Ally Malinenko's Blog, page 18

Where the ducks go…..

I got to see a good friend of mine the other day. She’s about to start her senior year of high school, in a particularly crappy school. I’ve known her since she was 12. She’s smart and talented and insightful. Unfortunately, being a teenager she’s mostly blind to this fact about herself.

She recently read Catcher in the Rye. It should be stated this is one of my favorite books. Not my favorite by Salinger but up there. She was trying to tell me about how she felt, how her friends made her feel – you know the difficult minefield dodging that is high school – and she was using Holden as an example, specially Holden’s feelings about the ducks at the lagoon in Central Park.

For the sake of context, Holden asks a few people in the book, mostly cab drivers, where the ducks go.

One of the actual quotes is as follows:

“I live in New York, and I was thinking about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South. I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go? I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away.”

So as my friend is telling me about this, I can see the tears, two big fat ones that roll down her cheeks before she can even get to the point. And the point is this: My friend worries about the ducks.

And I understand her cause I also worry about the ducks. And the snails. And 19 year old boys hiding in boats.

Let me back up. If you do a quick search you’ll get a lot of “theory” behind the ducks. What do the ducks mean? What is Holden really worried about? You’ll read things about how it’s his transition from childhood to adulthood (caring about the ducks is considered childish); you’ll read that it represents death and Holden’s fear of it and his grief over his deceased older brother; that it stands for Holden’s understanding that life is cyclical. That the ducks returning means Holden will return. Persevere. Survive.

And maybe those are true. I’m certainly not a literature scholar (just a reader) so I’m in no position to judge alternate interpretations. But to me, the ducks are about empathy.

Empathy is defined as the capacity to recognize emotions that are being experienced by another sentient or fictional being.

Empathy, the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes.

On my old walk to work, I used to pass a very large house. At the edge of their property was  a stone wall and a large cherry blossom tree. I loved that tree and when I was passing one day I noticed that the stone wall had dozens of little tiny snails on it. I would stop on my walk and trace their spirals of their shells with my fingernail. I loved those snails. I love that they existed on this wall, in this corner of Brooklyn, on this planet spinning in all that lonely space.

But I also worried about these snails. I was careful when I walked, sure not to step on any of the ones that had migrated down the wall to sidewalk. I was careful about the ones that could be under leaves. I was terrified of the notion of crushing one of these poor things under the hard hard heel of my boot. And I was terrified about other people killing them. Other people wouldn’t worry. They wouldn’t fret about snails. They’d probably just laugh or worse, not even notice.

These snails could stop existing and they wouldn’t even notice.

I worried all the time about snails.

Snails.

Where the ducks go.

Nineteen year old boys who hide in boats after doing horrible things.

Empathy.

I tried to tell my friend what a good thing it is. How empathy will save her. Yes, it will break her heart and yes she will cry a lot but that one day she’ll realize that it is her soul – that her capacity to empathize is what makes her the remarkable human I am privileged to know.

I’m constantly told I’m “overly-sensitive” and not surprising, I’m sensitive about that word.

Overly.

As if there were was only so much sensitivity a person should have. As if their heart could only hold so much and mine, holds too much and that is a weakness. That is something fundamentally faulted.

Broken.

……And when the wizard gets to me I’m asking for a smaller heart……”

-Trout Heart Replica by Amanda Palmer

But what I want my friend to know is that she shouldn’t want a smaller heart. She should want everyone to have a heart the same size as her, the kind that keeps growing, the kind that keeps changing. The kind that has the courage to ask “How are we failing each other?” and “What can we do better?”

I want to empathize with everyone. Every horrible monster this civilization creates and every truth seeker and every saint. All of them.

So yes, what about the ducks?

What happens to the ducks?

Everyone should want to know where the ducks go.

Three Poems at The Blue Hour

Many thanks to the lovely ladies of the Blue Hour for picking up these poems.

They’re all a bit wayward and sad, what with having been written during some wayward and sad times.

Happy September, kids.

Peace, Love and Starbursts,

Ally

Special Prize if you Find the Cure Reference in this Post

I started a new project that requires absolutely no creative output on my term but fills my need to be doing something “interesting” and “project-y”

I’m listening to all the music on my ipod in album order.

