All Aboard

This is yet another installment to my new work blog (the GPL Book Arts Project...I will continue to share the posts here, as well as there because...well, because I'm writing the posts, and you guys may be interested in the process about which I am writing, too):

I’ve written many grants in the past.  I’ve been lucky that the majority of them have been funded.  But I had never written a grant to the Alabama State Council on the Arts.  I just never felt like I was up to that caliber of a grant.  Not to downplay any of the grants that I have written in the past.  All of them meant a great deal to me, whether they were for large amounts or small.  But, as most of you out there know, some grants are more complicated than others.  Some grants consist of a one-page, online application and require no reporting, whatsoever.  Some grants are several pages long and require a final report to prove that you were a good steward of the money that you received.  Then some grants, like State Council on the Arts grants (in ANY state), strike fear in the hearts of a potential grant writer.  State council grants are so competitive, so thorough, so you-better-not-even-think-about-recycling-a-raggedy-old-grant-to-these-people-kind-of-grants…you have to be on your game to even think about writing one of these grants.  They require a great deal of thought, planning and research.  No mistaking, I was going to have to think long and hard before I even started writing this rascal.

So, to begin with, I did like I always do when I start writing a grant, I researched the grantor.  I went to the Alabama State Council on the Arts website to see if our organization’s mission was compatible with theirs.  It was.  Check.

Next, I looked up their grant guidelines.  It turned out that they had a grant Guidelines booklet that was available to download.  I downloaded it, and printed it out so that I could make notes as I read.  Check. Check.

At this point, I went ahead and set up a grant account for my library so I could access and print out portions of the grant to use as my guide during the writing process.  Check. Check. Check.

Although I had not completely finished reading the grant guidelines, I went ahead and decided on a very basic name for the series, GPL Book Arts Project, and sketched out a preliminary outline of the who, what, why, when, and where.  I needed this information in front of me when I began writing emails and making phone inquiries to potential lecturers and interested parties.

The first people I reached out to were Jeanie Thompson (to make sure that I was headed in the right direction), Ian Robertson (to get advice on tabletop presses and to beg him to come to Gadsden as a lecturer/demonstrator) and Glenn House, Sr. (to also get advice on tabletop presses and to beg he and his wife Kathleen Fetters to come to Gadsden as lecturers/deomonstrators).  Jeanie kindly assured me that the project sounded fundable, and encouraged me to keep moving forward.  Ian Robertson graciously offered up some valuable letterpress resources in some of his personal copies of the letterpress monthly, The Printer (he was “doubtful” about travel, though).  And Glenn House, Sr., in some of the most hilariously inspirational email exchanges I’ve ever received, took the bull by the horns and not only gave me some splendid advice on multiple levels (resources for lecturers, papermaking kits, tutorials, miscellany), but also (within seven days of my first query) secured a tabletop press for the library, payment due when the grant came through (evidently he had far more confidence in me than I did in myself).  As far as lecturers were concerned, he and Kathleen were committed to too many other projects for them to be available, but he suggested that I contact Dr. Steve Miller at the University of Alabama to see about the availability of book arts grad students who could act as lecturers.  I then asked award-winning author Irene Latham (who has given some entertaining and educational readings in the past here at the library) if she would be interested in participating as our writer in residence.  She was.

It seemed that everyone was, in one way or another, on board for the project, SHOULD it get funded.  The only other contact that I needed to make (as per the ASCA Guidebook) was to the Alabama State Council on the Arts itself…

GPL Book Arts Project...A new blog

A grant that I wrote to the Alabama State Council on the Arts (ASCA) was recently funded.  I was so thrilled, I almost peed my pants (no surprise to all of you who know that's what I want to do when I get excited).  Since I will have to do some reporting back to ASCA, and because I already blog, I asked ASCA for permission to blog about the experience.  They thought it was a cool idea, so I have started a new work-related blog, a place for my dealings with GPL Book Arts Project.  I have just started it ten minutes ago, so it still needs a bit of work.  Please feel free to visit it to see what I am up to over there:

http://gplbookartsproject.wordpress.com

In case you don't have time to go there right now, here is the post that I just published there:

