A Flame’s Progress, Greek Easter 1981

We arrived late as always, so that there was no place to sit, though there’s not a whole lot of sitting in Greek Orthodox churches. Standing in our coats, clutching our unlit candles, we crowded in with the others who, like us, came to church but once or twice a year. I was between my mom and my Thea Yvonne and on the other side of her was my Uncle Art–there’s a strange convention in our family to call our Aunts by the Greek thea but our uncles by the American uncle. I don’t know why, but it pretty much sums up the willy-nilly Greek/American distribution of traditions on my mother’s side of the family. And if there ever was a perfect blend of these two strains of holidaymaking, it was for me Easter, when I got the best of both worlds.

 

I waited impatiently for the music that heralded the candle lighting, and when it happened, the church erupted in song. “Christos Anesti!” (“Christ has risen!”) was sung over and over again. Wikipedia tells me that this is called the Paschal troparion, originally written in Koine (common) Greek, the original language of the New Testament, but translated into countless languages and sung in Eastern Orthodox Churches all over the world, as witnessed by this YouTube video.

 

The gold ceiling caught fire as the candlelight passed from the priest to the ancient and impossibly shriveled old ladies who sat at the front of the church swaddled in black, like ornery newborns. I could not see them, but knew they were there because they were always there, coming early for the good seats and staying late against their doom.

 

The stone church glowed like an oven when the first candle of my relatives was lit. My mother nudged me to hold my candle with its protective cup to catch dripping wax, straight. This I did with great anticipation, mouthing the words of Greek I wished fervently I knew, a desire, which would be forgotten by morning when American Easter baskets of chocolate bunnies and sugar flowers would drown out the yearning for the culture in which I feebly swam. But for now, it was the dark ritual that sparked passion in my young heart, and it was coming to its wonderful climax.

 

Being in the back meant that although we were among the last to arrive and receive the flame, we were the first to leave. Once all candles were lit, and a final round of Christos Anesti sung inside the church, the doors were flung open and we took our fire and our song and our ancient ritual with its pagan roots outside.

 

We circled the Ascension Cathedral thrice and, so embedded is the celebration of light in the human imagination, that even my profoundly secular heart (which loves all dark and mysterious things without attributing the magic of life to any great being) find this ritual memory moving to the point of tears. Who can deny the beauty inspired by belief? There is horror inspired by belief also, but this essay is a celebration of the beautiful.

 

Atop the Oakland hill, the streetlights twinkled below. Our flames’ progress was not the only light in the darkness, as our forefathers may easily have imagined on some Hellenic hill in centuries past, but still, as my eyes were just beginning to show signs of the degenerative disease that would eventually mar distinctions between day and night, I easily imagined ours to be the only light in that dark bosom of midnight. What ten year old could fail to appreciate the delicious transgression of wakefulness? Or to relish the solemn joy that was the reenactment of the ultimate Christian paradox: in order to live, one must die.

 

Perhaps some of the congregation reentered the church to finish out the service, and there is some part of me now that yearns to return with them into that quiet place, filled with the recent echoes and rustles of some hundred souls. But that was not then my yearning. In the back seat of my uncle’s Cadillac, I stared at my candle and chattered about how beautiful it all was while already my mind was turning to dinner with its own set of light-hearted rituals.

 

The table spread out like an Easter parade with silver candelabras waiting to embrace our still-lit candles set next to baskets with glittery grass and shining colored eggs. We did not then do the red eggs as is traditional in Eastern Orthodoxy, though, in recent years, my mother has placed the incongruous blood-red eggs (with all their gruesome metaphorics) into American Easter baskets. But when I was little, she wanted me to enjoy the sweetness of the American dyes as if to preserve my innocence, although, even then, the veil had begun to fray.

A mysterious dystrophy was happening in my retinas and I’d already been to one or two ophthalmologists that year. It was precisely those doctors who, confronting their own ignorance and inability to explain why their lenses could not correct my vision, opened a great and never-to-be-closed chasm in my child’s psyche: I was made suddenly and irrevocably aware of the limits of human understanding. It was in 1981 that I learned how the smell of ignorance permeates all–never mind the bright white robes of clean and apparent knowledge.

