K.A. Laity's Blog, page 155

At last, Mr Hitchcock

Last night Peg and I headed off in the direction of MassMoCA to catch Robyn Hitchcock and Joe Boyd perform their show Chinese White Bicycles , which links together readings from Boyd's memoir in the music business in the 60s and Hitchcock's performance of the songs from the artists including Dylan, the Incredible String Band, the Move, Fairport Convention and yes, Syd Barrett. Many of you know how much I adore Mr Hitchcock, but I've never had a chance to see him live because he always seems to be touring here when I'm in another country, and touring elsewhere when I come back. So squees a-plenty when I got tickets for this.



We stopped off at the Man of Kent pub for lunch then, on a whim, stopped at the Clark Art Institute where I have never managed to go. We caught the final day of the Dürer exhibit, which was delightful, then explored the rest of the museum which ended up having unexpected delights like Bouguereau's Nymphs and Satyr, Turner's Rockets and Blue Lights (Close at Hand) to Warn Steamboats of Shoal Water, and Monets, Degas and Singer Sargent, including his Fumée d'Ambre Gris.



By the time we got to MassMoCA, the exhibits had closed (I was hoping they'd keep them open a bit later because of the concert), so we wandered around the rolled up sidewalks of North Adams and then tried out the new rib place (good!) before wandering back and taking up our seats. It was not a sold out show, which amazed me, but what do I know.



I know I was grinning like an idiot when they came out, Hitchcock in purple trousers and his purple glasses and one of those wild shirts. From the start, Boyd's low-key delivery of pivotal moments from White Bicycles where his person history and rock history collided (meeting Dylan at breakfast with a young woman he'd hoped to bed) meshed well with Hitchcock's music, "setting the scene" as he said because like jelly it had to be. Boyd deflated some long-repeated mythologies -- he was there when Dylan went electric and no, Peter Seeger did not have an axe -- and Hitchcock infused familiar songs with renewed meaning. I haven't heard "Masters of War" in so long; it's easy to forget just how powerful it is. "Mr Tambourine Man" was magic and The Move's "I Can Hear the Grass Grow" a delight.  In between typical Hitchcock banter both with the audience and with Boyd: "Interesting is a word with a lot of "i"s in it... okay, it starts off with two, but the more you look at it, it grows extras..."



Boyd had a lot of interesting behind-the-scenes stories, connecting the reborn Fairport Convention to their reawakening at The Band's Music from Big Pink, then relating how the guys from Los Lobos said they would have remained a bad heavy metal band had they not listened to Fairport and turned to their own folk music for inspiration. I don't know the Incredible String Band that well, but I loved Hitchcock's rendition of "Chinese White" and laughed at Boyd's story about how leaving the band alone in New York for three days while he flew out for business in LA ended up leading to their joining Scientology (and perhaps consequently derailing their career).



Boyd had been the owner of the influential UFO club, that really gave the big boost to the then unknown Pink Floyd. If you only know the post-Syd Floyd (as most people seem to do) you're missing out. The genius that was Syd Barrett! Boyd read his encomium to Barrett which appeared in the program for a tribute concert the two worked on. It brought tears to many eyes, including Hitchcock's and then he performed "Bike" which is a just about perfect song, and delighted everyone.



They signed copies of the book afterward, so I actually got extra squee. Joe Boyd liked my Ganesh scarf and I asked Robyn to sign my Moleskine, so now I can take a little inspiration with me everywhere. Happy sigh. Looking forward to reading the book, too!

Bella Roma

In the nineteenth century, wealthy Americans went on "The Grand Tour" of Europe, visiting famous historical and artistic sites and hoping to run into other wealthy Americans whom they might marry or titled aristocrats if they wanted a little more social cachet. Now we Americans run off for our ever-so-brief holidays and hope for nothing more than keepsakes. My eyes were the chief repository of keepsakes: the glory of Rome fills your vision and the colors of that golden afternoon light live in memory. The extraordinary blue of the sky, the yellows and oranges -- breathtaking!



The flight over from Philadelphia was not only sold out, but there was a large contingency from a Baptist college, including one ebullient young woman right behind me who could not be more excited about going to Italy. Fortunately I had earplugs so I could get some sleep -- once the grumpiest man in Italy changed seats with his wife so his very loud music didn't resound quite so harshly. Most folks tried to get some shut-eye on the flight, but some of the Baptists were too excited to sleep and kept up a steady stream of chatter, that I only heard when waking occasionally. I got enough sleep that while I was groggy on the first day, I was fine by the second. I bet the Baptists were dragging, however.



