violation

I mentioned the panel discussion I went to at the Country Music Hall of Fame on Saturday. It featured Scott Miller, Chris Knight (both singer-songwriters), William Gay and Silas House (both novelists), and was generally a discussion about music and writing and the places they meet. The writers were talking about how music influences their work, and the musicians were talking about literature and how it inspires them. It was a really great experience. They all played songs or read excerpts, and it was a great pairing of Southern artists who share some history in different ways. William Gay read part of a biographical essay he'd written about Bob Dylan, and it was touching and funny and a beautiful depiction of an era I can only imagine.

They also took questions from the audience. Someone asked, when they write about people they know, do they ask those people for permission first? And Chris Knight answered that none of the people he writes about would recognize themselves. They all talked a little about how much of their real lives they are willing to reveal, and Scott quoted someone else (I should look it up): "Reality don't rhyme." He says you write about what you know, but you take poetic license in transferring it to song (or words).

This weekend I read Which Brings Me to You, by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott. I really enjoyed it, it was a quick and slightly guilty read, a novel written in the format of a man and woman getting to know each other through letters. The letters were "confessions," mostly of the sexual/relationship variety. Pretty intense, a little bit graphic, and very detailed in truth. And I know it is fiction, but I'm also guessing that a lot of this book is based in real life, on real experiences, on real people from these authors' lives.

When I'm reading good fiction, I usually end up mimicking the language and style (unintentionally) in my subsequent writing. Just like when you talk to someone from Minnesota and find yourself saying, "Ya! I knoooo!" So the things I've been thinking about writing this week have been rather confessional in nature. I think about what I would say if I were to write an essay about the first heart that I broke, or the first time I cheated. I wonder if I have the right to write about those things, who I could hurt by going there, the men who I was dating at those times, or my Mom, who probably doesn't want to hear about it. There are a lot of things I think I can't write because I don't want my mom to read them. Truths about our family, or about things I've done that I regret. And those are the things that, I think, I write about the best. Do you know what I mean? That is the creative gray area where I find it easiest to use my own language, my own style.

My mom is a really private person. There are aspects of her past that are locked up in a box, and that has always fascinated me, because I know I'm just not, naturally, that way. I wrote once about that feature that I share with my father, the "artist's death wish to rip open our ribs and show the world our blackened, smoke-spun entrails" (I was in college when I wrote that, I was a little wordy). I very rarely keep secrets, particularly not my own, and I'm not shy about discussing personal details. My father, as we all know, will always say the thing he shouldn't have said. The thing that makes you say, "I really wish I did NOT know that, Dad." And it's mostly humorous, he's a quirky guy, and an amazing writer, and brave in the way only writers are.

I guess my point is this: what should I allow myself to say, out loud, to the world? Should I be more aware of private information, of other peoples' lives? Should I say the bold thing and stand up for it later? Should I start the anthropological self-study that I have always threatened, to start picking apart the web of similarities and differences between my sisters and me, how we ended up the way we are? I think they probably don't want me to do that. It's against my nature to be secretive, but that isn't the same thing, is it? Secrets and discretion, not the same. Privacy and hiding, not the same. That's what I remember about my childhood; we lived in privacy, we were not hiding. There was no avoidance. Just effort withheld? I wonder what I really mean here.

Many members of the blogosphere put a lot of effort into privacy, maintaining their anonymity and that of those around them. They use initials or nicknames, they don't put their own name in their URL (!), they don't post photos. And I understand why they don't, but I've just sort of not felt the need. You people know who I am, right? I'm not keeping any secrets, that's what I tell myself. I use my family's real names, I provide pictures of my home, I use details from my real life that aren't that hard to find. And now, today, I sort of wish I didn't. I'm realizing that there are probably people out there, in the big bad world, who I don't want to know where I live. Who I want to pretend are just not out there. My Myspace profile isn't private, I've put links on blogspot to my online photo albums, I hope I never have to regret this. Today I'm on the fence.

