43 years ago today. My twin sister Kathy and I were not even two and a half when Dr. King was assassinated, but my earliest memories come from that time. I just don't know what I actually remember, and what are confabulations from stories I heard later.

Easter 1968 fell on April 14, ten days after Dr. King's assassination. I know I remember that Easter: my new blue coat, which I loved; my hat, which was not as pretty as Kathy's; and my shiny patent leather shoes, which pinched.

The big event of that Easter, though, was that we got a puppy, a German Shepherd/Alaskan husky mix. My mother called him Boyfriend, because he would be her company while our father was at sea. She was two months pregnant with what would turn out to be my sisters Peggy and Susan.

I wish so hard that Mom was still alive — for so many reasons, but I wish I had asked her more about that time. Did she know she was pregnant when Dr. King was assassinated? Was she afraid, alone in a working-class neighborhood in Norfolk? Was that why Daddy bought the puppy?

It would be good to think that the world is a better place, 43 years after Dr. King's assassination. But this weekend brought news of Americans killed in retaliation for an American cult's burning of the Koran, and of the murder of a Catholic police officer in Northern Ireland. People are still killing each other in the name of love, and the thought of that makes me feel very sick, and very tired.

Dr. King would be 82 if he were alive today.

"Baby it's sad,/But baby it's a fact/People have torches/For people like that."

2011-04-02T10:02:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Pride of Frankenstein," Too Much Joy. Words & music by Too Much Joy (Jay Blumenfeld, Tim Quirk, Sandy Smallens & Tommy Vinton). Track 8 of Cereal Killers, 1991.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1991; purchased CD, c. 2000.
Listen/read about it here.

People are pack animals, which should scare anyone who stops to think about it. Management and Organizational Behavior was a required course in the Business school when I was an undergraduate, but since I was in the School of Foreign Service, I missed it, and now I'm sorry. It would come in handy. I have, however, read Charles Mackay's classic Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, which is as timely and interesting today as it was when first published in 1841.

As with everything else in modern life, the Internet speeds up and facilitates pack behavior. I've done a lot of thinking this week about the time I spend online and its unintended consequences on the rest of my life. Haven't come to any conclusions yet, but a subscription to Mac Freedom may be in my future.

This song is one of the highlights of an album that ranks among my all-time favorites. Too Much Joy probably still stands as the band I've seen most often live, even though officially they broke up about ten years ago. (My brother Ed and I were both at the concert recorded for their live album, Live at Least, and I think you can hear us singing along with the Theme Song at the end of the show.) Anyway, it felt appropriate, especially because I've just watched the original Frankenstein again on Turner Classic Movies.

"Guess you must be/Runnin' out of fools"

2011-04-01T07:43:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Runnin' Out of Fools," Neko Case. Words & music by Richard Ahlert and Kay Rogers. Track 12 of Blacklisted, 2002.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 2004.
Listen/watch here.

Neko Case sounds like Dusty Springfield on this cover, which is not to say she isn't amazing in her own right. As far as I'm concerned, she can do no wrong. She's on a short list of artists I can't believe I haven't seen live.

Most April Fools' jokes are mean, and I'm far too susceptible to them, for reasons explained in the last post. Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe. This morning's email brought the traditional ThinkGeek April Fools' newsletter, and all I could think was, "Man, I wish this was true." Especially the Playmobil Apple Store Playset. I would totally buy that.

I am much too busy, but hope to finish several things today. In triage mode, hoping today's snowstorm doesn't crash the powerlines, and anxiously waiting for 10:00 a.m., when tickets go on sale for Elvis Costello at the State Theatre this summer. Dizzy was up most of the night, sick after eating a whole rib bone; now he's passed out on the floor, and I need to get my work done.

"She harbors no illusions and she's worldly-wise."

2011-03-30T07:38:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Cynical Girl," Marshall Crenshaw. Words & music by Marshall Crenshaw. Track 4 of This is Easy: The Best of Marshall Crenshaw, 2000.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2000.
Listen/watch here.

Recent work obligations have required me to go out into a wider Internet community than I usually frequent, and it has dismayed me. Anyone who wants to feel bad about their fellow human beings need only pull up the comments section of any major news site, but even communities of the like-minded seem full of people just looking for opportunities to feel slighted, insulted, disrespected, undervalued and outraged.