How wonderful to land in a country for the first time and be greeted by friends :-) Alessandra and her son Edoardo met me outside customs and whisked me away to their lovely home. After a little refreshing, we headed out to the Baths of Caracalla, that gathering place of old Rome where Keats and Shelly found inspiration. You can see where the pools stretched out, hot and cold, gymnasium and more. Some of the mosaics remain, though most of the statues had been taken away to museums or homes long ago. It's a beautiful spot and like so many landmarks of the ancient world, nestling right in the heart of the busy city. In Rome the ancient and the modern live comfortably side by side. NB: Alessandra and Edo took these pictures. I find that the camera I borrowed from Catherine does not speak to Macs, so once I get that sorted out, I will post mine.



Not too far away lies the Protestant Cemetery, final resting place of both Keats and Shelley as well as other notables and home to many cats! There are cats all over the place in Rome, especially at burial grounds it seems. More on the cats later. We stopped by Shelley's grave which is also by Gregory Corso's and Shelley's friend Trelawney's. Nearby is the famous Angel of Grief. I suppose Edo and I look a little too happy here, but we were having fun despite the light rain. The beautiful spring flowers  brought color to the greenery, especially the lovely violets on Keats grave. The cats peeked through the gravestones everywhere and the amazing pyramid overlooked the scene. It's quite a sight to see.



For a more unusual sight, we headed over to the Centrale Montemartini museum. Here's the thing: when you travel, be guided by one who knows. Alessandra seems to know everything about her beloved city, and can turn any corner and have something interesting to show you. I never got over my amazement at her encyclopedic knowledge! I usually have a good sense of direction, but Rome is such a sprawling organic tangle that I found it impossible to keep oriented, but delights permeate the city. One of them is this fantastic power station that's been turned into a museum. At first it seems incongruous to see classical statues from gardens and temples ranged in front of turbines. But these are the engines of our lives, both the practical and the creative. Here's me with the Muse Polyhymnia, trying to look thoughtful and inspired. Not too difficult! This trip has replenished my muses for sure!



Videos to come soon...

Re-Entry: A Challenge

Hundreds of emails and more to wade through: bear with me and for the moment, enjoy this lovely photo Alessandra took of me at the top of the Spanish steps with my "Bright Star" badge from the Keats house and Rome behind me. Pictures, videos and more to come!

Ciao, Bella!

Yes, I am off to Rome today assuming all goes well. I have my boarding passes printed and surely I will be all packed and ready (!). I am not taking a computer with me (gasp!) except for Ianto the iTouch (mostly so I have music on the flight). So, I'm not sure how much I will be online. So I'm going to put the Twitter feed here as that's an easy way to check in and if I can, you will see what I am up to. I'm returning late on the 9th and I'm sure I will have much to share upon my return. Arrivederci, America!

Text as Art

Get a peek at the exhibit via the magic of video: choose your video outlet. We had a great time and it was fascinating to hear the genesis of the (all very different) projects. If you're in the neighborhood, drop by the Arts Center and check it out.



Text as Art from Kate Laity on Vimeo.









Phew -- so much to do today! Somehow it will all get done, somehow it will all get done, somehow...

Scarry Night: Miss Lonely Heart

This is a flash piece for a challenge put up by the ever resourceful Patti Abbot: for the rest of the entries pop on over to her blog. The link was the line "I really don't mind the scars."



She seemed so small at the big table, a drink with the palest hint of green beaded with sweat next to the flickering candle. His heart swelled. He knew he wouldn't tell her—at least not that night—that the emotion flooding his ventricles was protectiveness. She was so self-sufficient, what with her little candy shop and her scrupulously kept accounts.



He had seen them—and her—when he first figured out the clues. Her username ("candyheart") and her avatar (the gift-wrapped 1lb dark chocolate truffle box) added to her "self-employed" designation and a few casually dropped references to the chocolate trade. You didn't have to be Sam Spade to connect the dots.



"Tabitha?" He added the question mark to his voice in order to play the part of the uncertain swain.



She smiled. "It's you." Her hand thrust out awkwardly and he enclosed it in his large paw, feeling a surge of satisfaction that felt so primal, so right. It took all his strength not to enfold her in his arms at once. Calm down, you've got a lifetime.



The drink, she explained, was zubrowka, a kind of Polish vodka with some sort of grass in it. Normally he'd find such a thing unhygienic, but because it was her drink, he got one, too. The cold bite of that first sip sealed the night for him. He didn't usually drink but there was something so clean about the taste, he knew it was a sign.



Talk came easily, just as it had online. Over the flank steak Tabitha confessed, "I still think of you in my head as Number 7." The pink blush on her cheeks did something to his insides. They churned like hot taffy.



"It's not actually Number 7. It's Double O seven," he corrected her. "It's from a movie—actually a series of movies." The vodka made him feel expansive, he forgave her misunderstanding easily.



Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "When you said it out loud, I remembered at once. James Band!"



"Bond."



She smiled. "That's the one!"