Feel free to unfollow this blog. I am, in fact, that boring.

But before you do, here’s the thing. I’ve been reading this Culture Shock: America book (hopefully to put together this poetry project) and it’s made me incredibly self-conscious about my stuff. And I don’t even have a lot of stuff.

I have a tiny one bedroom apartment nicknamed The Bunker. It’s small and cozy and cluttered and since it’s on the ground floor I  never open the blinds (nosy people live in Brooklyn) and my poor toothless cat never gets to see natural light.

It’s filled with books mostly, the ones that belong to us are haphazardly puddling from the shelves (like too much water in too small a glass) and the ones that belong to the library are piled on the floor, possibly high enough to offer shelter should The Bunker become inhospitable.

But still not more books than other people I know. And I don’t have that many dvds.

But what I do have is a lot of cds. Yes, I still own cds. And I own cds cause I was (and am) a late adopter to technology. The ipod classic came out in 2001. I got my first one a DECADE later.

For ten years, I was the girl in Brooklyn walking around with a cd player. Don’t think I didn’t see you laughing.

So I finally broke down and got one because I walk pretty far to work and replaying the same cd over and over was getting old. And I put everything on it.

Everything!

Ev-e-ry-thing

I took stacks and stacks of cds and burned like…..a fire in cairo.

I put on stuff I never listened to – stuff that belong to my husband. Stuff and stuff and stuff. And then I wound up listening to the same 10 artist over and over and over again.

Sigh.

Hence my project. I’m going to listen to everything on my ipod in order. I figure, since the damn thing is almost full, I’ll be occupied until 2015.

That said, I’m allowing for occasional deviations, i.e. “I desperately need to hear that Cure song right now, where is it???? Ahhhh there it is.” *hums along*

But otherwise, the great makers of the english alphabet will decide my musical accompaniment.

I started on August 16th and I’m almost done with the A’s.

Things I’ve learned so far:

Ariel Ballet by Harry Nielson is a really great album. And there’s more to it then “Everybody’s Talkin.’”
I don’t have nearly enough Eric Satie in my life.
Aha Shake Heartbreak by the Kings of Leon is still better than anything they’ve done since.
As much as I love Paul McCartney, he’s totally punchable. It’s going to a long haul with this guy. There’s only such much “Whoooo” and “Bobbity boo boo” a human can take.
American Gangster by Jay-Z is really good. Really. No, really!
Amnesiac by Radiohead gave me some sort of auditory seizure and that needs to come off ASAP.

And most of all I got to listen to these guys again:

This is the Panaroma Jazz Band playing at the Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. I saw them on one of my many trips to New Orleans. As I’ve mentioned before my memory is utter rubbish but I think it was the last trip, in 2011. They were even better than this video makes them seem and we bought the one cd they had at the time, “Another Hot Night in February.” They’ve since recorded more.

And the great thing about this project is that when I travel, especially down south, my favorite thing to do is collect music. I can’t wait to get up to Clay Canfield and the Howling Brothers (both from Nashville).

So yeah, music project. I’ve got something like 100 Mozart albums on here. By mid 2014, I’ll look just like this:

Peace, love and Starbursts,

Ally

Marble Soul

Hi all.

I’m so happy to announce that Medulla Review is alive and kicking again! They used to have whole issues but now have gone for a more come-and-get-it chow time approach. I missed them while they were gone and I’m so glad they’re back and that I have a story up right now. Be sure to check out the poetry and photography too. Really great stuff.  Writer friends, send them some work.

The story is called Marble Soul and truth be told it took me a little while to find a home for this one so I’m doubly excited about the news. It’s about a young girl in an oppressive society who sells parts of her soul at the Night Market in exchange for a certain… ahem…. type of sensation.

Here’s how it begins:

“I hope it was worth it,” the Vicar of Oxley said but Azra didn’t look up. If she had, in his eyes would be all that righteous fire, all her guilt. Instead, she strapped on bravery, masked the truth, and held as still as possible.

