With a View

Although I’m certain that this winter has been no longer than any other winter, it has seemed to drag on FOREVER. We’ve had an unusual amount of snow this year, and we’ve had stretches of very cold weather, both of which have kept most of the neighborhood kids indoors for a good part of the season. This has made for ambushes on the semi-warm days. Small squadrons of toy-gun wielding commandos who, at the slightest smell of baking cookies, will drop from the trees, come stumbling from behind the barricades (parked cars), or crawl up from the sewers for much needed rations. The day I baked for the annual holiday cookie swap, I decided to see if the urban troops were doing okay (this after listening to their yelling and tumbling and fake fire-fighting outside the kitchen window). The minute I stepped out onto the porch, Jace and Jesse stopped mid-attack to say hello (they are polite young men). I asked if they were doing okay (they were), and they asked if I wanted to come out and play. Because they are seriously just that polite. And they don’t believe in ageism when it comes to play. I politely declined their offer, begging off to bake. “What are you baking?” they asked. “Cookies for a cookie swap.” Jesse: “Oooo, my mom is coming to that swap!” “Well, I guess I’ll see her there. You guys want some cookies? Ya know, for tackling feul?” Their eyes lit up. Yes, they would like some cookies. What kind of stupid question is that. So, I went in and grabbed three gift bags of cookies, one for each of them, and one for Jace’s sister who wasn’t feeling well and had to stay in for the day. With a mouth full of cookie, Jace promised delivery of Memphis’ cookies. I know that he kept his promise because now, whenever Memphis knocks on our door for a band aid to cover a scraped knee or pinched finger, she also asks if we have any cookies…

The weather is just about perfect right now. Temperatures have been in the upper 60s/low 70s during the day, and the nights are quite cool. It is perfect weather for yard work, dining on the front porch, and taking strolls in the adjacent historic district. This will be our first full spring in The Bungalow (we moved in March of last year). The birds sing every morning. Unidentified spring blooming plants are busting their way through the soil (I am watching them very carefully so that I can identify them and record their names and locations for next year). I’ve worked on the back flower garden all winter (with Slim’s help), and everything I’ve transplanted or salvaged from other people’s yards seem to have survived (and even thrived). We have irises, roses and cannas from mom and dad’s place; more cannas from Douglas’ rubbish pile; cosmos and a small hydrangea from one of mom’s coworkers; red velvet yarrow & Russian sage from the seventy-five cent sale at Lowes; a blue fescue and several unusual irises (one black, one red, one yellow) from the Finlayson’s landscaping company in Southside; and a bunch of stuff that I’ve transplanted from other parts of the yard. I’ve just ordered some red sedum for the rocky part of the yard, some flowering thyme for erosion control around the pavers, a climbing blue rose (in memory of my gran and my uncle), and…wait for it…ten Crocosmia Lucifer bulbs. I’ve wanted Crocosmia Lucifer since I seeing a picture of them in a friend’s Facebook album. They will be magnificent...I may try to plant them en masse over Fancy’s grave (Miss Mildred’s beloved cat). Yes, I did locate her approximate burial site. And no, I did not disturb her resting place too much. I just uncovered the pieces of marble that covered her grave so that they could be part of the walking path through the garden (a walking path made of pieces of marble collected from all over the property…haven’t figure out why there are so many pieces of marble lying about). The path is in the shape of a question mark. Because of the great Why in the universe (a nod to George Emerson of Forster’s Room With A View).

All of our baby trees survived the winter, too. So, once we have the giant pines removed, we may plant either a crab apple tree or a Washington Hawthorne in the front. Both bear fruit or berries that birds find yummy. And we want to encourage the birds to stop by our place because we have lots of bugs. Why just yesterday, Slim and I were both attacked by swarms of gnats outside our front door…and in a couple of months we’ll have the plague of devil grasshoppers that thrive around here. I’m not looking forward to their return. They were bad.

The days are getting longer, which means that there is still enough daylight after work to get out and spread top soil, or lay stepping stones, or rake up mulch…Most nights, if you stand at our back windows overlooking the flower garden, you can witness a lovely occurrance. Through the trees of the woods, the western sky is visible. And although you cannot see the actual sun setting, you can see the spectacular colors that result from its descent. It can be startling and breathtaking, making us stop whatever it is we are doing at the time so that we can stand and watch it.