After a day or two among these people, the only conclusion I've been able to reach is that people just like to feel that way. I don't know why it's taken me so long to figure this out. It explains so much, everything from Glenn Beck to Keith Olbermann. It explains the Crusades. It explains the Church Lady, though I feel obligated to remind people that the Church Lady is supposed to be funny.

Here's my theory about this (as usual, I have a theory). Outrage and offense require doubt. If people were truly comfortable and confident in their own beliefs, what would it matter what anyone else thinks? Why would they need to attack anyone else's beliefs? Why couldn't they just proceed, wrapped in the comfort of their own self-righteousness?

The people shouting loudest are the people who secretly suspect they're wrong, or feel guilty about their actions or positions, and are terrified about their uncertainty.

I want to live in a world where everyone starts the day by accepting the possibilities that they are wrong, and that other people mean well. I think this will require spending much less time online.

I don't want to be worldly-wise. I'd like to keep a few illusions. I don't want to be a Cynical Girl.

"Just remember that the wrong things aren't supposed to last."

2011-03-25T09:28:00.004-04:00

The Song: "This is Love," Mary Chapin Carpenter. Words & music by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Track 13 of Stones in the Road, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen/watch here.

The talk at last week's Virginia Festival of the Book, and online this week, is the move to exclusive e-publishing by some pretty major names in genre fiction. The handsome, witty and delightful Lee Goldberg and I had a long conversation about this last Thursday night, and his blog is one of the best sources for thoughtful commentary on this topic.

Yesterday, however, I got an email that helped crystallize my thoughts on the subject, and it wasn't about books at all. My friend Anna, in a frenzy of spring cleaning, found a VHS tape of my 1999 appearance on "Jeopardy!" Did I want it? she asked.

I have not owned a VCR in ten years or more, but have a box of VHS tapes that has made two cross-country moves with me. Why? I have no idea. I'll never own a VCR again. I'll never watch these tapes again. I need to get rid of them, but it pains me to throw them in a landfill, so there they sit, in that box in my spare room.

And yes, I told Anna that I would like my "Jeopardy!" tape, because I don't own any recording of that appearance, and Chris and Claire might like to see it sometime. How I will show it to them, I don't know. I'll have to find some place that transfers VHS to DVD, and hope the copyright laws don't prohibit that.

The moral of this story, though, is that state-of-the-art data storage has become inaccessible to the casual user in just over a decade. It's not just video; I have a box of unreadable floppy disks, too.

As I see more and more authors move exclusively to electronic publishing, what I see is the acknowledgment that their work is ephemeral. Pulp fiction always was, of course; only the very best of it has survived, and even then the original books crumble to the touch. It makes sense to publish Harlequin romances and men's adventure fiction in e-format, because those books were always meant to be read once, passed on, forgotten. (They'll no longer be left in hospital waiting rooms or on trains, though, and I feel a certain sentimental regret about that.)

My shelves hold books that are almost 100 years old, books I've owned since childhood, books that belonged to my parents and in a couple of cases to their parents. I have books I expect to leave to my heirs, inscribed by friends with messages that I hope will mystify and intrigue my great-grandchildren.

No one will inherit my first-generation Kindle.

"And I'll meet you further on up the road."

2011-03-22T08:18:00.002-04:00

The Song: "Further On (Up the Road)," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 9 of The Rising, 2002.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2002.
Listen here.

Greetings from East Windsor, NJ, which is only two towns over from Bruce Springsteen's hometown of Freehold. Dizzy and I stopped here overnight to see my dad, who's in Military Sealift Command training here. Now I'm catching up on email and getting a few things done, waiting out rush hour before I head north again. With luck we'll be home before dark, although I hear today's weather in New England is lousy. Dizzy will be disoriented and sad to see the ground covered in snow again, and so will I.

The Rising was exactly the album I needed in 2002, when we were all still trying to process the events of September 11, 2001. I rarely listen to it now. Maybe it's too closely associated with that unhappy time. Maybe it just doesn't feel particularly relevant to my life anymore, although I still listen to the earlier albums a lot. (Nebraska, in particular, is a record that never got old for me.)

As we approach the 10-year anniversary of those attacks, I expect we'll be hearing a lot more of this album again.