The bloody red of the steak as she popped it in her mouth increased the warmth he felt from her nearness and the drink and the night. "I have something to show you," he said feeling the heat a little too much on his brow.



"I know," she said, smiling yet, though her eyes grew serious.



He looked over his shoulder to assure himself no one else in the room was paying them any attention, then began to unbutton his shirt. For a moment, he hesitated, then pulled back the crisp linen to reveal the long welts across his chest.



Tabitha reached up her tiny hand to touch his skin. It was electric. He thought her tiny nails, varnished an innocent pink, somehow made the slender fingers even more delicately beautiful.



"I don't mind the scars," she murmured, turning her bright eyes back to her plate, a crimson flush rising up the back of her neck—visible even in the dim light of the restaurant. It foretold a sensuous nature.



"May I walk you home," he asked, his voice catching slightly as he slipped the raincoat over her small shoulders.



"Of course." Her bright eyes promised so much. Surely the path to her home would have some quiet corner where he could test that promise and take that little girl into his arms. When they crossed Pine at the corner and she pointed off toward Yates, he knew the right place.



"Can we step in here a moment?" He gestured to narrow behind the Chinese restaurant. His heart leapt into his throat. "I-I wanted to kiss you. I didn't know how to ask."



"Shhh," she said and took him by the hand. They walked into the passage and she turned her bright eyes up to him.



"You're so lovely, Tabitha." He rested his big hands on her shoulders. "So very lovely."



"And you're so delicious, Number 7," she said with a smile, her white teeth glinting in the dark.



"Double O seven," he chuckled.



"No, Number 7," she corrected him as her mouth dropped open and she sunk her teeth into his chest, tearing away a gaping hole in the flesh as he clanged back against the rubbish bin. Her grin transfixed him as she wiped the blood across her face and it dripped onto the raincoat. Quick as a lightning bolt she struck again, cracking ribs and growling. Then he saw it was his heart in her teeth, blood still furiously pumping out of it in all directions.



"I love you, Tabitha."



She popped the heart out her mouth with one tiny hand, bouncing it up and down as if weighing it. "I know, dear, I know."

Text as Art Tonight

The opening of the Text as Art gallery show with my piece "The Square Root of I is I" will be tonight at the Arts Center at 7pm. I will likely read from "Wixey," the story that initially inspired the project (unless I change my mind).



Add to the long list of things I will not be doing: spending next year in Galway, seeing Alan Moore's Dodgem Logic show at the London Word Festival, seeing Derek Jacobi in King Lear. Sob! On the other hand, I leave for Rome on Wednesday, so that will cheer me. But I am bitterly disappointed about Ireland. It was a terrific position and a really interesting group of scholars. Plus I badly need a break, but there's another year before I can even apply for a sabbatical. If you see any interesting fellowships that would spring me for a few weeks or a semester, be sure to pass them along.



Worse, the envelope was put in the wrong mailbox. I noticed the logo in the corner and took a peek: after all, it was entirely possible someone else was also applying for a Fulbright. But no, it was for me and as soon as I saw that it was, I knew the envelope meant bad news. Ah, well. A blow, but it could be worse, eh? At least I've still got my head. So, start humming along, "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again."

Friday's Forgotten Books: Beowulf

I was thinking, "oh dear, I haven't had any time at all to read lately and there's nothing I've gotten far enough into [i.e. the Avram Davidson books, thanks Todd :-)] to write up" and then it hit me: Beowulf.



Forgotten, you say with the questioning look in your eye. Don't you teach it every semester? Don't high schools still require it as reading? My argument here -- and what I face every semester -- is that Beowulf is the most misread book I think there is. Okay, the bible probably tops it. Second most misread book, then.



If you Google Beowulf in search of an image of it you'll come up mostly with pictures from the Zemeckis' film, which I have already mentioned is utter pants. What that tells us is that most people when looking for something called "Beowulf" are looking for a crap film full of modern "twists" on the tale, cynicism about heroics and gross misunderstandings of the poem. Apparently the writers read the Heaney-Wulf, not the original. Heaney is a great poet, but his poem is not Beowulf.



Sadly, for many years I was one of those folks who dreaded the book. I took to heart Woody Allen's character's advice to Diane Keaton's Annie Hall on going back to college, "Just don't take any class where they make you read Beowulf!" I was all too willing to believe that it was something for laying down and avoiding.



Then my Swedish teacher at Harvard (where I was assiduously making use of my employee benefits, something a minuscule percentage of employees do) suggested I take the course "The Heroic Tradition in Northern Europe" with Stephen Mitchell. That course was the one-two punch that changed my life and made me a medievalist. We read Beowulf, Njal's Saga and The Völsunga Saga and my head exploded (in the good way). My first reaction was fury -- why did people keep me away from Beowulf  all these years?! It was amazing! And why did no one tell me that books like the Icelandic sagas existed? They belong up there with Shakespeare and Austen. Flabbergasted, genuinely so. I am forever grateful to Mitchell (and have had the chance to tell him so :-).



