Midori Snyder's Blog, page 15

On the Eve of Ash Wednesday: Prayer for Good Humor

My husband and I are preparing for Lent, but we seem to be doing it in a peculiar fashion. After having been on the Keto diet for two months (and losing a combined 40lbs) my husband has discovered the world of keto sweets and non-sugar sweeteners. He ordered quite a few of them and they arrived today -- the day before Lent. Ah boy....  And at the same time, I stumbled across this wonderful prayer from St. Thomas More which seems to describe our intentions this last night before the ashes. 

Prayer For Good Humor, St. Thomas More

Grant me oh Lord, good digestion,
and also something to digest.

Grant me a healthy body, and
the necessary good humor to maintain it.

Grant me a simple soul that knows
to treasure all that is good
and that doesn���t frighten easily at the sight of evil,
but rather finds the means to put things
back in their place.

Give me a soul that knows not boredom,
grumbles, sighs, and laments,
nor excess of stress, because of that
obstructing thing called ���I.���

Grant me O Lord, a good sense of humor,
Allow me the grace to be able to take a joke
to discover in life a bit of joy,
and to be able to share it with others.

Amen

Saint Thomas More.

A Return to Zizola and Giano

And brief excerpt from The Prologue of As Yet Un-Named Book Two: The Continuing Adventures of Zizola and her Servant Giano, the Terrible Tales and Fortunes of Fleeing Brides, The Curse of Animal Husbands, and A Dead Mother In Law Who Won't Let Go. 

 

It was easy enough to find the old trickster, Zizola thought as she approached the grove of laurel and myrtle trees that presided over a shade-filled glen carpeted in long sweet grass and wild flowers. Tiger-capped lilies and spider-wort shivered at the tussle of bodies half hidden where they lay at the base of the blooming stalks. Zizola could hear him and his consort of nymphs well before she could see him.

���Giano!��� she called, as she waded through the tall grass, brushing the low branches out of her face. ���Giano, you dowager���s hound, get your hump up. I���ve come to talk to you.���

A pink-faced nymph sat up, the tall grass barely concealing the generous flesh of her full breasts. She pouted, giving Zizola an annoyed expression, and then her eyes rolled up in delighted rapture. Something beneath her bounced her up and down with vigor, shaking the honeyed hair loose from its pins.

Zizola slowed, and then stopped altogether as the nymph arched her back and shrieked happily. Giano answered her, somewhere hidden in the grass, his body covered by the fleshy thighs of the nymph above him. He growled, then grunted, then barked out lusty names, ���my fat fruit, my honey roll, my melting gorgonzola.��� Zizola shrugged, annoyed at having to wait for the old letch to finish, but she knew enough of his habits to know that when he started confusing his paramours with food he was nearly done. Sex made him hungry, and she was certain that his climaxes were caused as much by a fierce desire for food as from the generous flesh of the woman riding his ever-ready asparagus.

���Dai, dai, hurry it along,��� Zizola shouted impatiently. ���I haven���t got all day.���

���I do,��� moaned the nymph, and licked her lips.

���Pasta con fungi, mounds of ricotta with honey and raisins, Ferrera lasgna with veal and cinnamon,��� Zizola taunted and heard Giano���s moans. She spoke faster, ���Ragu, risotto with pidegon peas, ucellini in brown sauce������

Giano growled, the nymph squealed and then pitched forward, only the rhythmic rise and fall of her spine visible above the curtain of tall grass. Their heavy panting ruffled the shivering lilies.

���Bene,��� Zizola snorted, waiting with arms crossed until the nymph rolled over and disappeared beneath the veil of green.

Giano sat up, leaves and crushed flowers entwined in the tangle of graying hair. His skin beneath a scraggly beard was ruddy and chaffed. He yawned, and gave Zizola a sly, sleepy smile.