A year ago November (November 6, 2010 to be exact), my partner Eric and I had the good fortune to be invited to the inaugural meeting of the Alabama Center for the Book at in Tuscaloosa, AL.  Now, you may be thinking, “Hey, wait a minute.  The Alabama Center for the Book has been around for awhile.  How could you have gone to the inaugural meeting of the Alabama Center for the Book just last year?”  Well, last November, the Alabama Center for the Book was moved from the picturesque antebellum home, Pebble Hill, in Auburn, AL to the Amelia Gayle Gorgas Library on the campus of the University of Alabama.  The move prompted a gathering of book artists, letterpress printers, bookbinders, papermakers, librarians, book arts students, and pretty much anyone else in the book/book arts industry to discuss the role of book arts in the community and the best methods to create a greater visibility for book arts through outreach, exhibits and teaching.  I saw people whom I had not seen in years (Jay Lamar), people I knew of very well, but had never met (Jeanie Thompson, Glenn House, Sr., Ian Robertson), and people I had just had recent grad school dealings with in some form or another (Dr. Aversa, Dr. MacCall, Dr. Miller).

Brainstorming happened.  Ideas were shared.  I was able to talk with several folks about my thoughts on having a book arts series at the Gadsden Public Library, a series that would give the community a taste of, and a better understanding of book arts as an art form.  I envisioned workshops that started from the beginning of a book’s life with papermaking, to working our way through letterpress printing, bookbinding, and creative writing workshops to fill those empty pages!  I saw us having in-house lectures, as well as take the whole shooting match on the road as outreach!  I tentatively pitched these thoughts to some of the folks with whom I was sharing break-out sessions.  My ideas were well received.  So well received, in fact, that Jeanie Thompson of the Alabama Writers’ Forum encouraged me to look into writing a grant to the Alabama State Council on the Arts.  So, I left Tuscaloosa with a fire lit under my butt to quit THINKING about the book arts project, and start DOING it…

 More to come...

Safety Net

I am not the kind of gal who flies by the seat of her pants.  When I introduce an author at a reading, I always have a safety net in the form of a sheet of notes about the author and their work.  That sheet of notes contains items that I have cogitated on usually for a couple of days, perhaps even weeks.  Often, the notes come from the marginalia that I have scribbled in the margins and in between the lines of text in my copy of their book (if you have ever borrowed a well-loved book from me, you have noticed this obsessive habit…Eric says that he likes to read my copies so that he can see what I have written).  The notes are usually a bit of a review of the book for which the author is about to give a reading.  I do not usually read directly from the sheet of notes, unless I am reading an example of the author’s work, a review of their work, or some statistical fact about the author.  But I do keep the sheet of notes on my body, or in my hand, should I need to remind myself of something I wanted to say. 

So, I have notes for most of the author introductions that I have made over the last five years.  I sometimes turn them into reviews of the author’s work and post them on Goodreads; sometimes not.  Here is the fleshed-out version of my introduction of Dan, a sort of review of his work:

I cannot help but compare Daniel Donaghy to the great singer/songwriter Bruce Springsteen.  My reasoning behind this is because he writes poems of the working class; the people working to make a living, to get by, but hoping for more.

In Start with the Trouble, Donaghy envisions a better future for people about whom he writes:  the bikers, the prostitutes, the dock workers, the homeless, his own family…himself.

But there is no romanticizing.  Some folks don’t get that better future.    Donaghy knows that all too well.

From the poem Touch (pg. 38, Start with the Trouble):

“…in the days before we’d sit alone

aching to be touched,

Johnny Wurtzel looking for a hand

to pull him back from heroin,

Angel Beach reaching out

for the fathers of her five kids,

Danny Boyer wanting someone

to do something other than tease

his lisp and his weight, finding

only a .22 he pressed to his head

one night on Snake Road in the rain.

But some do find a better future, they make it for themselves, as we see in the personal journey the narrator takes us on.  We find that he is transformed from a patron saint of nothing, to a man who finds salvation in the telling of others stories.