 

 

It is also in my memory that at that year’s Easter dinner I had my first taste of watered wine and felt very grown up. I was the youngest and only girl at the table. The only other kids there were two of Thea Yvonne’s three sons, who were quite a bit older than I. Thea Yvonne had yearned for a girl child that she might pamper with all the sweet things her own childhood in the Greek mountain town before and during World War II had not offered her and her sisters, and I was happy to step in. Her beautiful house offered me eyefuls of objects to gawk at and love, as well as a storehouse of visual memories to treasure, now that I can no longer see:

 

A collection of Madame Alexander dolls dressed in costumes from around the world, and Art Deco prints with elongated women in peacock dresses whose skirts are attached to gloved hands. Pristine and plush white rugs led out to a dark pool–one made of stone that puts aqua fakery to shame. And, beyond the pool, Thea Yvonne’s rose garden taught me to love outrageous blooms with august names like Queen Elizabeth and Sterling Silver that resembled not at all the upright uniformity found in shops. One blossom presents itself to my mind’s eye in a cinematic close-up: a pale rose with a dark center, its ivory petals rimmed with wine.

 

I am suddenly tempted to Google “Easter egg fight,” to know if it is American or Greek, though I suspect the latter for two reasons: First, Greeks tend to be a competitive lot, and second, because the tabletop tournament requires some Greek be spoken. But I will not. I prefer to remain blissfully ignorant and pretend my family invented the game.

 

I believe my mother conducted the Easter egg fight that year, but that could be because she was my first combatant, sitting next to me as she was. “Pick your eggs!” Everyone reached into the baskets and chose, very carefully, the egg they believed would beat the rest. I chose a purple one. It felt strong and solid as a stone.

“Ok, pointy end to pointy end,” said my mother. “You want to hit first?” “Uh-huh,” I said and poised my egg above hers.

“Christos anesti,” I said and my mother responded, “Alithos anesti.”

“Oh!” we both cried. I was victorious.

“Turn your egg around.” This time she hit me, but again I prevailed.

 

I took my winner egg to my cousin, whom I may have had a little crush on, as I did most boys since I didn’t have many of the male persuasion in my life after my parents divorced and I started at an all-girl school. But I beat him too, on this my favorite and most special Easter ever. And on it went “Christos anesti–Christ has risen!” Alithos anesti–Indeed he has!” BONK Smash CRACK I went around the table to the eggs that remained uncrushed and crushed them all!

I was so proud. My champion was placed back into the basket with great solemnity.

 

Then I selected another egg to be sacrificed to my dinner–sliced and generously sprinkled with salt and pepper and eaten on top of buttered pita bread–what we called the sweet Easter bread that required much love and warming blankets to encourage its multiple risings. I was not much of a meat eater back then, so I can’t tell you about the leg of lamb, but my current, wiser self knows it was delicious and regrets her youthful folly!

 

Eventually my eyes grew droopy. There was no more postponing the inevitable. I was tucked into bed. First to sleep, first to rise, I woke up to a new house–one transformed into an Easter Bunny’s playground, and enjoyed an Easter egg hunt made for one, traipsing around the house finding little nests of candies with clues to the next treasure written on cards decorated with baby chicks.

 

Because my eye disease stole my central vision first, it would not be long before I could not read such cards, but on Greek Easter 1981, the year I was ten and balancing on the cusp between seeing the world through a bright child’s lens and darkly through that of an adult, I was filled with excitement at finding what had been created just for me. I ran upstairs to show my mother each piece of candy and trinket I found, as if she had never seen it before, as if we’d never either of us seen anything like it before. Or would ever again.

 

*First published at Quail Bell Magazine*

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Hendrick’s Cucumber: Story of a Drink

A cucumber Hydrosol gin cocktail experiment!

Gin Lane by HogarthI’ve been obsessed with gin on the one hand and hydrosols on the other for a little while now, and mixing them together seemed only natural, though they may strike the uninitiated as strange bedfellows. Hydrosols and alcohols (as well as essential oils) are all distilled. So what is distillation?

Simply put–which is about all I can manage since I’m no scientist, distillation is the heating of a liquid to create steam in order to separate out substances. Different substances have different boiling points. The two vapors are run through condenser tubing and cooled which results in two new liquids–alcohol and water, for example. In the case of distilling for alcoholic spirits each distillation results in a higher ratio of alcohol by volume to water and other chemical compounds–in other words the proof of wine is miraculously transmuted into brandy beer into whiskey, fermented potatoes into vodka… and the angels sing hallelujah!

In the case of hydrosols and essential oils, steam passes through aromatic plant material–rose or orange blossoms, for example, and the volatile oils separate out from the waters. In this case, both the substances have their uses as the resulting essential oil is very potent and lipophilic while the hydrosol (AKA hydrolat) is water-soluble and much milder. This is why essential oils should be diluted, while the corresponding hydrosols have historically been used in cooking and can be used undiluted. A quick Google search offers up thousands of recipes using both essential oils and hydrosols (including cucumber) in homemade beauty products and home remedies, but since this article is about drinking I will just get to our booze of the day.