"I'll do this/and I'll do that/I'll be burning canyons for you"

2011-03-19T09:04:00.004-04:00

The Song: "This and That," Michael Penn. Words & music by Michael Penn. Track 3 of March, 1989.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1990.
Listen/watch here (it's a bad video transfer, and the sound has some weird interference but is otherwise clear).

I didn't bring any business cards with me to the Virginia Festival of the Book, which was a mistake. But I'm not actively looking for work, and the truth is that I've run out of business cards and am not sure what to do about reprinting them.

I had great "Answer Girl" business cards, designed by my cousin Sheila (who is auctioning off some of her gorgeous artwork for Japan disaster relief on her blog). The easy, logical thing to do would be to reprint those, and I'm not sure why I haven't. Maybe because the whole "Answer Girl" persona feels more and more like hubris; maybe because it still doesn't answer the question, "What it is that you do?"

The question is easy here at the Festival, because I am here as a reader but also as John Connolly's US publicist and all-purpose minion (minus the beatings that minions get in his book The Gates - we had to be clear on that before I took this gig). But this is only one of many things I do. In the past week, I've finished developmental and copy edits on two manuscripts, written and edited copy for two very different corporations, done publicity support work for another author, interviewed a principal for a ghostwriting project, and started some quick research for yet another author. I also finished reading a book that's a candidate for a literary prize I'm a judge for (and no, those books don't show up on the blog reading lists until well after the fact). This week was unusually productive; spring is here, and with it I feel recalled to life, like the crocuses that are finally up in central Maine.

So I tell people who ask that I provide "broad-spectrum author support," because rattling off the various projects gets confusing and tedious, even to me.

But I realized a couple of weeks ago, when I started fretting about this question of business cards, is that my work is not so far from my great-great-grandmother McLaughlin's - not the one on my mother's side, who was born in Ireland and whom I know nothing about, but the one on my father's side (yes, my gene pool is thick). She was the housekeeper at that young ladies' finishing school. I'm a 21st century servant, and I like that idea maybe more than I should. There's honor and grace in doing service well, and I'm far more comfortable downstairs than upstairs. I don't need to be a star, but am happy to shine up the people who do — provided, of course, that I decide they deserve it.

Putting "star polisher" on my business card would just confuse matters even more.

"I'm proud to be a glutton, and I don't have time for sloth."

2011-03-18T08:16:00.006-04:00

The Song: "Mr. Bad Example," Warren Zevon. Words & music by Warren Zevon & Jorge Calderon. Track 5 of Mr. Bad Example, 1991.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1991.
Listen/watch here.

That link goes to a live performance of the song on "Late Night with David Letterman" that sounds almost like a mariachi cover. The song was a standard in Zevon's concerts, and my favorite version was an acoustic one, with Zevon alone on guitar.

This CD may be my favorite Warren Zevon album, and was the theme music for the deeply strange summer of 1992, when (among other things) I took my first solo vacation — a long weekend in Bethany Beach, DE — and had back surgery. No, those things were not related.

I'm in Charlottesville for the Virginia Festival of the Book. It's officially work, but feels more like a vacation. One key to a happy life, as a friend wrote in a book that will be out later this year, is having a job that feels more like a hobby.

Which reminds me that it has been a shockingly long time since I posted a reading list. Sorry about that. I've been doing a lot of manuscript work, and my pleasure reading has been catch-as-catch-can. But here are some highlights of the past couple of months:

Good Books I've Read Lately

Jodi Compton, HAILEY'S WAR. I was a big fan of Compton's two Sarah Pribek novels, THE 37TH HOUR and SYMPATHY BETWEEN HUMANS, but this book took me by surprise. Hailey Cain is a truly fresh protagonist, and this thriller reveals new secrets almost to the last page. Hailey works as a San Francisco bike messenger after dropping out of West Point under mysterious circumstances. An old friend asks for an unreasonable favor: drive an undocumented Mexican-American teenager south across the border, so she can take care of her dying grandmother. The trip ends in disaster, with Hailey nearly killed and the girl missing. Hailey's determined to find out what happened and why, and make things right if she can.

Rosanne Cash, COMPOSED. I listened to this on audiobook, rather than read it. Cash herself reads it, and it felt like a gift — a lovely, extraordinary book that reports the gains and losses of her life, but makes no attempt to settle scores. I liked her and her music before I listened to the book, and I like her even more now. She's also my favorite follow on Twitter — @rosannecash.