“You used a lifetime of Purity. A lifetime Azra, before your true Bedding. And if that weren’t bad enough,” he reached into the drawer in front of him, “this is all that’s left of your Soul.” It clicked when he placed it on the desk and rumbled as it rolled towards her. She caught it just before it went off the edge. Azra flinched expecting it to be hot as if it would burn with her own transgressions but it was smooth and cool to the touch. It was smaller now, no bigger than a marble, but it still shone a sun dappled sort of gold as it had the day it was given to her, not long after her Acceptance. It was strange to hold it again, in her palm, as strange as it would be to hold your own laughter or heartache. It fluttered against her skin, seemingly searching for a way back inside.

 

I HATE THIS BOOK WITH THE BURNING STENCH OF A GARBAGE FIRE

DISCLAIMER: (Everything I’m going to say here is much better said here by Chuck Wendig (Hey at least I’m honest.))

I’m revising.

Have I mentioned that I’m revising? Cause I am. And by revising, I mean, I’m pulling the broken spine out of a disgruntled hemorrhoid riddled gorilla and re-assembling it with legos. While he’s sleeping.

I’ve been ACTIVELY changing things since March. My plan (ha! what’s a plan?) was to be done by June. I was going to spend my summer writing nothing but poetry for a new chapbook tentatively entitled “How to Be An American” or “How to Spot and American” or something about Americans.

It was based on the amazing things I’ve found in this book:

Can you see how much fun that would have been?

Cause I can.

Except here it is August bloody 14th and i’m still only half way though the revision. And I have a novella I want to finish and short stories and that chapbook and and and and and (this is the part where I get all hyperventilate-y)

And the hardest part with all this spine ripping is that I really can’t tell if what I’m changing is making it better or worse cause it’s just one big patchwork quilt from hell at this point. Thank god for beta readers right? If I sell this thing I’ll have to give them half my royalties.

So aside from my complaining, which let’s be honest is the whole point of a blog, what I wanted to share was  this piece by Chuck Wendig because basically the things that go through his brain when he’s editing is what goes through my brain. Also he’s much funnier than me.

Be good kids.

I’m gonna go chew my fingers to bloody nubs.

Okay bye.

*laugh/sob/laugh/sob*

Doctor, Doctor, Doctor

Hi.

So it’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything on here because I’ve been mired in revisions on my current WIP but I wanted to come out of my dank dark cave to share a few things.

There have been some new reviews of Lizzy popping up online. I posted them here but here’s a link to the newest from Pen and Muse.

P&M is a really great resource for writers and I was so excited when they agreed to take my piece on rejection which as I said when I gave it to them, was the most honest thing I’ve ever written about the submission experience for me. As for Lizzy they said some really great things like this:

Another thing I really liked about this novel is that Lizzy is a strong female protagonist. There’s nothing worse than opening a novel and starting to read it, only to find that the main female character is dependent on a male for happiness, or afraid to take action, etc. But this isn’t the case with Lizzy!

Also I have a new poem, Pick-pocketed by the Alchemist up at Electric Windmill Press so many thanks to Brian, the editor.

And in other more interesting non-Ally related news, we have a new Doctor!

Yes, in case you weren’t sure, I am THAT much of a nerd. As so eloquently described by the folks on twitter:

They picked a new nerd-pope!—
Kevin Pereira (@kpereira) August 04, 2013

While I’m very excited about Peter, I’m still sad about Matt but have vowed to NOT repeat the theatrics from the David to Matt transition.

I vow to keep the tissue usage to a rational amount. 20 sheets max.

But before we move on, we’ve got a little time left with Matt – the sure-to-be-amazing 50th anniversary show and a Christmas special – and I just wanted to share this brilliant moment from his run, the moment in which I looked at Matt and didn’t say, I miss David.

The moment when I said, “Okay. That’s my Doctor.”

If You’re Loved by Someone You’re Never Rejected

 

….decide what to be and go be it………

 

 

On Zoe, Salinger and Orson

This is Zoe Keating. My friend Rob told me about Zoe after listening to this RadioLab podcast.

Rob assumed I knew about her already. I didn’t. Rob is always assuming that I’m much smarter and more interesting than I am. I’ve fooled him for years.