Listening to: Arcade Fire & Radiohead

Merce Cunningham Dance Company: Or Another Reason To Pee My Pants

On January 20th I received an email from the Alabama Ballet. I usually only open emails from Alabama Ballet a few times a year (November, when they are gearing up for their December Nutcracker performances, and whenever I see that they are performing the work of a favorite choreographer…Balanchine, Tharp, Graham, etc.). The subject of this particular email was “A Special Offer on a Not-To-Miss Performance.” Normally I wouldn’t open such a non-specifically subjected email, but I did. And I must say that I am glad that I did. Contained therein was the following message:

“The Alabama Dance Council makes dance history by presenting Merce Cunningham Dance Company (MCDC) at the 2011 Alabama Dance Festival.

Co-presented by the Alabama Dance Council and the Alabama Ballet, Merce Cunningham Dance Company’s residency is part of the company's final Legacy Tour and their first and only performance in Alabama. It is the last opportunity to see Merce Cunningham’s work performed by the dancers he personally trained.

Guided by Merce Cunningham’s radical approach to space, time and technology, the Company has forged a distinctive style, reflecting Cunningham’s technique and illuminating the near limitless possibility for human movement. For more than fifty years, MCDC’s collaborations with groundbreaking artists from all disciplines have redefined the way audiences experience the visual and performing arts.”

The email ended with the urgent, “Don't miss out on dance history in the making!”

Merce Cunningham Dance Company, I pondered…THE Merce Cunningham Dance Company (my brain screamed)?!? I found that I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My stomach was in knots. I wanted tickets. I wanted tickets right then. I wanted tickets right then, before they sold out (because I knew that all of the Merce Cunningham fans in Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia and Tennessee would unite together into an impenetrable ticket-buying force that would prevent me from having what was rightly mine)! But the performance was on the Friday night before the Bamacross Gadsden weekend. Slim and I were going to be terribly busy that weekend (and unbeknownst to us, we would have other, more important fish to fry the week of the performance when a health issue cropped up unexpectedly within the family nucleus). Could we possibly swing a trip to Birmingham to see one of the last performances of a dance company whose founder was one of my all-time-favorite modern choreographers? Of that, I was not sure.

I hurriedly forwarded the Alabama Ballet email to Eric with a personal message:
EEEEEEKKKKKK! Please tell me we don't have anything planned that night!
Eric: I don't think we have anything.
Me: OMG! I'm going to check on the price of tickets. I may pee on myself before I am able to though...
Eric: If tickets aren't ridiculous I'll help pay. Actually even if there are...(awww…isn’t that sweet of him?)

At this point, I was already online, pricing out the tickets, and checking the seating that was still available. I began to G-chat Eric while I was checking out the tickets so that I could communicate faster with him. I began furiously entering all of my credit card information, billing information, favorite foods and colors…everything they asked! I typed information as if my life depended upon it! And, as I typed, I kept hearing the bong of the G-chat doorbell, indicating that Eric was trying to reach me…I thought my heart was going to explode…but not before I peed on myself. And then, we had tickets! Orchestra seating, on the floor. And they had only cost $16 each. I was shaking, I was so excited. I, for one, was NOT going to miss out on dance history in the making! And, by gosh, neither was Eric!

Now, let me take a moment to fill you in on Merce Cunningham, should you need some filling in (my explanation is not academic in the least…it is merely information that I have stored away about an individual whom I have admired over the years). Merce Cunningham was a very unique pioneer in modern American dance/choreography whose fruitful and long-lived career was made even more interesting by his domestic/professional partnership with equally unique American composer John Cage. Cunningham’s choreography was, in addition to many things, an experiment in absence and presence; Cage’s music was an experiment in the “activity of sound,” the releasing of sound…from just about anything (I know a muralist who played a trashcan lid for one of Cage’s recordings). Cunningham and Cage often created their collaborative works independent of one another, with Cunningham creating choreography for Cage’s compositions without hearing Cage’s music. It worked. I know it worked, because I saw a perfect example of their collaboration Friday night…Xover.