The word gin derives from jenever, which is the Dutch word for juniper. As Italy has grappa, Poland vodka, Ireland whiskey, the Netherlands offers jenever as its national treasure. It travelled to England and was transformed into London dry gin, and the great destroyer in the eighteenth century as illustrated by the degenerates in Hogarth’s “Gin Lane“.

Gin differs from most other spirits because, at some later distillation–after one has been left with a fairly neutral spirit–the alcohol is run through a still that has some place to hang a basket of botanicals. This makes its production even more similar to that of hydrosols and essential oils. The alcoholic vapors pass through the plant material and pick up its volatile oils–its aromatic chemical compounds–and is flavored. In order to be labeled gin, the botanicals must include juniper, but as for the rest, it’s a free-for-all. Because so many of the botanicals in gin are the same used to produce hydrosols, the possible pairings to highlight this botanical or that is limitless.

Hendrick's cucumber blimp

Hendrick’s gin launched in 1999, but its history is long and peculiar as described on its website. Though a rather new label in the gin world, where brands like Tanqueray have been around since the early nineteenth century, it is quite established when compared to the many wonderful micro-distilleries that are popping up everywhere–even in my Astoria!–and all of which I plan to get friendly with until my liver gives out…

Besides its unique blend of botanicals, Hendrick’s infuses its gin with cucumber and rose, Rosa damascena for those aromatherapy geeks out there. I decided to make my first hydro cocktail highlight the green brightness of the cucumber, but if you like the floral, which I do, the following simple recipe can also be done using rose hydrosol.

The Cucumis genus of viney fruiting plants includes our Cucumis sativus as well as melons, and this particular cucumber hydrosol that I purchased at Stillpoint Aromatics, has a distinctly melon-like aroma.

Cucumbers growing on vinesCucumbers are loaded with nutrients as detailed in this great article about their many health benefits. Cucumber hydrosol is good for digestion, and it is even said to have some appetite suppressant benefits if taken before a meal. Speaking of dieting, how about a delicious and refreshing cocktail with no added sugar? It’s amazing how hydrosols strong aromas trick the brain into perceiving sweetness, without the need for the high fructose corn syrup of commercial tonic water.

Having lured some friends over with a bottle of Hendrick’s I proceeded to pour out a shot for everyone so that we could appreciate the happy floral and green goodness of this award-winning gin, and while they were sipping and cooing with delight, I poured out an ounce of seltzer water from a liter bottle and replaced it with one ounce of cucumber hydrosol, put the lid back on and gently tipped the bottle upside down once or twice. Do not shake unless you are looking to have a cucumber shower–which by the way would be wonderful for your skin, but probably put a damper on your night!

Because we were buds from way back, I didn’t worry about getting fancy pants–just poured some Hendrick’s into vessels, tossed in an ice cube and topped with the instant cucumber seltzer, et voila–yum!

If we were high-class with actual furniture instead of folding chairs and tall glasses instead of mason jars, we’d have garnished with cucumber wheels or perhaps a citrus zest, but we’re simple people. Upon his first sip of this sparkling elixir, my boyfriend said, “I want to have this every morning!” In other words, it’s very refreshing.

Finally, because I’ve got some cucumber hydrosol left in the fridge and no gin, I will leave you with this warning: if you are not up to finishing a bottle of Hendrick’s in a couple hours, you should probably not make Hendrick’s Cucumbers, for the night was young when the gin ran out, which was the only sad part of this hydro-booze experiment.

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Snake Oil Essentials: The History and Science of the Much-Maligned Medicinal

Chinese Snake oil, from the erabu sea snake, has been a traditional remedy for arthritis and bursitis for hundreds of years, and seems to have been introduced to the U.S. in the 19th century when thousands of Chinese laborers were contracted to help build the Transcontinental Railroads–an estimated 180,000 emigrated to the U.S. between 1849 and 1882, according to Richard White’s book Railroaded.

The laborers “may have offered snake oil to fellow workers as relief for suffering long days of physical toil,” writes Cynthia Graber in a 2007 Scientific American article. She continues, “Richard Kunin, a California psychiatrist with a background in neurophysiology research, became intrigued with the idea of snake oil in the 1980s. He had been following early research on the importance of omega-3 fatty acids for health and it dawned on him that the much-maligned snake oil might be a particularly rich source.

Kunin thus went to San Francisco’s Chinatown, bought some snake oil, and had it analyzed alongside the subcutaneous fat of two species of rattlesnakes. He published his findings in a 1989 letter to the Western Journal of Medicine, but before we look at his findings, let’s see about these rattlesnakes.