Yet there's something to be said for being prepared to read Beowulf. Most of my students who "read" the book in high school seem to have had it taught by someone who hated it as much as they end up doing. I like to think I rescue a few of them from the errors of their ways. The key is understanding the culture from which it arises: a Christian culture that nonetheless not only looks back at a heroic past, but embraces much of it while trying to convince themselves it can jibe with orthodoxy.



The Anglo-Saxons, after all, had to imagine that Christ climbed up on the cross, because they had to see that hero acting the way they expected their leaders to act. The poem is written down in a time when the tensions between the English (descendants of the Angle, Saxon and Jute Germanic tribes who invaded the Celtic Britons after the Romans left) and the Viking kings who had ruled parts of the country off and on for some time.



Consider how odd it is to have a poem written in English and copied down by monks at a time when a Danish king might be ruling England -- a poem that valorizes the ancient pagan past of Danes and Geats and Swedes and Frisians.  I could go on and on (and do, regularly) but consider also, its narrative voice, which is consistently Christian and yet admiring of these often brutal kings of the past. The opening lines which set up the poem tell us Scyld Scefing, who intimidates his enemies and steals their wealth, is "a good king." This isn't modern American Christianity, which the medieval world would mostly find appalling and wrong-headed, it's their own brand of heroicism, largely situated in the stories of the old testament, not the new.



It's a story about heroes and monsters, first and foremost. Like all good stories, however, it touches on many themes: the mysteriousness of the vast world, the difficulties of ruling, the pride of the warrior, the use of public performance (we don't hear anyone's thoughts, everyone is conscious of speaking before a crowd), the treacherousness that can grow in those closest to your heart and the brutality of life. While Anglo-Saxon poetry concerns itself seldom with women or romantic love, the two central women, Wealtheow and Grendel's unnamed mother, show the respect that women held in the Anglo-Saxon world. Wealtheow's wise words, when her husband goes overboard thanking the champion, seem to echo in Beowulf's mind years later when the people urge him to take the crown, but he defers to his king's young son as tradition dictates. The Danish queen would be proud.



I urge you to learn Anglo-Saxon and read it in the original: there's no comparison. Translation, however, is going to be the way most people encounter it. So I recommend these two as the best: Liuzza's as the most accurate, Crossley-Holland's as the most engaging with nonetheless good accuracy.

BitchBuzz: The Value of Telling Your Own Story

Oh my! A week from today I will be in ROME with the lovely Alessandra! I can hardly believe it and so must redouble my efforts to make sure everything that needs to be done is done. Deep breath. I can do it! Yes, yes. But I'm so excited :-) and yes, doubtless I will have one of my many travel journals with me to record everything. Well, not everything -- that's never possible. However, I agree with Socrates about that unexamined life thing. I tend to write in my journal in the morning when I first wake up, sometimes capturing a dream before it fades. I find it an extraordinary gift to be able to see parts of my past in such vivid detail in my old journals. It's never too late to start up!

The Value of Telling Your Own StoryBy K.A. Laity

Even if no one else every reads them, there's value in recording our own histories.



In one of those zeitgeist ripples, BBC Radio 4 was completing the second series of its programme  My Teenage Diary  when the Morgan Library and Museum opened its exhibition,  The Diary: Three Centuries of Private Life . While we tend to focus on the journal writing of famous people—hoping they unveil juicy secrets or heretofore unknown connections between the public and private spheres—the fact is diary writing remains a great resource for anyone. Inappropriate thoughts, fears, fantasies, hopes, goals can all fill the pages of the diary without repercussion. It's like a best friend but without the dubious advice and possibility of gossip.



As the curator for the Morgan writes,

For centuries, people have turned to private journals to document their days, sort out creative problems, help them through crises, comfort them in solitude or pain, or preserve their stories for the future. As more and more diarists turn away from the traditional notebook and seek a broader audience through web journals, blogs, and social media, this exhibition explores how and why we document our everyday lives.

The advantage of being able to manage the divide between public and private in our revelations has only increased the use of online blogs and journals. The tension between the privacy locks you can put on your LiveJournal and the brash confidence of letting your thinking evolve aloud in the public forum of a blog has changed many of the ways we divide public and private space...

Read the rest: http://culture.bitchbuzz.com/the-value-of-telling-your-own-story.html#ixzz1EtHm3gtk

Jane Quiet in Egypt

Wow, Elena is really drawing some lovely panels. The digital colors look so vivid and striking! And hey, what do you think all those cats are doing around the temple...? ;-)



See all the new panels in Jane's Egyptian adventure at the webjam.