The best writing that I've done in my life, the writing that has made me want to not move away from that aspect of myself, has all been, to a word, biographical. I'm not a fiction writer, and when I tried, I just wrote the truth. But what have I done in my life to justify a biography, a memoir? I'm only 30. I'm not famous, or accomplished, or well-traveled, or particularly interesting in any of my experiences. All that I'm doing is journaling, documenting, observing. We live in an era where everyone keeps diaries again, and anyone can read them. I used to write lies in my diary when I was a little girl, tall tales about boys I had kissed or money I had found, and then be certain to leave the diary where my sisters would find it, and tell myself that they were secretly in awe of my wild, false accomplishments.

Now I'm blogging, and I'm doing this NaBloPoMo thing, and as with writing classes in school, the writing is there for me now, more and more every day, the words and the ideas are more accessible if I keep them towards the surface, need them daily. I'm trying to find the right place for them, the right use, to press the righteous truth to the forefront, and not fall back into the show-off little girl, with her lies and manipulative placements. But I also don't want to betray anyone with a truth that is theirs to hide, and I don't want to later wish that I was in hiding and safe behind a nickname, safe from anyone who would misuse my personal life, or misconstrue my habit of sharing with a desire to be shared.

It's dark outside, and I'm still at work, and I've got to run home and scoop up my dog and take her to puppy class and then rush to Book Club, for the best of Girl Time. I'm not sure that I have even said what I mean here today, but I'm glad that I'll have the chance, tomorrow and the next day, to keep looking for it. Thanks for letting me do that with you.

hog rally

Yesterday we drove out to Dad's and picked up the Big Dogs. Dad and Lynn are heading to Florida for the Frank Brown Songwriters Festival for a couple of weeks, so Ingrid and Bridgette are coming to stay with us. This is probably just temporary. We've talked about bringing them home to stay, that was the idea, just banishing them for the summer, and we were hoping that Mischa would benefit from having canine company. But Dad's really in love with Ingrid, moreso all the time, and Leiper's Fork is a lot more her speed than the East side. So it seems more likely that we've just got a couple of four-legged houseguests until Thanksgiving.

The car ride home from Dad's was pretty chaotic at first. I forgot that Ingrid will hang her head out the window if you open it for her (Mischa doesn't do that). Otherwise, Ingrid would rather drive. We got home to much rejoicing. Mischa loves other dogs, especially when they come to her house. Bridgette and Mischa have spent most of the last two days with each others' heads in their mouths.

I didn't make it home from work today in time to get them all inside before the rain. By the time I opened the back door for them they were three solid puddles of hysterics. I think it was the first time Mischa has ever been outside during a thunderstorm (because she is absurdly spoiled). It took three beach towels (one and one half for Ingrid) to get them down to just rather damp, but everybody has settled in nicely and right now there are three snoring, gassy dogs in the floor.

So, sure, there are too many animals in our house right now. But everybody is having a great time, and Mischa seems especially well-adjusted right now. She still spends some time on the couch cuddling with us, but right now she has her head leaning on Ingrid's back. It's a lot of sweetness.

so far...

I forgot to mention that we ate lunch at Judge Bean's yesterday. And it was great. The fries were hand-cut and especially good, and the beef brisket was probably the best I've ever had. It was a nice treat. And then dinner at a Mexican restaurant on Nolensville Rd (a what? on where? crazy!) with Megan and Ryan, and then back home to admire the Challenge the Zodiac board game I got at Goodwill for $2.

It is remarkable. It's clearly a prototype, complete with promotional brochure inside the box (that's sure to sell a lot of product). The object of the game is to "increase your knowledge of the planetary system and obtain as many Earth Symbols as possible." You have game pieces (the aforementioned Earth Symbols and also Planet Symbols, which look, of course, like rocket ships) and you roll dice and move around the board, similar to Monopoly, and depending on which square you land on, you have either a Sun Card or Planet Card read to you. The cards have descriptions of either planetary influences or personality traits, and you have to guess which planet or sign is being described. The descriptions are very long:

Emotional, romantic, sweetest sign of the Zodiac. This sign is definitely not a leader but a follower. Needs strong discipline and positive thinking. Like their opposite sign, they must beware of alcohol and drugs. Very sympathetic. Highly sensual. Very vulnerable; hard to get to know because they hardly know themselves. Attention seekers. Loyal, unselfish and generous. Best partner: Water and Earth signs. What sign am I?