Common in the American Southwest, the rattlesnake has been widely adopted into religion and ritual. In her classic book of anthropology, Patterns of Culture, Ruth Benedict describes the Hopi Snake Dance: “In the first set the Antelope priest dances, squatting, the circuit of the altar, and retires. The Snake priest repeats. In the second set Antelope receives a vine in his mouth and dances before the initiates, trailing it over their knees. He retires. Snake follows, receiving a live rattlesnake in his mouth in the same fashion and trailing it over the initiates’ knees.”

In another account at The Free Dictionary, the Hopi Snake Dance ends thusly: ” A priest draws a circle on the ground, the catchers throw the snakes in the circle, the Snake priests grab handfuls of them and run with them to turn them loose in the desert.” Neither account suggests the killing of snakes for medicinal purposes, rather, they are explicitly released.

That did not, however, deter enterprising nineteenth-century medicine showmen who seem to have fused the efficacy of the Chinese Snake Oil (supplies of which were probably easily exhausted) with the sacredness of the native rattler, added a giant dose of entertainment, exploited the great yawning need for cheap cure-alls in frontier America, and presto, you get Stanley’s Snake Oil, and Arizona Bill’s snake oil, and Wormer’s Snake Oil and Miller’s Snake Oil… There were a lot of them and although, as Wayne Bethard describes in his Lotions, Potions and Deadly Elixirs, “most of the old medicine show formulas contained no real snake oil at all,” they were nonetheless ubiquitous.

If we are inclined to scoff at the great popularity of the medicine show, we ought to first consider our own television shows that squeeze more than one pharmaceutical ad in nightly! Ann Anderson makes the connection clear in her detailed analysis of the rise and (supposed) fall of the phenomenon in Snake Oil, hustlers and Hambones. It’s a great read and loaded with colorfully dusty characters, but here’s one example to the point: “Arizona bill was an Indian medicine showman whose Welsh origins and British accent did nothing to damage his credibility. Billing himself as “The Benefactor of Mankind,” he wore fringed buckskins and long hair in the manner of an Indian scout. He told a story about being stolen by Indians as an infant and raised in their midst, all the while learning their miraculous herbal cures. His specialty was Rattlesnake Oil, a liniment that when rubbed on sore muscles would enable the most decrepit Indian warrior to keep on fighting.”

Arguably, the most famous and notorious snake oil was that of Clark Stanley “The Rattlesnake King.” Stanley had been a cowboy before he turned to peddling snake oil and paints a convincing picture of “life in the far west” before he gets to recounting the origins of his formula in his little book The Life and Adventures of the American Cow-boy. I would like to quote the whole damn thing, for one cannot help but be charmed by, for example, his defense of the “cow-boy’s outfit” against the people of the East who have the impression that it is worn merely for “show and bluster,” or the many lonely cowboy verse and lively cowboy dance tunes such as this one: “Gents chase and put on style, Rehash and a little more style. Little more style, gents, a little more style. First lady out to the right; Swing the man that stole the sheep, Now the one that hauled it home, Now the one that eat the meat, And now the one that gnawed the bone,” but I must move along to the relevant:

“After the round-up in the Spring of 1879 I started with some of my father’s best friends to the Moki [Hopi], Pueblos at Wolpi, Arizona, to witness the snake dance which takes place once in two years; there I became acquainted with the medicine man of the Moki tribe, and as he liked the looks of my Colt’s revolver and asked me to show him how it would shoot, I gave him an exhibition of my fancy shooting, which pleased him very much; he then asked me how I would like to stay there and live with him, I told him I would stay until after the snake dance. …I was so much pleased with the dance I decided to remain with them and see the dance again. I lived with the Moki tribe two years and five months, and during that time I learned their language and dances and the secret of making their medicines. The medicine that interested me most, was their Snake Oil Medicine as they call it. It is used for rheumatism, contracted cords and all aches and pains. As I was thought a great deal of by the medicine man he gave me the secret of making the Snake Oil Medicine, which is now named Clark Stanley’s Snake Oil Liniment.”

However much of Stanley’s story is true, I can’t say, but it bears a striking resemblance to those of other medicine showmen of the time. And, whether or not his original formula contained snake oil, by the time he came to making it in a factory in the East, there was not a trace of snake left, notwithstanding the rattlesnake holocausts: “I traveled through the Western and Southwestern States and met with unbounded success, and during the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893, as an advertisement I made my Snake Oil Liniment in full view of the audience, killing hundreds of snakes which were shipped to me by my two brothers from my home in Texas.”