Xover was performed by approximately fifteen people: eleven dancers, one singer (positioned on a side arm of the stage), and three musicians (in the orchestra pit). Cage’s composition (Fontana Mix with Aria) was performed via computers by the three musicians (one who could have been Merce Cunningham’s twin brother, if he’d had a twin brother), and vocally by the rather operatic chanteuse Aurora Josephson. It is difficult to describe the music, as it really needs to be experienced in order to get the full effect…Ms. Josephson sang the Aria, the musicians played the Fontana Mix through their computers, and the dancers athletically danced. At times, Ms. Josephson would create additional percussion through the gargling of water, the winding and springing of a jack-in-the-box, and the ringing of a bicycle bell. The music and the choreography meshed; concurrently, the music and the choreography stood apart. Moments of silence were filled with perfectly performed dance sequences. The silence was part of the music. It was Cunningham and Cage in its purest form.

The second performance was a more traditional modern dance piece called Crises. Crises was performed to Nancarrow’s Rhythm Studies for Player Piano (various numbers), and had a bit of a rag-time feel to it. It was an interesting piece, accessorized by fog/smoke, with dancers who made me think of flames that were attracting each other. I had to look the piece up on the Merce Cunningham Dance Company’s website because I was afraid that I totally missed any meaning. Crises is described as a “dramatic… dance concerned with decisive moments in the relationship between a man and four women.” Hmmm…I suppose I wasn’t completely off the mark by thinking that the dancers were flames attracting each other…

Dance history in the making. That’s exactly what it was. When I read of Merce Cunningham’s passing in the July 27, 2009 edition of the New York Times I lamented the loss of such a great dancer and choreographer. I felt robbed of ever having the chance to see his work. I briefly lectured on his work last summer during my Ballet for the Uncoordinated class, explaining his importance to the world of dance, and his avant-garde style. I even mentioned that his and Cage’s collaborations were often parodied when people went to the trouble to parody modern dance. Then I went on to explain to my students that Mr. Cunningham had left specific orders upon his death that his dance company dissolve, yet I had heard word of a few Central Park performances (a friend and poet who lives in Brooklyn happened upon one of the performances on a beautiful afternoon). I never dreamed that a tribute tour would come to Alabama. Good and unexpected things happen…sometimes disguised in the form of an unspecific subject line of an email.

Listening to: Blind Pilot & Radiohead. I think a Merce Cunningham/Radiohead collaboration would’ve been pretty darn awesome.

Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell

Oh, my. If you have never read anything authored by Daniel Woodrell and you are planning to start with his latest novel Winter’s Bone, you’d just best go ahead and brace yourself. As chilling as the wintery Appalachian landscape in which Woodrell’s characters live (and, in some cases, die), Winter’s Bone is the dark, poetic tale of sixteen-year old Ree Dolly. She’s looking for her daddy, Jessup Dolly, a known meth cook who has disappeared, leaving her as the sole caregiver to her mentally ill mother and two younger brothers. He has also signed over all of their property, house included, in order to post bond on his most recent arrest. If Jessup doesn’t show up for his looming court date, everything will be lost. The only people who can help Ree locate Jessup are her kinfolk…and they’re NOT talking. Woodrell uses his words sparingly; carefully and brutally telling Ree’s story. Every word of this novel is important. Don’t skip a single one.

What speaks to me the most about Woodrell’s work is his precise description of the poor Appalachian inhabitants of Ree’s community (most of whom she is in some way kin). Having spent most of my adolescent summers and Thanksgivings at my grandmother’s house in rural Kentucky, I recognize the truth in Woodrell’s words. Familiar are the close shacks, or trailers pulled up next to trailers, families living up under each other. Familiar are the fresh animal carcasses hanging from trees and porches, a different kind of strange fruit. Familiar is the justice effected by members of the community, not by the law. Living in rural Appalachia leaves its mark on a person. Ree best describes some of the most visible marks. “With her eyes closed she could call them near, see those olden Dolly kin who had so many bones that broke, broke and mended, broke and mended wrong, so they limped through life on the bad-mended bones for year upon year until falling dead in a single evening from something that sounded wet in the lungs. The men came to mind as mostly idle between nights of running wild or time in the pen, cooking moon and gathering around the spout, with ears chewed, fingers chopped, arms shot away, and no apologies grunted ever. The women came to mind bigger, closer, with their lonely eyes and homely yellow teeth, mouths clamped against smiles, working in the hot fields from can to can’t, hands tattered rough as dry cobs, lips cracked all winter, a white dress for marrying, a black dress for burying, and Ree nodded yup. Yup” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 28&29).