Gillian Flynn, DARK PLACES. Libby Day, now in her early 30s, is the only survivor of a notorious massacre. Her brother Ben is serving multiple life sentences for murdering Libby's mother and sisters. Libby managed to run from the house, and her testimony helped convict her brother. Short on cash, Libby agrees to sell her personal information to a group of true-crime fanatics, and must confront some truths she's never admitted to anyone. Flynn's first novel, SHARP OBJECTS, blew me away, and this book is just as good. I'd like to read it in a book group, because I need to talk to someone about the ending, which felt abrupt and not fully justified.

Lisa Gardner, LOVE YOU MORE. I read this at the recommendation of Joseph Finder, who raved about it. The praise was justified. Gardner keeps her D.D. Warren series fresh by giving equal time to other characters, and in this book, the other character is a Massachusetts state trooper who's found standing over her husband's dead body with a gun in her hand. The trooper, Tessa Leoni, tells us her story in the first person, alternating with the third-person account of Warren's investigation. Twists keep coming, to an ending that is both plausible and deeply satisfying. A virtuoso performance.

John Connolly, HELL'S BELLS. This book will not be out in the US until October, when it will be called THE INFERNALS (but it's coming out in May in the UK), and my minion status earned me an early copy. I am John's paid minion, and he's a good friend besides, but this is one of those pieces of the job that feels like a hobby, because this book is simply wonderful. In this more-than-worthy sequel to THE GATES, young Samuel Johnson and his faithful Dachshund, Boswell, are sucked into the depths of Hell, along with a couple of policemen, some very unpleasant dwarfs, and an ice cream truck. HELL'S BELLS manages to be both very funny and truly frightening, a rollercoaster that is fierce and wise and smart and kind.

A Conversation with Henry

2011-03-18T06:09:00.002-04:00

I stopped off in Mechanicsville yesterday, and had this conversation with my seven-year-old nephew.

Henry: What's your least favorite food?

Me: Fish, probably. I don't really like fish.

Henry: I like fish, with lots of lemon juice on it.

Me: Lemon juice is good. Lemon juice makes almost anything better.

Henry: Well — not everything. Lemon juice isn't good on cereal.

"Where e'er we go, we celebrate/The land that makes us refugees."

2011-03-17T07:23:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Thousands are Sailing," The Pogues. Words & music by Philip Chevron. Track 6 of If I Should Fall From Grace with God, 1988.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1989; purchased CD, c. 1992
Listen/watch here.

The nation of Ireland has always been more powerful in diaspora than at home. I'd give you my theory about why that is, but W.B. Yeats put it better than I could: "Great hatred, little room." I grew up in a house where six children shared one bathroom. Apply that principle to nine million on a rocky island the size of Indiana, and you can imagine what the place was like in 1845, before the Famine.

I don't know a lot about my own family's arrival dates, but a couple of branches came over before the Famine, and as far as I know, no one passed through Ellis Island. They came through Castle Clinton, they came through Philadelphia, they might have landed directly in Charleston, SC. They worked hard and married people from their own part of Ireland, mostly Clare and Cork. The memorial plaque at Dysert O'Dea, in Clare, bears half a dozen of my own family names.

Generations away from Ireland, they lived in Irish neighborhoods and went to Irish churches and distrusted all things non-Irish. My great-grandmother Hogan, at the turn of the last century, ran an employment service that sponsored young Irish women to come over as domestic help for New York's wealthy families. (Her own mother had been the housekeeper for a girls' boarding school; my great-grandmother went to classes with the daughters of the Gilded Age, who became her clients.)

Friends of mine who are Irish are understandably annoyed sometimes by the foolish, sentimental, sloppy ways Irish Americans celebrate their heritage. But the whole culture is based on this longing for home, and I have always thought of homesickness as the human condition.

I first heard this album on a snowy weekend in February 1989, visiting my friends Scott and Nancy in Williamsburg. We played board games, drank at the Greene Turtle, and listened to this album almost non-stop, in rotation with John Hiatt's Drive South. As it happens, I am driving south today - first to Mechanicsville, then to Charlottesville for the Virginia Festival of the Book - and will make both these albums the soundtrack for the drive.