In 1917 his oil was analyzed by the government and shown to contain mineral oil, some fatty oil (presumed to be beef fat), turpentine, red pepper, and camphor. Stanley’s “secret formula” was actually very similar to others of its kind. “Miller’s snake oil formula, a popular remedy during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, rode the tail winds of snake oil’s reputation. Millions of bottles were sold, which contained camphor, turpentine, coal oil, paprika, carbolic acid, oil of cassia, eucalyptus, cloves, origanium, sassafras, and methylsalicylate, and they honestly said so right on the label,” writes Bethard, but of course not everyone labeled their ingredients because, before the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, they didn’t have to.

“The irony is, some of the old topical formulas actually worked on superficial aches and pains,” continues Bethard, who is a bona fide modern-day pharmacist. The typical snake oil formula resembles today’s over-the-counter liniments, which derive their analgesic properties from the same chemical compound that makes red peppers hot. In addition, camphor and turpentine, used since ancient times as decongestants and cough suppressants, are active ingredients in present-day cold products such as Vicks VapoRub, which, though I protested loud and long against my mother slathering it on me, did, I have to admit, work pretty well.

In other words, Stanley’s fakery was about false-advertisement, not necessarily efficacy. Blame for snake oil’s decidedly downward spiral may have been more diffuse if Stanley’s Snake Oil hadn’t enjoyed the unfortunate distinction of being singled out for analysis. In any case, the public turned quickly from buyers of snake oil to ridiculers of the same.

Stanley did not contest the findings and paid his fine of $20, but from that well-publicized moment forward, snake oil became synonymous with false cure and quackery, and the image was thence cemented in the public imagination with snake oil salesmen peddling their wares in the periphery of countless Westerns.

It may have been this universality that prompted Kunin, in 1989, to have the subcutaneous fat of two species of rattlesnakes (Crotalus viridis and Crotalus tigris) analyzed alongside the Chinese snake oil bought over the counter. The rattlers were trounced. As Graber puts it, “Chinese water-snake oil contains 20 percent eicosapentaenoic acid (EPA), one of the two types of omega-3 fatty acids most readily used by our bodies. In comparison, the rattlesnakes had only 8.5 percent EPA. And salmon, one of the most popular food sources of omega-3’s, contains a maximum of 18 percent EPA, lower than that of snake oil.”

This begs the question: in an age where omega-3’s are coveted and everywhere praised and gobbled up in fish oil capsules and flax seeds, how is it that snake oil’s reputation has not risen with this tide?

Graber suggests the answer may have something to do with the fact that, when Kunin’s article first came out in the 1980’s we were just learning the wide-ranging health benefits of omega-3’s, and despite the fact that several Japanese studies have supported Kunin’s original findings, the Japanese research is not widely known in America. However, one might argue that it is not easy to overturn an ideology, even with the help of science. Despite several stories inspired by Kunin’s findings–NPR’s Code Switch for example–the quackery of snake oil is far too engrained.

Perhaps the biggest problem Chinese snake oil faces is that, in the western mind at least, there is as yet no romance surrounding the Erabu sea snake and plenty around the American rattler. The old medicine shows did too good a job making snake oil synonymous with rattlesnake oil, and then with fakery by not even filling their bottles with the real thing. Still, I’m sure those red-pepper liniments packed quite a bite!

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Sewing Blind, Refashioning perceptions

My blind sewing adventure began about seven years ago when on a whim I searched for, and found, sewing needles at MaxiAids, a website that sells disabled people gadgets. As with so many of the great things that have happened in recent years to enhance my life as my sight fails, the technology inspired the activity and the activity inspired creation.

I bought two kinds of needles. The first I use all the time for general sewing they come in a rainbow pack of sizes, but each needle, from fat to skinny, share the ingenious feature of a slit at the top wherein you push the thread and it gets trapped by a little hook. The other needle is perhaps more clever but less sturdy and more prick-prone. It is called “Big-Eye” and this is not false advertising. The eye of the needle splits the slender flexible steel from one sharp end to the other. This is the needle to use for beading and the like because it is so skinny, but of course it tends to get bent out of shape with little provocation. With these two needles and my dress form, I have made all my best loved dresses.

Now, I’m not going to lie to you and say that nothing I’ve made has turned out a sequined monstrosity, or deny the sad existence of more than one vintage-lace carcass, seem ripped beyond all repurposefulness. But there are a solid handful that have been successful enough to garner many compliments and become staples of my performing life.

 

The Little Black (Furry) dress

 

One of my first major successes was the little black furry dress AKA the sexy teddy bear dress. If you want to be petted, this is what to wear to your next cocktail party! Because of course, in the end, it’s all about texture.