Everything foreshadows the danger and brutality Woodrell’s characters face daily. “The sky lay dark and low so a hawk circling overhead floated in and out of clouds. The wind heaved and knocked the hood from her head. That hawk was riding the heaving wind looking to kill something. Looking to snatch something, rip it bloody, chew the tasty parts, let the bones drop” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 29).

Especially compelling is Ree’s baby brother Harold, who is tender, even as Ree tries to teach him how live in their merciless environment. Harold wants to set food out for the coyotes because they “look like dogs” and “they’re hungry.” Impatiently Ree responds, “’Settin’ out food’ll draw ‘em close-that’s likely how they’ll come too close and get shot, Harold. Don’t set no goddam food out. It looks like you’re doin’ nice, but you ain’t. You’re just bringin’ ‘em into range, is all.’” Harold still pleads, “But you can hear how hungry they are” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 46). Hungry sounds the same, whether the sound comes from child or animal. Harold painfully recognizes the sound of hungry because he’s been hungry himself. In another moment when Ree is teaching the boys to shoot squirrels, Harold has shot one in the hind quarters without killing it, and the animal is writhing in the snow. Ree instructs Harold to “’notch his head ‘tween two fingers’n pull-like with a chicken.’” Harold cries, “He’s callin’ for his momma!” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 103).

I could keep on with this review, but that would keep you from going out and getting a copy of this book to read, because everyone should read this book. Now, go on out and get it.

Redux: Parts of the Living Room & Dining Room

Just realized that I have not posted any of the before/during/after photos of working on The Bungalow. Since Slim and I have basically worked in every room, nook and cranny, there are lots of photos, inside and out. In order to not overwhelm my devoted readers (all tens of you), I will try to post room by room...starting with the living room.

This is what it looked like when I decided to purchase the house:





This is what it looked like after we had ripped up and removed all the carpet and had started priming the walls (a blooming mess):





And now:







(We have a book problem...anyone can see that. And that's just the fiction that will fit on the shelves. Nonfiction and poetry have their own places in the house...)






Things are nowhere near completion (boxes still seem to appear out of nowhere; we still have to stain, paint and recover furniture; the baseboards need to be lowered, shoe molding added...you know, the usual stuff). But it is a start.

Cyclocross Holy Trinity

We’ve had three Bamacross races so far this year. And at all three of these races we’ve met some really incredible athletes, and some really incredible supporters. See, it is usually the same people at all of the races, so you get used to setting up your “camp” area next to the same folks each week, and you know who’s competing in which category, and you know who to listen to for interesting cyclocross insults to shout in order to spur your rider on, and which children belong to which rider (and who to return them to, should they wander off). I’ve been lucky enough to be able to accompany Slim to all of these races, and we’ve made a point to try to make our race days as comfortable as possible with food and drink and small creature comforts to share with our friends. It has been great fun, and in a strange way I feel a bit maternal towards all these hardworking folk. After all, I can feed these people who are wonderfully hungry from their races, but not have to worry about finding a way to pay for them to go to college…

Today is the fourth race in the Bamacross series. It is at Sloss Furnace. This is the race at which Slim broke his wrist while warming up last year. It is a race that he is most determined to ride in. We’ve had a very busy week, what with ballet/yoga on Monday, voting and late working for Slim on Tuesday, Chairman’s Club Dinner Thursday, Slim’s auto tire shenanigans and late working on Friday, amazing Center for the Book/Book Arts in Tuscaloosa Saturday, and Alabama Ballet at Wallace Hall tonight. Slim has not had a day off this week, so he’s tired and a bit under the weather because I think I’ve given him my cold. And because I have so much to do to prepare for next week, and for the ballet tonight (it will take an act of God or congress to beautify my runny-eye-and-nosed mug), I am staying home. So, Slim is on the road to Sloss, to face his demons alone. Before he left, he touched the Richard Sachs broadside, the Jens Voigt broadside and the home altar. Oh, my. It’s like some cyclocross Holy Trinity…shall we pray? Yes, we shall.