If you are lucky enough to be in New York today, the Irish Arts Center is handing out free books by Irish authors all day throughout the five boroughs. Somewhere in the city, they're giving away a few dozen copies of my friend and client John Connolly's magical novel The Gates; if you haven't read it, see if you can snag one for yourself. Details about the giveaway are here.

"Jesus rides beside me/He never buys any smokes."

2011-03-16T07:24:00.004-04:00

The Song: "Can't Hardly Wait," The Replacements. Words & music by Paul Westerberg. Track 11 from Pleased to Meet Me, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1987.
Listen/watch here. (Also check out this demo version, which is missing the horns I love but has an amazing guitar track.)

The car is back, after a sum of money too large to post here. If I posted the repair cost, people would tell me the car isn't worth it, and I don't feel like having that argument. As my vision continues to narrow and my night vision continues to fade, I don't expect to be driving more than another year or two. This will be the last car I own, and it needs to last.

But it took time and attention I couldn't spare yesterday, and this morning I'm behind again. I have promised to do things and be places today that may not be possible, and it makes me want to drop my head and weep. I'm working as hard and as fast as I can, and I apologize for everything that's falling off the back of the truck.

"Think I'll flip a coin, I'm a winner either way/Mmmm, I feel lucky today."

2011-03-15T07:52:00.003-04:00

The Song: "I Feel Lucky," Mary Chapin Carpenter. Words & music by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Track 4 of Come On Come On, 1992.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1992.
Listen/watch here.

My car stopped on Route 1 South last night, and all I can think about this morning is how lucky I am.

It was after rush hour, barely. I wasn't traveling any faster than 35 miles an hour, and was able to coast over to a small shoulder that got me out of the flow of traffic. Our Chris was already on his way to meet me, but came to the rescue with his mother. The AAA guy was able to tow the car to Volkswagen of Alexandria, right around the corner. The car actually started once we got it to the lot (of course), but I'll hear from the dealership this morning about what needs to be done. I'm guessing/hoping it's the alternator, which is not a small thing but no disaster.

All in all, a minor inconvenience in a life of ridiculous abundance, and I'm so grateful for it I can't even worry about the car. I have clothes and shoes and food, I have cable TV and a dog. I have a family I love who put up with me. I have extraordinarily generous friends. I have books and music and none of this is wrecked or underwater or under threat of nuclear disaster. And for once, I have enough money in my checking account to pay for car repairs. Within reason.

I feel lucky today.

Mary Chapin Carpenter used to play coffeehouses and afternoon concerts at Georgetown when she was first starting out. I saw her at least once in Red Square, the brick amphitheater outside Georgetown's School of Foreign Service building, when my friend Scott booked her for a summer music event. I wanted to be her friend then, and still do. I think we'd agree on just about everything.

"Confidentially, between these walls/I'm on top of it all."

2011-03-14T08:13:00.003-04:00

The Song: "Quiet Life," The Kinks. Words & music by Ray Davies. Track 4 of the Absolute Beginners soundtrack, 1986.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1987.
I have not been able to find any version of this song, audio or video, online. If you have a link, please share.

I say yes to things, if I can. On balance, I think it's a good way to live one's life. It's gotten me into considerable trouble and has caused me a great deal of pain, but it's also taken me on adventures I didn't have the imagination to want. You never know, is what I say, and since my primary goal has always been to learn as much as I can about as many things as I can, everything is grist to the mill.

The problem with this approach is that it can get a little overwhelming, and is not always fair to the people I've said yes to, or to myself. Last week's blog break was an effort to catch up on some of the things I've said yes to, combined with a trip to Washington that had already been delayed by more than a week. I'm still not caught up, but I am not as desperately behind as I was, and feel good about the sheer volume of work I've gotten done in the last ten days or so. It must be spring.

I'm surprised and dismayed that this soundtrack isn't on iTunes. The movie came out at a time when I wasn't seeing much in theaters, so I had to wait to watch it on VHS about a year later. I needed the soundtrack as soon as I saw the movie, and probably bought it the next day. It dazzled me. I have no idea whether it's a good movie, in the same way I have no idea whether any of the men I've fallen in love with were handsome. It was the right movie at the right time, and it can still make me feel 19.

"And it's a hard/And it's a hard/And it's a hard, hard, hard/It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."

2011-03-07T13:17:00.002-05:00

The Song: "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," Bryan Ferry. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Track 1 of These Foolish Things, 1973; track 2 of Street Life, 1986.
When/how acquired: Gift bootleg cassette, c. 1987; gift MP3, 2004.
Listen/watch here.