I whittled away countless hours of listening to epic novels while creating this one, which consists of individually knitted patches of black eyelash yarn sewn onto a dance dress. You can see it in action in the behind the scenes portions of the Proto Trailer for The Star of Happiness, my one-woman show about Helen Keller’s time on Vaudeville.

 

The burgundy corset Ensemble

 

Worn by Marie Antoinette in The Spectator and the Blind Man, my play about the very sexy history of the invention of braille, and removed by her over the course of her heart-breaking monologue, the Burgundy Ensemble has had a lot of performance wear. Come to think of it, it is not only my clothes that get repurposed. I refashioned Marie Antoinette’s monologue into a flash fiction piece called Nothing Can hurt Me Now, which has, I’m delighted to say also been published at Quail Bell!

The burgundy corset dress also features in the short film The Kerfuffle in which I play Sam, a blind floozy who gets busted for two-timing a couple of amputees… Oh just watch it; it’s cute! Even my mother thinks so.

The materials at hand, whether tawdry or elegant, shiny or shabby, provide inspiration for my sewing creations. In this case, several gorgeous yards of butterfly and flower embossed satin, given to me by my best friend when I visited her in Memphis, presented the impetus. The ensemble consists of A corset top and skirt with enormous pockets. I put pockets in all my designs because girls should not have to be encumbered by purses!

For the underskirts and halter ties, I used some opaque burgundy curtains I’d purchase years before. (It is likely that Scarlett’s green “Curtain Dress” in gone With the Wind is a significant design influence!) Finally, in an adventurous mood, I bought a handful of rhinestone flower ribbon decorations on EBay which cost $2.50 and took three weeks to ship from China, but which worked perfectly as accents on the bodice and the skirt.

The top’s foundation, an old and unattractive corset, came into my possession during an unfortunate performance on a boat in which I did not win a certain “Miss Demeanor Pageant” despite my first round sweep and my lovely assistant Millennium, my black lab guide dog! Anyway, somewhere in the madness of the dressing room I ended up with someone else’s corset that became the shell for my corset top. I draped and sewed the burgundy satin over that top and over a little side zipped skirt that I used as the skirt base. You see,   I am a very lazy sewer. I like to do the fun pretty draping designing stuff and the mindless stitching, but refuse to waste my time putting in zippers!

In fact, I think that even if I’d not lost my sight, I would not have kept up with the conventional sewing I learned in grade school. I could see quite well back then and, although I made a few cool things, the precision and patience of patterns and darts and button-holing was just not for me. So, oddly enough, I think that my blind sewing is something I’ve come to as a culmination of who I am as an artist and a blind person, not as an approximate adaptation of the former behavior of my sighted self. The spirit of blindness infuses everything I do and makes it, if not always better, at least more interesting.

 

The Crocheted Chimera

 

This one is comprised of no fewer than seven clothing items from decades of life and death. It began with fashioning the lacey waist-cincher pocket accoutrement out of several items bestowed to me by my mother’s friend who died and left me all her clothes from her seventy odd years of collecting/hoarding. I fastened that odd device, which on its own looked a lot like a holster, to a knee length circle skirt to which was added the real bells and whistles of the ensemble: a gold-threaded crocheted wrap that, although very glamorous, had always been too scratchy to use. I wear the skirt with a lacey crocheted top kept from my long ago wild days in New Orleans whose sleeves were cut for the heat. But, hot as NYC summers may be, one must have some portable sleeves to beat the arctic AC. Et voilà, enter the slightly bell-sleeved black crocheted half sweater with iridescent threads that ties under the boobs.

The whole ensemble looks good enough that I adopted it as my audition outfit. Good enough to prompt an ABC Casting director to say when I walked in the terrifying audition room, “What a beautiful dress!” Good enough to momentarily disconcert her, and boost my confidence, when I said, “Oh thank you. It’s my latest creation.” Herein lays the joy of wearing clothes made by you when you are a blind person: it confuses sighted people, which is often just what’s needed to refashion perceptions!

 

*First published at Quail Bell Magazine*

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Why Do NaNoWriMo?

I heard about NaNoWriMo for the first time a couple of weeks back while perusing an online magazine (Quantum Fairy Tales) and saw a post called “Why NaNoWriMo Matters?” What the heck is NaNoWriMo? I read the post and learned first what it stands for–National Novel Writing Month, and next what it is essentially about–discipline. The importance of planning, prioritizing your writing, and writing consistently among other writerly behaviors can all be practiced by participating in NaNoWriMo. I was intrigued . As the November 1st start date was not far in the future or in the distant past (as so often happens with randomly found blog posts), as to make waning excitement or forgetfulness stop me, I decided to do it. After all, the only requirement is that I write 50,000 words in the month of November which breaks down to about 1667 words a day. As a writer, I should be able to muster that (in the month of November and beyond), right? And besides that, I’ve got a novel idea just waiting to be birthed!

