Memoirous

Today politics has gone beyond surreal. I’m not sure what words actually mean anymore. Definitely the doublespeak has to be decoded, but now the doubling-down on lies is an unbroken circle, like a snake biting its own tail/tale. As a kid I remember trying to figure out what a fascist was. How was that different from a dictator? Communism—when explained it didn’t sound so bad, then I read Animal Farm , and, again, I was confused. At first glance populism sounded great, like power to the people. Farmers in Kansas experienced a series of difficult years from the late 1880s to the early 1890s. Out of this dissension came the People's Party, a reform movement with roots across the country but particularly strong in Kansas. How could populism go wrong? Then along came Donald J. Trump, a populist candidate. He broke the mold of the established politician seasoned in rhetoric that is frustratingly accommodating to the status quo. The amount of time it takes to pass a law or

This story, Big Thompson, was something I had on my mind for awhile--in a couple different pieces. Listening to Rebecca Makkai at OCWW talk about how she composed a few of the stories in her collection Music for Wartime I went home and tried to do the same thing. She wrote down two of her strongest ideas and then tried to tie them together into one plot. For example, the collection ends with “The Museum of the Dearly Departed,” a story that focuses on an apartment house that had a gas leak which killed almost all of its inhabitants, save one couple—who also survived the Holocaust. Relatives move into the apartments, and one of the new residents is an artist who is creating a project—a dollhouse structure using found and donated objects from each apartment. Record albums serve as a focal point for each miniature room: Glenn Gould, Maria Callas, Joe Cocker. Whew! This could all seem like such a jumble--but under a deft hand it can all come together. So I combines images of water

In 2002 I was invited to the Breadloaf Writer's Conference where I attended on a scholarship because I served on the waitstaff. at the time I didn't understand how selective this invitation was and how prestigious the conference was. The history of Breadloaf goes back to Willa Cather and Robert Frost to name a few. Through the years it diversified. Several years before me a wonderful poet Agha Shahid Ali was on faculty (an honor for any writer). In December 2001 he died too young of brain cancer. Agha Shahid Ali came to the US as a student from the Kashmir region. He became enamored of the poetry form called ghazal. At Breadloaf the waitstaff was each presented with The Country Without a Post Office, a book of his poetry. I always loved the lonely little line from the book: "The world is full of paper. Write to me." The book refers to a point in time and a place. Kashmir is a disputed territory belonging to India but more aligned with Pakistan. It is here that wo

I recently had an excerpt of my chapbook Bright Invisible in Utterance Journal A short story will be out soon in THINK journal It is titled Big Thompson and I used a method laid out by Rebecca Makkai author of The Great Believer and a finalist for the Pultizer Prize. She was teaching a class a few years ago at OCWW where she said when trying to come up with ideas for a short story she sometimes let her ideas collide--for instance news of a recent gas leak/explosion and Holocaust survivors. She has a penchant for putting together incongruous scenarios and constructing a story. I thought: Why not?  I'd had in mind several loose threads that had to do with water: New Burlington, Ohio that was abandoned and flooded to make way for a reservoir ( Caesar Creek State Park ) and a flood that occurred in Colorado along the Big Thompson in 1976. Adding other tidbits, I wove together a 5,000 word story. Forthcoming--Big Thompson. Finally, Stoneboat a print journal contacted me

So I cycled back home from Union Station, didn't include those miles in trip total. No reason to be that geeky. I wanted to do a round up about maps, connectivity, and elevation/steepness. The ACA maps. There were times when they unnecessarily led me up steep inclines. Like going into Burlington--it would have been better if I'd just stayed on the Champlain Way instead of going up Irish Hill Rd. Also going into Canada that gravel road it immediately puts you on once you cross the border felt unnecessary. I think their criteria is to put riders on the least trafficked roads. I learned that some of the state routes were not so bad and the grades were gentler. Overall it is good to have maps and I liked the ACA ones because they were “laminated” and did not curl up in humidity or dissolve from the rain. Buy a Vermont state map and keep that handy. Do not be afraid of the gravel or dirt roads--these are wonderful, like riding in Acadia National Park! Connectivity. I u

Day 13, Dorset, VT to Albany, NY 77 miles What a difference a day makes!! It’s 12 noon and I’ve already done 40 miles. Last night I complained to my host, Malcolm that I hadn’t passed any cycle tourists. “That’s because you’re on all the hard roads,” he replied. Then he drew me a map to Cambridge, NY. I left their house at 7:30 a.m. having to leave a note to say goodbye. I made it to Dorset Village Green for a sandwich. There were hills and my legs were still trying to recover from yesterday and the day before. But I kept going. Manchester was also a cool town. After that I noticed I was able to go to my third gear and ride at least for a while. Before turn off for 313 Arlington, I stopped at a Norman Rockwell exhibit. More on this later, but let’s just say the two sales clerks were fiercely determined to preserve his legacy. Seems the whole town was in on his successful artist career when he was painting in the area. He lived there 13, 14 years and raised his th

Day 12, GWSP to Dorset, VT ? 60 miles Today was a longer riding day and I wanted to get an early start, but weather and physical things have conspired to slow me down. Plus my butt hurts. If anyone doesn’t think they need gluts to cycle are dead wrong. This a.m. it rained, starting at around 5:30. As I tried to pack up there would be cloud bursts or else splitter splatter from the trees. I was frantic to pack without getting my sleep system wet. The humidity is thru the roof. I felt like I was riding in slow motion. Leaving GWSP there was MORE mountain to climb. Two miles in my lowest gear at about 3 mph. Then a white knuckle downhill, worrying about trucks and crappy road all the way into Rutland and West Rutland. In Castleton at a little coffee shop at the depot I bought an egg and spinach wrap. I was around about 25 miles. I say about because all day forgetting to turn odometer back on or leaning on it and knocking it off kilter. After eating I hopped onto the De

Day 11, Lebanon to Gifford Woods State Park via Killington Peak, 43 miles Such a perfect day. New Hampshire to Vermont. Those first days of riding in hot humid weather with hills (the 3 Hs plus hell makes 4) were excruciating. Enjoying the ride so much more. Yesterday and today kept stopping to take pictures of the blue sky, red barns, covered bridges, sunny meadows crowded with lupine and butterflies. Two more covered bridges. One on Queechee Road and one by Old River Road on the way to Woodstock Village. This was a dirt road which I’m usually apprehensive about taking (a holdover from getting lost following Google directions in Norway), but this road was lovely, like a little picnic along the river in a shaded grove. I stopped at The Village Butcher for a sandwich and soup. The soup and crackers filled me up, so saved the sandwich. Woodstock is typical quaint New England, rich white people. The approach to Killington Peak was gradual. I was partly again on dirt roads, whi

Day 10, to Lebanon, NH, 48 miles Last night was lovely and lonely. My own little stealth paradise. It was foggy this a.m. Left at 7;30 and cycled to Woodsville where—tada!—there was a covered bridge. Before starting this trip I thought I’d see covered bridges and cycle tourists. Well, we know how that’s gone, but this covered bridge was to beat the band, more than made up for being the only one by being LONG. In North Haverhill I bought 2 pastries. Haverhill, the village, was amazing, like some old New England carriage village. It was like a movie set. The road and weather were perfect. Coming down from Haverhill to Orford I spotted a sign out front of the Mt. Cube Masonic Temple: Hot Breakfast. I pulled over immediately even though it was 10 minutes after it went off. The folks set me up with a plate of pancakes. I could taste the syrup on my lips going up hill. After Orford I forgot to turn on my odometer, so lost track, but roughly 6 or 7 miles to Lyme, another GREAT villa