I do not currently own a copy of These Foolish Things, a situation I must address immediately. This is one of my all-time favorite covers, a version that reinvents the song while reminding us of what makes it great.

It's a mix of snow and rain that's falling right now, but when I woke up, it was ice pellets. I was supposed to drive south today, but am pushing it until tomorrow in hopes of better weather. Quite a lot of snow melted over the weekend, so the roads have standing water as well as ice, and everything is coated in mud. Dizzy and I went for a lunchtime walk; my coat has a hood, but the rain stung his snout, and he was not sorry to cut things short.

The weather report says the sun is shining in Washington, DC, and temperatures will reach the 50s today. I badly need something other than gray in my life right now.

"That what you fear the most could meet you halfway."

2011-03-03T11:07:00.002-05:00

The Song: "Crazy Mary," Pearl Jam. Words & music by Victoria Williams. Track 3 of Sweet Relief, 1993.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1993
Listen/watch here.

It's obvious to me that we attract what we fear, though it's a dynamic I don't pretend to understand. I'm a hypochondriac (most writers are, if they'll admit it) who never goes to the doctor because I'm afraid of what I might find out, which means that if something really were wrong with me I probably wouldn't know about it until it was too late to do much. See how that works?

Not so with Dizzy, however. I am vigilant about Dizzy's health and changes in his behavior, which is why we went to the vet this morning. He's been slowing down considerably over the past few months, as his age catches up with him. I read in a book last week that 11-year-old dogs his size (about 75 lbs.) are about as old as humans in their mid-70s. He gets confused sometimes, and his sleeping and eating patterns have changed. I know he doesn't see as well as he used to, especially at night (though I don't, either).

The other day I noticed his ear was infected, and this morning he threw up and wouldn't eat his breakfast. Off to the vet we went, so that they could tell me he has an ear infection but is otherwise pretty healthy for a dog of his age. He has cataracts, and he needs some oral surgery to remove a growth on his gum, but otherwise, he's doing okay.

I have said before in this space that Dizzy makes the whole structure of my life possible. Without him I would be too weird, too lonely, too idle, too isolated. He needs to hang in there for as long as he can.

"Never take any pictures/Just try to remember"

2011-03-01T07:58:00.004-05:00

The Song: "Half Life," Too Much Joy. Words & music by Too Much Joy (Jay Blumenfield, Tim Quirk, Tommy Vinton & William Wittman). Track 9 of ...Finally, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
Listen here.

This may be my favorite song by one of my all-time favorite bands, a group that never got the attention they deserved. They're all about the same age as I am, so this album would have come out when we were all about 30. Thirty used to be the beginning of middle age; now it's more like the end of adolescence. I will say that the years from 15 to 30 passed a lot more slowly than 30-45 went.

I did some cleaning this weekend (and still have a lot more to go), and came across several envelopes of photos from a client's book tour, a few years ago. I need to ask the client what I should do with them, but this is one reason I don't take many pictures myself. When I see people with video cameras at major life events, I always want to ask: are you going to watch that? When, and why? To remind yourself of an event that you didn't fully experience when it happened, because you were too busy fiddling with the camera?

A great photograph is a work of art. I do love having photos of events I missed, or people who have gone, but I don't particularly like to see myself in old photographs. It feels like time travel, and I'd rather stay here.

"...everything dies, baby, that's a fact/But maybe everything that dies someday comes back."

2011-02-28T10:13:00.003-05:00

The Song: "Atlantic City," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 2 of Nebraska, 1982.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1982.
Listen/watch here. (Sorry about the long ad at the beginning; you can skip it after a few seconds.)

The last day of February, and I'm glad to see it go. It's snowing again, but this feels like a spring storm, if that makes any sense. The temperature is a relatively balmy 25F (no sarcasm, it feels warm), and the snow is supposed to change to sleet and rain by afternoon. Impossible to drive in, more treacherous than regular snow, but still a promise of better things to come.

The dog my kids grew up with, the noble Clancy Bea, passed away in his sleep last night. He and Dizzy were about the same age, good friends and boon companions. We all feel the loss, but it was peaceful, Clancy didn't suffer much, and no one had to second-guess any decisions. My sympathies go out to Vikki and Keith, Chris, Claire, Celeste and Carolyn. Nothing's better than a good dog. It feels cruel that their lives last only a fraction of ours.