So tomorrow begins the challenge of writing a novel in a montha short novel to be sure, but nonetheless a novel of at least 50,000 words–which, as the NaNoWriMo Wikipedia page tells me, is the approximate word count of such notable novels as Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Brave New World and The Great Gatsby. I believe also that it is the approximate word count of one of my all-time faves, Heart of Darkness but I have to check on that, hold please…

Oops, I was off! It looks like Heart of Darkness is really a novella of 30,000 words. Damn. Novellas are not given the respect they deserve. In fact I read on the NaNoWriMo website that 50,000 words is closer to novella length–most submissions for novellas suggest that 40,000 is the upper limit, but that novellas are less impressive and in the end, the point is that a significant swath of writing, novel, novella or something non-fiction or, gasp! Poetical, can be written in a month. Fifty thousand words sounds like a lot if you have a full time job or kids or what have you. However, when you break it down to one thousand six hundred and sixty seven words a day, it seems more manageable. And that is really the point. It is doable.

[Word count: 434]

Or not. Geez. It’s 10:14 AM on the scariest day of the year and I’m all dried up, finished. I got nothing. Shall I quit? Shall I give up this ridiculous task of writing 1667 words a day? I could legitimately procrastinate! For instance, I’ll start tomorrow. Tomorrow I can start writing my novel and that will be easier. I’ll not run out of things to say with that. Ah ha! I’ll tell you about my novel to come and thereby generate some more words. I’ll not give up!

My science fiction spy novel is the novel to be. I’ve been putting it off ostensibly because of the research involved. I would need to study spy craft, not just read le Carré novels as I’m wont to do, and I need to study some hard science about the eye, not just read up on future cures for my own eye disease (of which there are currently none), but also research the near-future probable and possible. There is also one other line of intelligence I have to research but it’s a secret since it relates to the twist in the novel, so SHHH!

Full disclosure: I have tried writing a novel before, but who hasn’t? It turned out that my novel was really just the retelling of a myth, which is not so marketable, and though nobody likes to write for the market, it is hard to get excited about something, which, in the writing world at least, seems rather overplayed and done. That said, several stories have birthed from Metamorphoses of Tiresias, including “The Lost Myth of Tiresias’s Womanhood.” More importantly, it started me on the path to being a (fairly) diligent writer and submitter of stories, but I’ve not tried my hand at a novel again. In fact, I’ve been rather a chicken.

[Word count 737 (almost 50%!)]

Being a person who tends towards self-examination almost to a fault, I think (in order to fulfill today’s word count requirement, which, you may have surmised, looms large) I will (as such things seem to be all the blogging rage) make a list. My list pertains to the Obstacles I’ve found in my way of committing to writing my new (and sure to be best-seller) novel:

1          I love novels. I read a lot of novels. I read good novels and bad novels. I read plot-driven novels and character-driven novels, I read classics and just released, and so it often happens, that I read in order to avoid writing.

2          I read a lot of novels (see above), and so deciding what to write and how and in what way and with what gusto feels crushingly limitless.

3          This should probably be number one insofar as it is fierce, but on a daily basis, it is not always obvious: fear. Fear of failure in one’s own eyes or the eyes of others, fear that it will not be nearly so good as it had seemed in utero, fear that it will not get done and will remain a spirit trapped between worlds, left to wander and haunt the liminal space between idea and finished object. FEAR FEAR FEAR

[Word count: 972 (I surpassed 50 percent! I can do this!)]

4          Resistance. I pilfer this term from Steven Pressfield who is perhaps most famous for writing The Legend of Bagger Vance, but is known to me by his ancient-times novels such as Last of the Amazons. He wrote an entire book on resistance called <a href= www.amazon.com/War-Art-Steven-Pressfield-ebook/dp/B007A4SDCG/ref=sr_1_1_twi_kin_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1446320024&sr=8-1&keywords=the+war+of+art >The War of Art</a>, a tactical guide to combatting resistance, and from which I could steal my entire list, but for which I will give him credit here. In particular, I take from him the idea of daily resistance, I might even say mundane or quotidian resistance. It’s the little things like starting to write in the morning, just like you are supposed to and then getting a phone call from a collections agency about your student loans in default, or starting to write, needing a drink of water, going into the kitchen, being aghast at the dishes piled in the sink and doing them all the while cursing all those inhabitants of the household who did not do their dishes. Starting to write and remembering that you forget to respond to an email, text, call, Facebook tag, IM, etc., etc., etc., and open the can of worms in question and drowning in the slimy critters that are modern communications. It’s also opening up your computer with the best of intentions and editing instead of generating new, or sending stuff out instead of writing, or looking at likely places to submit and all the other things that feel like you are promoting the well-being of your writing while neglecting the writing itself. This last is the most insidious because it may not even appear as resistance and, if you are a good editor, can take weeks away from your writing without even promoting guilt.