So, if you are looking for something worthwhile to read, pick up one of Dan’s books of poetry.  Streetfighting is his first book; Start with the Trouble is his second and most recent book.  They are both solid works, and I would recommend reading them back-to-back. 

'Cause he's real good at what he does...

Had the good fortune to have an old friend in town last week.  It wasn’t a social call, but not every moment was work, either.  Dan was in from Connecticut to give a poetry reading at the library and to conduct workshops at some of the local high schools.  He did everything he came into town to do, and made quite a name for himself as he did.  I believe that he may even be an honorary citizen of Gadsden now, for all his local-high-school-football-score-knowin,’ Gone-with-the-Wind-exhibit-tournin,’ and fried-chicken-eatin’ ways.  That’s all fine and good, but the real reasons for him being an honorary Gadsdenite is because he gave one hell of a reading at the library, and turned about a hundred and twenty students into poets.  I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of a Gadsden chapter of the Daniel Donaghy Club, and that they were working on an epic poem about his exploits along the banks of the Coosa.  I could see it rivaling the story of Emma Sansom or Noccalula…

During one of the high school workshops, Dan brainstormed with the students and asked them to write two narrative portrait poems, based upon certain personal things, following certain guidelines. He encouraged me and my friends (a coworker, who was sitting in on the exercise, and the student’s teacher) to participate as well.

The students worked.  They worked with eyes looking up to the ceiling while thinking.  They worked with arms curled around their papers (to shield from prying eyes) when writing.  They seemed unaffected by the assignment.  Or less affected by the assignment than were the adults.

For us adults (and I’m basing my assessment upon the fact that, when I glanced over at my coworker friend and at my teacher friend, they gave me the same anguished look that I imagine was on my own face), the assignment was like what I would imagine a person’s first session of therapy to be like.  I didn’t know where to begin.  And once I started writing, oh, my gosh, I went and made the poems too personal, too therapeutic, too not-for-reading-to-a-group-of-high-school-students-with-whom-I-conduct-business-with-some-of-their-parents.  I just prayed to not be called upon to read my poems out loud, which was fitting…because I’m sure that I would’ve felt the same way, had I been seventeen, and part of the student body that day. 

So, with the understanding that I am not a writer or poet (although my parents may think differently because they are the people who bankrolled my ballet career, my painting career, my sewing career, which means I am probably still a brilliant ballerina/sartorialist/painter in their eyes.  In actuality, I'm just a sometimes teacher of "Ballet for the Uncoordinated," a weekend sewer of stuffed animals, and a painter who can only do the kind of painting that is considered manual labor.), I present my two poems.  As you will see, they are linked, and meant to be read together:

Dinner at Elizabeth Padgett’s Trailer, Waynesburg, KY, Summer 1982

A housedressed Gran at the stove,

scrape, scrape, scraping a wooden spoon along the bottom of the skillet.

A knock at the trailer door.

Sky blotted out by Uncle Roder’s dark form.

Smell of red-eye gravy and his hat is missing.

I open the door to his “I done her up right this time.”

This, over the sound of dinner being made.

Aunt Sarah & Uncle Roder’s Farm, Waynesburg, KY Summer 1982

Corn, rows a body could get lost in, leading to a bleached-grey barn.

Rustling of stalks, mom’s footfalls in front of me, and Gran stumbling out of the barn, “The son of a bitch’s killed her!”

A dog’s mournful wail, for hunger, not for this loss.

Me, blinking hard, an impossibly blue sky, even more impossible scene unfolding.

Nose full of animal, both body and manure.

Aunt Sarah, Uncle Roder, Gran, mom and me,

A straight-line equation equaling nothing good can come of this

On a farm in Waynesburg, KY during the summer of 1982.

What did I tell you?  Not fit for certain company, right?  Well, they are what they are.  And I have Dan to thank for dragging them out of me.

Soon, I’ll be posting the intro I gave for Dan’s reading at the library.  It’s not quite a review of his work, but it is pretty darn close, in my eyes.  And I want folks to get out there and read his work.  'Cause he's real good at what he does.