Isn’t she amazing? I’m buying her album. It reminds me of Max Richter which I already blathered on about here.

So Zoe.

Yeah.

ZOE!

Also, I just wanted to thank the boys over at Jersey Devil Press for nominating my story, Paper Heart, for a storySouth Award. That’s super cool. JDP has been really really supportive of my writing and I just wanted to say, again, that without all the work of small presses and the people who put their time, energy and money into it –  I basically would never get to share anything with anyone. I owe them.

Finally 62 years ago today, The Catcher in the Rye was published.

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.”

― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Ain’t that the truth, Holden.

They’re making a documentary about Salinger. I’ll be seeing it. Here’s the trailer.

Finally finally with all the Orson Scott Card asshat-ery, here’s my two unasked for cents, summed up by aforementioned friend Rob who gave me permission to use it:

“If you wanna protest OSC that’s fine, but you need to go apply that standard to everything in your life if you’re going to be so righteous….Who makes your car? Do you use an iPhone? Well you endorse slave labor. Who made your purse? Where did your breakfast cereal come from? Your coffee? Do you endorse the political views of kohls or dunkin donuts? Do you have songs by Michael Jackson on your iPod?”

And I have to say, I agree.

Also this poem.

Not looking for a fight here, people. I think OSC is an asshat. I for one won’t be seeing his film because I never bothered to finish the book. But there is a bit of slippery slope if you get over zealous in your righteousness. Also, if I didn’t separate the work from the creator I would never read/watch/listen to or muse about anything. And that’s not productive either.

Letters of Note smorgasbord – orgasbord – orgasbord

So I’m on Twitter (surprise!) which is equal parts frustrating and amazing. It’s given me a ton of opportunities to connect with other writers, bloggers, small presses, etc., and it’s also given me great websites that I adore. One of which is Letters of Note. It’s run by Shaun Usher and according to the website:

Letters of Note is an attempt to gather and sort fascinating letters, postcards, telegrams, faxes, and memos.

And today, this showed up. As a hard-core Charlotte’s Web fan (I still know all the words to Templeton’s song from the movie), I couldn’t resist.

E.B. White (Charlotte's Web, Stuart Little) was born this day in 1899. He was pretty good at declining invitations: http://t.co/2cDR5XQbII—
Shaun Usher (@LettersOfNote) July 11, 2013

Perfect! Smorgasbord – orgasbord – orgasbord

Surprise Lake Camp, ready or not, here I come!

So I’m sitting here making up my weekend supply list. Here’s what’s on it:

books to sell
buttons
fliers
copy to read from (duh!)
origami paper
directions for craft
directions TO camp
sample cyclop’s eye
sharpies
camera
DVDs of Big Bang Theory*
Everything else that I’m currently forgetting

*Those are for Trish the Dish (aka: Mom)

And I’m making this list because this weekend I’m going to Surprise Lake Camp to read from Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb to a bunch of 11 year olds FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER.

Nah, not nervous at all. What made you think that?

See the thing is I’ve never read fiction in public before. I’ve read poems, lots and lots and lots of poems but poems are different. They have a start and an end.

Start with the title.

End with the last period.

Done. A self-contained little nugget of thought and words and feelings.

But fiction starts at the title and keeps going for a long long long time. And I have no idea which part to read. The beginning when our heroine gets snatched and whisked away into her new life as the only living descendant of Shakespeare? The middle when she meets the cast of characters at the Belch Palace? When Marlowe gets pelted with tomatoes by a member of the Society and Noble Order of Bardolaters (aka: SNOBs)?  Or when she battles the Medusa, creating a manticore using Prometheus Ink?

Do you see my dilemma?

Sunday is Parent’s day where I’ll attempt to charm Moms and Dads into buying a copy of my book and Monday is the reading and craft project for the kids.

If you never hear from me again, assume I was devoured by rabid mythology loving 11 year olds.

I want this on my tombstone:

PS. In other news, my buddy Don Wentworth was interviewed. He’s a TREASURE TROVE of awesome and you should read it. You’ll learn something about writing, publishing or living gracefully. Probably all three.