Francesca Forrest's Blog, page 183

Young Man in America

Young Man in America, by Anaïs Mitchell


I knew from Hadestown that Anaïs Mitchell was a woman of equal parts poetry and music, and furthermore that she knew how to reach into a body of myth and come out with the heart, lungs, and liver in her fists. That's what Hadestown was like.

Young Man in America isn't Hadestown. It's its own thing: rangy, raw, demanding:

My mother gave a mighty shout / Opened her legs and let me out …
I come out like a cannonball / Come of age of alcohol
Raven in a field...

the return of the skateboarders

They came back to the church parking lot. I didn't have a camera, so I couldn't film their slalom course from the top of the parking lot to the bottom, but I did go over and tell them how happy I was to see them again and how they had inspired me--to which they replied, "We thought you were coming over to yell at us!"

I knew they thought that. I was afraid they were going to jump into their communal car and drive off when they saw me approaching. But they didn't, and so we got to talk. It was...

some things were extreme today (others less so)

The skateboarding was only mediumly extreme. In fact, not so extreme--but good. Good! The seers looked at me quizzically as I went past.


This beautiful spot was where I turned around:



The story writing! It was extreme. You guys know what it's like: your fists end up clenched and your heart is pounding, because of the stuff that's going on--but only in your head. Oh, and vaguely tangentially related: you can download and listen to Cherokee-language radio podcasts here. There are actually portion...

Post 2 of 2: Someone lives leisurely, they say

The mugwort is in bloom all through the abandoned farm:



But today I come, this year as in years past, for the wild grapes that grow over the abandoned crates of greenhouse glass:



When my bag is full, I bike home through the green countryside, beneath the wide sky and towering clouds. A good day.



And sovay , if you see this. "Dyin Day." Just. Wow. Just wow.
(Everybody, it's from Anais Mitchell's new album, "Young Man in America," which sovay recommended. Powerful stuff.)

Post 1 of 2: farmers market

After getting some work done on the pen pal novel and talking with the new GED teacher at the jail (*such* a nice woman. *such* a good change--but I'm nervous about my new, more empowered volunteering role), I went to the farmer's market.

The farmers market is on the town common, on the other side of the Civil War memorial.





This family are schoolteachers. Two of my children had the woman in the photo for eighth grade (she teaches geography). One of my children had her sister (in the foreground...

A story by skogkatt

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image from http://neverendingsample.info/

What if memory making was like scrapbooking. . . and what if you wanted to alter the very most painful memories? skogkatt 's story "Bone and Ash and Butterflies," up today at Daily Science Fiction, explores that what-if:

"Something I can help you with?" Rena didn't look up when she asked. She'd seen this type before, the shy ones. They wanted coaxing, but too much scared them right off.

A rustle. A clearing of the throat.

"I want to bring my mother back."

R...

Over the edge of the dam

Yesterday, in my continuing search for legal, yet relatively unfrequented, places to practice skateboarding, I went early to the Quabbin Reservoir. The sun had only just risen, and mist was coming up from the lake. It formed an arrested wave, breaking over the edge of the Winsor Dam, poised to spill down the other side.

The water was so reflective of the sky that it was like there was no water there at all. Some orange boom had been placed along a portion of the shoreline, cutting off a tiny c...

sights and stories of August 13

Today I spent time with my father. The road on the way over was filled with clouds and hills.



We talked about electricity and how to make generators and motors. He told me a story of being three years old and sticking a metal hairpin into a socket. It was very early in the morning, and he was wearing fuzzy pajamas with feet. The pajamas were old and the fuzzy part had pilled up. When he stuck the pin into the socket, all the pilled bits of fuzz scorched. He went into his sleeping parents' bed...

hear/here me heart have no bass/base

I took a look at the local skate park this morning. How depressing. It's this little caged-in thing, and several of the ramps are broken.



But I realized, looking at it, that even if it were in perfect shape, I'm not really interested in trick skating; I'm interested in land surfing, in traveling through the landscape on wheels, like this:



I love this YouTube channel ♥

In part it's the great music he picks. That one features "Big City Life," by Mattafix

Still we live our lives
As if all thi...

Super quote from cathshaffer

Writing a book is a process of creating a moving hallucination in another person’s mind.

Isn't that brilliant.

She's got some extremely, extremely sensible words about receiving critiques, too.

Entry here.