What big eyes you have...

I enjoy sewing.  Like yard work, it relaxes me.  But, other than the usual mending or hemming (I’m a short, wee lassie), I haven’t been able to sew much in the last ten years of so.  I either didn’t have the room for my sewing machine to be out, which means sewing was never on my mind (outta sight, outta mind), or I just didn’t have the inspiration to sew (I like to sew as a project, or as a gift). 

There have been an explosion of children in my and Eric’s life.  Our Catoe friends boast three younguns, with plans for at least one more.  IT Guy and his wife are expecting a little boy Sasquach soon.  Our friends and neighbors down the street are expecting a boy, too.  And there are chirren running all ‘round this sweet neighborhood we live in.  I want to give gifts when births and birthdays happen, but the pocketbook is a little tight right now.  So, I’ve taken up sewing again.  Fabric comes in many inexpensive forms:  vibrant linen thrift store clothing, a retired shower curtain, markdown fabrics at Walmart.  I have managed to scavenge some really beautiful cloth and buttons from lots of different sources.  If it still has life in it, it is game to be upcycled into something else. 

I first tried to make a stuffed animal when I was about eight years old.  A friend of the family had recently had a baby, and I wanted to make the baby a stuffed dolphin.  My Gran helped me (Gran was a master at making Red Riding Hood flip dolls…you know, the ones with a granny and a wolf hiding under Red Riding Hood’s skirt?).  She helped me sketch a picture of a dolphin onto a brown grocery bag, found some leftover grey fabric from wolf-making, and set me to work pinning, sewing and stuffing (with the end of a wooden spoon) what turned out to be a pretty nice little dolphin, whose curved body fit perfectly into the hand of the baby. 

Now, I’ve not made too many stuffed animals since then.  Most of my sewing has been reserved for alterations, decorative bags, pillows, curtains and the like.  So, when I decided to try my hand at making a stuffed bunny, I’m not sure that I was mentally prepared…I drew a lopsided, misshapen rabbit onto a piece of scrap paper.  I pinned it and cut it from a retired pair of beloved palazzo pants.  I embroidered eyes, nose, mouth and tail.  And I sewed and stuffed the little rascal.  Yes, it required that I use the end of a wooden spoon to get the stuffing into all the ears, arms and legs.  The end result was a bunny worthy of a Tim Burton film.  All it needed were fangs and dripping blood…it was a frightening looking thing.  But when I took it over to give to little Cash Catoe for his birthday, the other Catoe children wanted to hold it immediately.  Now, I know the reason why they all wanted to hold it was less for its Tim Burton charm and high quality stitching, and more because there was only one bunny (it is a law that when there is only one item and three children, there is bound to be dearth and feigned despair).  But then the other Catoe children requested a stuffed animal of their own.  Zoe requested pink (probably because it is less about the shape and more about the color for her).  Ben requested a bison (probably because Eric and I are affectionately thought of by Ben as large shaggy, lumbering ungulates…well, more so because before Eric’s accident, we played bison with him and his siblings).

So, I had my orders, and I took them seriously.  Something in pink for Zoe.  Something in bison for Ben.  

I associate owls with Zoe because her mommy and daddy had an owl pillow waiting for her on her bed when she came home from China.  Stuffed owls shouldn’t be too hard to make, so I began looking for simple patterns on the internet.  And I found the most adorable one from the wonderful blogger Toad’s Treasures.  Toad, who is a mommy, photographer, artist, among many other things, offered the cutest owl pattern for free on her blogsite.  She also offers the pattern, plus an instructional booklet through her Etsy Shoppe for a very reasonable price.  I think she’s the bee’s knees for sharing her owl pattern.  And for posting a tutorial on owl construction on her website.  I made two owls Friday night, while Eric worked late.  I thought they were cute.  The pink one is for Zoe.  The blue one is for a forthcoming male offspring of a friend.  Now, I just have to get cracking on that bison…