In better news, my dad starts a new adventure today, taking a job with the Military Sealift Command. I hope it's everything he wants it to be, and wish him fair winds and following seas.

I'm supposed to head south later this week, but that may slide, as we're due more bad weather on Wednesday, and I need to clear a few things off my desk first.

"Start your own revolution and cut out the middleman."

2011-02-26T14:50:00.004-05:00

The Song: "Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards," Billy Bragg. Words & music by Billy Bragg. Track 11 of Workers Playtime, 1988.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1989.
Listen/watch here.

This is Billy Bragg's theme song, and it's different every time he sings it. I've seen him live a couple of times and on TV quite a few times, and he updates the lyrics according to whatever's on his mind.

As revolution breaks out at home and abroad, both civil and uncivil, I notice how we've lost the middlemen in so many aspects of our lives. I'm not sure that's always a good thing.

Today I went to the Sears in Augusta, looking for a replacement part for my vacuum cleaner. Of course they didn't have it, but rather than offer to order it for me, they directed me to order it myself at Sears.com. Which I've just done, paying $8.99 in shipping on top of the $16.79 the vacuum piece cost.

Let's look at this transaction for a moment, and consider the implications for our economy as a whole. Undoubtedly it saves Sears money not to keep parts in stock at the store, and it certainly saves them money to have me do the ordering instead of an employee. It certainly saves them money to be able to pass on shipping costs to me.

But what did they lose? I went to the store prepared to spend some money. If they'd had the part, I'd probably have spent more time in the store, and I might have bought something besides. If they ordered the part for me and I needed to return to the store to pick it up, that would be a second visit, with a second opportunity for me to shop and buy something. And those might have been employment opportunities for the clerks helping me shop and doing the ordering. But that's not how they do it any more, so they missed those sales opportunities, and they definitely don't have as many clerks as they used to.

Is this progress? Is this better? Sears, which meant retail shopping for generations of the American heartland, is surviving by delegating customer service to the customers themselves. This is the new model of retail. And I hate it.

I want a little mediation, dammit. I want helpers. I want guides. It's a complicated enough world out there, without my having to figure out the !@$% model number for a vacuum hose.

"They don't like me/I just know it/But I'd be happy/Just to get along."

2011-02-25T13:45:00.003-05:00

The Song: "They Don't Like Me," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 7 of I Love Everybody, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen here.

I don't know most of my neighbors well, and they don't know me. I was startled a few years ago to discover that some (not all) of my neighbors paid much more attention to my comings and goings than I realized, and had drawn their own conclusions about how I was: specifically, lesbian, unemployed, stuck-up, and weird.

Some (not all) also seem to assume that I don't like them, which I have tried to dispel by smiling and waving and trying to chat when I see them. Maybe these aren't things people do in Maine; I've had a neighbor visibly recoil when I greeted her and said something friendly.

Dizzy, on the other hand, assumes that everyone in the neighborhood is his friend, which means they must also be mine. Dizzy is a big dog, and not particularly tidy. I pick up his droppings faithfully, but there's no easy way to catch his urine, and he pees pretty much where he wants to pee. The woman across the street told me not to let Dizzy pee on her lawn anymore, and I have carefully avoided that yard ever since. It hasn't helped; if anything, it seems to have made neighborhood relations worse, rather than better. (She has a small dog of her own, as well as a cat that roams the neighborhood at will.)

Dizzy is completely in love with Casey, a friendly black lab up the street, who's allowed to run around in her yard without a fence or a tie-down. Casey's owner is lovely, and has been very kind to both Dizzy and me.

This afternoon, as I walked Dizzy in a snowstorm, Casey came barreling across another neighbor's driveway to greet us. A truck was backing out of that driveway, and very nearly hit Casey; I yelled at Casey (not the driver) to stop, but she ignored me. She wasn't hit, the driver stopped, and everything was okay — except that the woman in the house, who saw nothing but only heard me yelling, assumed I was yelling at the driver of the truck, and not the dog. I tried to explain, but I don't think she heard me; she shook her head and went back into her house.

I don't want to spend a lot of time trying to manage what people I don't know think of me, but it's depressing to be judged and found wanting.