The correct answer is, of course, Pisces, yours truly. There is another card that informs me that my Quality is Mutable and my most likable trait is Compassion. Oh, and my key words are "I believe." The best part is the section of the Rules detailing the end of the game: "Play may continue until all the Earth symbols are dispersed. Or, the game may be terminated at any time upon players discretion."* They can't even pretend that you are going to want to see this game through to its completion.

I hate that Austin's scanner is not working because I REALLY want to scan in the promotional brochure for this product and share it with you. Honestly, I don't know how any of us have had a single successful party without this game. Here's the kicker: this was NOT the only copy of this game at Goodwill. I bought it because there was an entire endcap display of at least 30 copies of Challenge the Zodiac, still wrapped in plastic. I can only assume that the inventor (one Patti Rockburn, who is photographed in all her big-haired, acid-washed denim-with-leather-fringe glory in the brochure) went bankrupt and donated her assets to Goodwill for the tax break. Which, of course, makes me a little sad. Because I'm very sympathetic. Patti, she said so herself.

*All punctuation, grammar, subject-verb agreement and shifting tense errors are courtesy of the inventor, not me. I copied this out word for word.

P.S. I am thrilled to announce that Challenge the Zodiac is available on Amazon for a mere $7.99. What a steal off the original asking price of $29.95! So if you have already rushed out to the Berry Hill Goodwill and were crushed to learn that their stock of the game has already been depleted, breathe easier knowing that Amazon has your heart's desire plus shipping and handling.

P.P.S. Austin made chili tonight, and it was delicious. As always.

Halloween Ghost(dog) Story

So Halloween night, Austin and I pulled together our costumes (he was a mime, I was a buttery nipple shot). We left the house around 8, with the intention of going to Carmen's house for the costume party and eventually moving on to the 5 Points Pub Crawl. We were running a little bit late, but it was ok. We put Mischa in the back yard, kicked the cats out of the front room, set the alarm, drove away from the house, heading down 19th towards Holly.

I was wearing false eyelashes, which maybe diminish my eyesight a little bit. I saw something moving in the road, and said, "Is there an animal ahead of us?" I realize it's a dog, and it's running down the street in the same direction we're driving. I see a pink collar, a familiar shape of brown backside, black body. I said, "Austin, oh my God. It's Mischa."

Austin leaped out of the car, I drove slowly down the street, calling for her, freaking out. Austin was running full strength down 19th (in mime makeup, striped shirt, beret, dress shoes). At different points we were both running, both driving, calling the whole time. We saw the dog run behind someone's house and almost had her cornered, and then she took off again through another backyard. By this time we were at the corner of 20th and Holly, which dead-ends into the golf course. And we couldn't see any movement, for about 15 minutes we just rode in circles, trying to shine the headlights into the park, driving around calling out the window. And I was thinking, We have lost our dog. She's gone. She's not even going to know how to come back. We spent all this time falling in love with this dog and she's gone. How are we going to go to sleep tonight? I kept saying, "I can't believe this. I just can't believe this." Like a mantra.

After we'd been searching for about a half hour, I said,"Let's go back to the house and get a flashlight and come back and retrace our steps." We drove home, pulled up next to the house, and there is a familiar nose peeking out of the chain link fence of the backyard. Mischa is at home, where she belongs. And apparently has been the whole time.

We just sat there in the car staring at her through the fence. I could have cheerfully strangled her, and she hadn't even done anything wrong. Apparently we've been harassing some stranger's dog all over Shelby Bottoms. Austin says, now, after the fact, that he knows it wasn't her. I still feel like maybe it was. Maybe she jumped the fence, let us give chase, then doubled back and headed home and someone (who read our address on her collar) dropped her back in the yard while we were still driving in circles. I know that is unlikely. But I stood within 6 feet of that dog in someone's front yard and I swear I would have known if it wasn't Mischa. This dog had the same markings, the same ears, the same sleek shininess, the same PINK COLLAR. And the same extremely annoying habit of letting you get near to her and then taking off again right as you grab for her collar.