[Word count: 1265 (the home stretch!)]

As I near my goal for the day, I realize that this word count thing is very good for one important reason: after a couple hours of work, you have something to go on. I now have this silly article about writing and not-writing that I will post on my blog for no one to read (after much diligent editing of course) that I would not have had if not for what I will call the NaNoWriMo effect. And, it is 11:17 AM so now I have all kinds of time to do other (paid) work, plus reading novels, plus more “pitching and moaning.” But having met my day’s goal, I can go about all these things with a lighter heart.

[Word count: 1391]

Shit. I feel like I just wrote my conclusion and I still have 310 words to go. Now what do I do?

Oh, I just realized I left out what is probably the worst and most crushing obstacle to writing a novel:

5          The worry that you are, in fact, not a writer. If you are writing every day–not editing, not submitting, not doing dishes and thinking about writing, then in a beautifully literal and unarguable sense, you are a writer. Though it may not satisfy your mom or dad or partner or best friend, though it may not even satisfy the dreadful cocktail question or what you are up to these days or even your own inadequacies of existential import, writing every day with the intent of manufacturing a certain amount of words that, as they grow in quantity are inversely less likely to have been written before or the likelihood of being written again, by you or anyone else, you make yourself a writer. And, as this optimistic rant must continue till 1667, I conclude thusly.

Writing in the literal putting words down on paper, of the chemically treated wood pulp or virtual varietals, is the ONLY thing that is in your control. You cannot bribe or threaten the editors at The New Yorker or Asimov’s or the Paris Review or AltHist, and you cannot, no matter how much you try, get anyone you love to read as much as you do or to care as much as you do about literature or writing (specifically your writing), and though you cannot will yourself into the hearts and minds of millions or onto lists of best-sellers or even to win a coveted prize or contest, YOU CAN WRITE.

[Word count 1689]

THE END

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Guide Dog FAQ by Igor GuideDog

 Can I pet you?

No, I’m working. Duh.

 

What is your name?

You talkin to me?!

 

Can I pet you now?

1 Strangers’ hands on me make me uncomfortable.

2 stop staring: unless you want to fight

3 and please, this constant chattering in silly voice is totally embarrassing for all.

 

Oh, please can I pet you?!

If, by chance, my mommy thinks you are worthy, she will introduce us and then you may give me a little pat if you must, and then run along or stay, whatever.

 

Do you bite?

Why do you think I have these big, ugly, nasty, teeth?!

 

Do you ever get to play?

Pretty much every waking moment when at home.

 

What do you like to play?

Chase After Kong Like a Mad Dog and Bring it to Mommy Throw it Again Game.

 

Do you like being a guide dog?

Yes! And According to wonderful trainer Sue at the Seeing Eye, I took to it right away and was super talented and enthusiastic from the start!

 

How long was your training?

Four months of formal guide dog training but before that I lived with a nice family who raised me from a 2 month old pup to be sociable and obedient.  When I began my formal guide dog training at The Seeing Eye I already knew the cues for sit, heel, down, etc.

 

How old are you?

I’ll be three in November.

 

How can you tell when it’s safe to cross the street??

This is complicated. You ready?

Ok.  so I don’t determine when to walk; I do not read (whatever that is), and I’m not so good at colors.  Rather, Mommy listens for parallel traffic and then gives the cue for forward.  Generally speaking – like 99percent of the time she is right.  (I love my mommy).  But sometimes she asks me to go and I refuse because there is a car turning in front of us or something, and then I get to do this thing called intelligent disobedience and pull or push her out of the way or simply refuse to budge.  This is exciting because when it happens, mommy gets very teary eyed and gives me lots of praise.

 

How do you know where to go?

Sadly, I can’t read mommy’s mind but, generally speaking if there is a place that we’ve been before, I will give mommy a little pause and a look to ask if we are going in again and she says yea or nay, but if it is a place I’ve never been then I have to wait for mommy to show me.

 

Now can I pet you?

Grrr!

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