Gulf Water Under the Bridge

A couple of years ago I blogged briefly about where I was when 9/11 happened.  It was a post that I named after one of my favorite songs, September Song.  I first heard September Song as a child.  My sister and I would spend hours dressing up in mom’s clothes and listening to mom and dad’s record albums.  The album which contained September Song was entitled Music for Lovers and had a photograph of a suave adult couple having an intimate dinner at a crystal-laden table by candle light on it.  The woman was half-facing the camera (cause she was leaning forward and looking deep into the eyes of her black-suited companion) and was wearing a Dior-like 40s dress.   She had glossy, Veronica Lake hair, and I wanted to be her.  The melody of September Song made me sad for no reason, so I equated the entire Music for Lovers album as melancholy, and I exhibited the appropriate amount of melancholy while acting out the album cover art in one of my mom’s fancy dresses…

Sorry, I digress. Back to my story.

9/11 happened while I was living in the Capital Hill neighborhood of Denver.  My sister and brother-in-law (then, boyfriend) were visiting.  After the planes and fire and rubble and dust of the morning, September Song kept coming to mind the rest of the afternoon, thus the title of that blog in 2009.  But the song Concrete and Clay by Unit 4+2 also came to mind (a 1965 Brittish hit; see the Rushmore film soundtrack).  It is a catchy, upbeat tune about love.  Nothing sad about that.  But the chorus, taken out of context and plunked into the midst of 9/11, lends a different feeling (the video is also a little eerie in the fact that the band sings and plays the tune from what appears to be a building construction site...a site that is reminiscent of what Ground Zero would look like after much of the rubble of the Twin Towers was cleared away):

"The sidewalks in the street, the concrete and the clay
Beneath my feet begins to crumble, but love will never die
Because we'll see the mountains tumble, before we say goodbye"

Really?  I don’t know what to say.  So, I’ll leave it at that.

There have been a number of 9/11 anniversaries that have come and gone, punctuated for me by a reflection on those whose lives were lost (many), and those whose lives were changed forever (all of us). But this anniversary of 9/11 was more significant to me.  Not only was it the tenth anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks, but also my family had planned a vacation at the coast without realizing that the anniversary would fall during our time with each other.  There were two things about this vacation that made the significant-ness more…well, significant:  1) my sister had secured a condo for all of us in Ft. Walton Beach, FL, which is where we used to spend our summers together at the Greenwood Inn as a family (owned at the time by a couple from Gadsden); and 2)  Vicki, Tony and I were all together again on 9/11, which was something that had not happened since THE 9/11. 

Now, a lot of water (both literal and figurative) has flowed under the proverbial bridge in the twenty-four-odd years since we vacationed as a family in Florida.  Just to mention the most obvious:  1) We have a new addition to our family, my nephew Alex.  He is a delightful imp.  2) My sister, mom and dad have all three faced some serious, life-threatening illnesses (multiple times) since our last visit to the area.  I thank the good Lord every day that they have persevered.  3) And the Greenwood Inn was destroyed many years ago during one of the famous hurricanes (maybe Ivan), and the land upon which it stood (along with the adjacent land that the hotel my friend’s parents owned) has been thankfully preserved from commercialism by virtue of being turned into a state beach park. It was a blessing to be able to spend a couple of days eating and frolicking with people I love so much, at a beach that holds so many childhood memories.  And to be able to share this with my partner Eric…well, it just meant more to me than I can ever describe.  It was a time of reflection and communion.

Some feelings from you...

Few people know that at one time in my life I bore a striking resemblance to Warren Zevon.  I do not lie when I say this (if you doubt me, compare my photo to his, here).  I say this with certainty and with pride.  I really like Warren Zevon, so it doesn’t bother me that I looked like him when I was a pre-teen.  It may have bothered me at the time this photo was taken, but it doesn't now.  I mean, we all have to recognize that we went through awkward stages before we figured out how to handle our skin, hair, eyes, etc., right?  Well, I’m here today, admitting that Mr. Zevon and I could’ve shared the same genes…or at least the same sense of style.  I do sometimes kinda wish that I had looked more like David Bowie, though...at least he, on occasion, looked like a girl.

More embarrassing photos and stories to come...yes, I went through a VERY high maintenance stage...