So we locked Mischa up inside (just to be safe) and headed to Carmen's. By then the party was in full boozy swing, and it took me forever to calm down, to get my head out of the near-disaster it turns out we just WEREN'T in. Austin's eye makeup was smeared from running. After a while I settled in, and the party (and subsequent adventures) was a lot of fun. I was a buttery nipple shot because my other girlfriends were also shots: Shannon was a White Russian, Megan a Purple Hooter Shooter, Carmen a Redheaded Hooker, Leia was Sex on the Beach. I posted the link to pictures yesterday. Austin was a killer mime, while Chris Grainger might have been my favorite costume of the night (a redneck football coach or something, but it was just so NOT Chris, it didn't look anything like him, it was very bizarre to look at his face and realize it was him).

We walked to Rumours East and then to 3 Crow, which was such a mob scene it took ten minutes to get from the front door to the back. I bailed after that, headed over to Mercy Lounge to see Trent play a showcase for Americana Music Week. That was a great show, high energy, much hilarity from Supe and Mike Webb in (sort-of) costumes. I was getting body glitter on everyone I hugged, I hope I didn't get any married men in trouble. Home and in bed by 12:30. Very successful Halloween, after all, and I'm really glad Mischa was in her bed at the end of the night, even if maybe there was no chance that she wouldn't be.

Oh, and remember me saying that it wasn't long before she decided she should sleep in our bed with us? Yeah, not long at all. That was last night, and it took an extended negotiation session to settle her back in her spot in front of my closet. Austin got up with her about 7:30 this morning, and at some point between then and 9:30 (when I woke up), she came back and slept with me. It was sort of nice.

I'm getting into this NaBloPoMo challenge. When have I ever promised you I'd talk about something and then actually DID? I'm probably not going to bother discussing the pumpkin patch/orchard trip, since I shared some cute pics from there and that is sort of all I wanted to address about it. But I have lots more I want to discuss now, thoughts I jotted down during a panel discussion at the Country Music Hall of Fame today (featuring Scott Miller, my favorite) about musicians and writers and the creative process and inspiration.

Happy 87th birthday to Mary Frances Jansen, my maternal grandmother, my abuelita. I miss you, Grandma.

mercury moving forward again

Last night I dreamed that I came home to a big generic subdivision McMansion. It was either new or unloved, no landscaping, hay down on the ground, construction materials piled by the dumpster. I couldn't figure out how to get into the driveway, so I just parked in the alley behind the house and had to walk through the yard to the back door. Inside the house was shabby, needing repairs. The ceilings were lower than you would think in a house that big, trashy dropped ceiling tiles with water stains. I realized I lived there, and that my husband was leaving me, or had already left. At no point in the dream did I have a mental image of the husband, or a name, or know anything about him other than a vague sense of being glad he was gone. He might have taken our children with him. I didn't care. There were big rooms with no furniture, just bags of trash or clothes, empty boxes. We decided to have a pool party, and I was messing with the controls on the pool thermostat, warming it up to bathwater temperatures, it was wintertime. The sky was gray. The Jansens all arrived for the pool party, but it felt wrong, like a mess, like nothing was going the way I wanted it to. Everyone talked about wanting to get in one of the (two) hot tubs on the deck. I looked around and thought, "I hope this isn't one of those depressing indie movies where you just feel sort of sorry for everyone and there is no real point to the ending."

I have no reason to say this, but I'm so glad it's Friday. I took most of Wednesday off, it's not like it's been a tough week at work or anything. We had a beautiful, fulfilling, relaxed time last weekend. But it doesn't mean I'm not really happy that tomorrow is Saturday.