To be continued…

Because they care...

I am now the proud owner of a Twin Six Fat Cyclist cycling jersey. AND it IS the proper size. It was almost NOT the proper size. Because sometimes I'm vain and think I'm smaller than I really am, and order too small of a size in garments. Which is what I did in the case of my pre-order/special-order-only 2010 Fat Cyclist jersey. I realized my mistake after I had already placed my pre/special order, and I emailed the guys at Twin Six Alternative Cycling Apparel in the hopes that they would take pity on me for a narcissitic (and possibly alcohol related) miscalculation on my part. They did. Because they are a fabulous company, and they know what customer service is. I highly recommend Twin Six for all your alternative cycling apparel needs.

For anyone who is interested, here is the exchange between me and Twin Six:

Greetings!
First, I want to thank all four of you folks who are the brains and brawn behind T6. Second, I want to thank you for the fantastic new jersey that I just received today (The Dotty, Half-Price Humpday). It is the first item that I have ever received from T6, and not only do I find the quality, fit and design to be top shelf, but I am also thrilled to find that the dots on The Dotty are not actual dots (which I was perfectly fine with), but skulls! I am new at cycling, am 5'1", and my road bike is one step above child-sized, therefore I do not have an intimidating road presence. Having found myself very concerned about the lack of stylish yet intimidating cycling jerseys for women, I am more than pleased that my The Dotty has skulls on it. Thank you very much for thinking of such important details as quality, fit, design and intimidation in your products.

Now, I mentioned that The Dotty was the first item that I have ever received from T6, but it is not my first purchase. On July 18th I pre-ordered my first jersey ever in the history of my ordering jerseys, the women's Fat Cyclist jersey, because my boyfriend and I are rather devoted followers of Fatty's blog. In the excitement of pre-ordering my Fat Cyclist jersey (or possibly because of the Gonzo Imperial Porter I was sipping on at the time), I accidentally ordered a small instead of a medium. Now, I know that it may be too late to change the size on my order, but I'm just taking the chance to inquire because I want to maximize my sexiness (and self-deprecation) by wearing a jersey that fits me. If it is too late to change the size of my jersey order from a small to a medium, then I will live with the consequences (and go on a fruit and water diet).

Many thanks and regards,
Carol

To which Michael Fischer responded:

Carol,
Glad to have you as a fan! The Dotty is a fun kit. I'll make a note on
your order that you'd prefer a medium. Our order was placed based on what
all of you Fatty fans told us, so no promises, but I imagine we'll be able
to make the change.
Thanks,
Michael

I *heart* Twin Six...

Danse Macabre

Caveat: I am in no way responsible for the songs contained herein getting stuck in your brain. Enter at your own risk.

It all started this morning with the very catchy Grieg song In the Hall of the Mountain King. You see, it was in my head. And I couldn’t get it out of my head. Even Slim playing Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries at full tilt couldn’t dislodge it from the record player in my brain that was playing it over. I posted my conundrum to my Facebook profile and about two hours later found a response left by the lovely and talented ballet mistress Linze McRae. Her suggestion, “Add a little of Saint-Saens Danse Macabre and you'll be on your way!” Hmmm…although the name was terribly familiar, I couldn’t recall the melody (probably because In the Hall of the Mountain King was still stomping and stomping away in my attic). So I looked it up, and was delighted to find that Linze’s recommendation of Danse Macabre jarred all thoughts of Mountain King out of my head. And the Henri Cazalis poem upon which the Saint-Saens piece was based is just as delightful! Now, I have a rapidly swirling and crashing waltz stewing in my thoughts:

Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence,
Striking with his heel a tomb,
Death at midnight plays a dance-tune,
Zig, zig, zig, on his violin.
The winter wind blows and the night is dark;
Moans are heard in the linden-trees.
Through the gloom, white skeletons pass,
Running and leaping in their shrouds.
Zig, zig, zig, each one is frisking.
The bones of the dancers are heard to crack-
But hist! of a sudden they quit the round,
They push forward, they fly; the cock has crowed.

Dance macabre (Dance of Death) by Henri Cazalis

Perfect for Halloween!