Since I was at home Wednesday, I worked on ripping recipes out of magazines. When Austin got home, we had artichokes and a potato-and-egg Spanish tortilla, which is not the same thing as the flat Mexican corn staple. Chopped potatoes and onions, tossed in a skillet with olive oil, cooked until soft, then poured in 10 eggs, salt and pepper, bake for 5 minutes until puffy. It's sort of a strata, sort of a quiche, and really great. I'm already daydreaming variations, mostly involving cheese. Last night we ate at Rumours East: I had orecchiette with julienne vegetables and pesto cream sauce. Austin had the mixed seafood linguine with white wine cream sauce. It was a creamy starchy spectacle, and soooo good.

I hope you don't mind if I take this NaBloPoMo opportunity to tell you about the food I cook and eat sometimes.

Halloween Pics (and others from October) here.

Since you asked...

...Mischa is doing great. We're taking Adult Family Manners classes (with Kat Martin, whom I heartily recommend if you need patient, fun, helpful, extremely effective dog training, dogsandkat.com) and it's going pretty well. Mischa has learned "down" from a hand signal (we're still mystified as to HOW she learned it, but we'll take it) and how to give a high five. She gets bored sometimes and doesn't want to learn/work anymore, but in general, she's pretty much a genius.

Mischa has spent the first four months with us without going into our bedroom. Instead she hovers at the door and occasionally makes huffy noises of consternation. She is (appropriately) terrified of Mackenzie. Kenzie doesn't really leave the bedroom anymore, and mostly dominates the doorway, making a scene if anyone (other than Austin or me) crosses the threshold. This works out ok. Instead of trying to fit into our very tiny bedroom, Mischa sleeps on a green bed in front of my closet. She is really good about putting herself to bed, it's very sweet. We've just sort of looked at it as dumb luck that, because of our bitch-ass calico, we haven't become those suckers who have to share the bed with their dog. (oh, no, we're just those suckers who share their bed with three cats. who don't always get along. one of whom, the one with the forceful personality, prefers to sleep on any pillow that was already occupied by a human head.)

Well, of course, it's our own fault for being self-congratulatory petowner snobs. Because Tuesday morning, I was still languishing in bed (my rising time gets exponentially later as the temperature drops) and Austin was already up and dressed and productive and came in to talk with me and Mischa came, enthusiastically, after him. Leapt right over Mackenzie, right into the bed, and proceeded to be impressed with herself for the rest of the morning. How many more nights will she settle happily onto her green bed before she realizes, hey! They're having the sleepytime party in the bedroom! I can get in on that! And thus the end of peaceful nights' sleeps. Without any of the trouble involved with having a baby.

I have a lot more to say about a lot more things (Halloween, dog-chasing adventures that coincided with Halloween, the tree that fell on our house, pumpkin patches, sisters who all live in the same town again, why I'm having trouble coming up with any kind of nostalgic memory/myth that doesn't involve my mother, and my long-running pet peeve list). The good news is, I've got 29 more days to fill with all those thoughts and lots more. Welcome to NaBloPoMo. See you tomorrow.

File Under: Incidents my Mother might misinterpret as a cry for help

Note to self: Whilst bringing two cups of pomegranate juice to a boil (with the further intent of reducing the heat, allowing to simmer until reduced to 1/2 cup), DO NOT leave your favorite (and expensive) Le Creuset pot over high heat and then wander into the living room and get drawn into the new CW drama Gossip Girl, a guilty dirty teenager mess (it's like the OC in Manhattan).

IF you were to do that, probably you would look up twenty minutes later to a house filled with smoke and all the animals looking at you like you were perhaps trying to poison them. You might dash through the house followed by a string of expletives that would do your paternal grandmother proud. You would likely spend the next hour attempting to force smoke out every open door and window available, and performing desperate rescue attempts on your precious Le Creuset that involve a carefully crafted paste of Oxyclean and muttered prayers to various deities.

And you probably wouldn't admit to ANYONE that, in fact, not two hours earlier, you might have been called to the kitchen by the smell of smoke, only to discover that all the water in the pan under the artichoke steamer had boiled away, an unfortunate occurrence that happens EVERY SINGLE TIME you attempt to make artichokes lately.

So, sure, that's right. I tried to burn the house down. Twice. Tonight.