���Carina,��� he said, scratching his scrawny chest, and the dark eyes looked at her with mock disappointment. ���To hurry a man along in his labors in such an edible fashion��� really���.it isn���t fair. You know my weakness,��� he complained. ���If only I knew yours���I could return the favor.���

Zizola bit her thumb and shook it at him. ���Get up old man.���

He grinned and stood, the tips of the grass and the belling flowers barely covering his naked flanks...

 

Art Credit: Alexey Kondakov. Check out more of his wonderful combinations of Renaissance Art and the Modern landscape. 

Dream Writing a Novel into Existence

Sometimes it is so much easier dreaming a book than of course sitting down to a keyboard where the gossamer spell of an entire story shatters with clicks and spaces into a text. I can feel a whole book before I can speak it.  Trust, perhaps? But then there is this waiting for the details to become clear, and the hesitant steps into the voice, the energy, and the love that must proceed the unraveling dream before the knitted text. 

Circumstances help a lot to nudge one from dreaming to waking and doing. I just received a reversion of rights letter from Tor books for my novel, The Innamorati.  And at the same time a query from Tor: after 20 years of not turning in the second book on the contract, would I like to pay back the 12k advance for the second book to nullify the whole contract? I would not. So, here I am after twenty years of procrastinating replying I will send you the finished manuscript October, 1, 2019.  (The working title is "The Ungrateful Brides" because I suspect they will be arguing with me through the entire process.)

And that's the moment the story suddenly turns on its engines and starts shouting at me -- all day long, I might add, drowning out any other thought of creative work but on this story. And after such a long dry season, it is both thrilling and intimidating. It will share with The Innamorati a setting in 16th century Italy,  from the north in Tuscany, to the south in Sicily and Sardinia. Multiple stories, lovers, enemies, fantastic journeys, magic and yes, always the beloved Commedia to comment on everything, to spice the scenes with their masks and their theater, their poetry and obscenities. 

 

Comments From the Dream World

I woke from an early (really early!) morning dream where Max Fleischer-style cats on a fence were singing "I woke up too early too late." I can't decide if it was meant for my untimely rising, a description of my whole life, or the character I am writing in a new novel. All three sort of fit.

A New Year, My Birthday, and the Solemnity of Mary

"Hail, heavenly ladder by which God came down; hail, bridge leading from earth to heaven." Agathistos Hymn, Greek --6th century.

It is something of a challenge to be born on a day so charged with potential and even more so to me, who was the first baby of that year in my city when I was born. There is a forward surging, everyone leaning into New Year's promises, open to the possibilities of new successes and new joys. And it is in the Catholic church, a holy day of obligation, celebrating the Solemnity of Mary, her life one long and never ending New Year's promise to reconnect humanity with the divine.

This day offers me a moment to contemplate the example of Mary's life, rich in grace, compassion, and fertility. It's also an opportunity to think about how in the coming year I shall shape my own actions, be productive in my work, and open to those graces that enrich my life through family and friends. Not resolutions exactly, but a commitment to be fully present and thankful every day.

Art: Late 15th century (1485-1488) Italy Madonna and child  with Joseph, Elizabeth, and John the Baptist by Andrea Mantegna.

Emerging Talent: Lindsey Olivares

 

I particularly enjoy discovering and then rediscovering artists at the beginning of their careers and later in the fullness of their profession. For example this early short animated film, "Anchored" from the incredibly talented Lindsey Olivares. It was her senior thesis animation at Ringling College of Art and Design.

Stop by her website,to see more of her wonderful art and film work. 

Taiko Haessler: Costa Rican Duendes and Folklore

Many years ago now, my daughter took herself to Costa Rica as a teenager to immerse herself in a Spanish speaking country to learn the language and a place of great beauty -- mountains and ocean. She found it in a small seaside town called Tamarindo (which since those years has become a favorite tourist destination, though back then it was surf shops, local dances halls and miles of white surf. I was writing for an online journal of mythic arts at the time and prevailed upon her to write an article on her experience with Costa Rican popular culture and folklore. She sent us back "When My Hair Was Woven With Duendes," and what a wonderful article it is on the duendes of the rain forest and encounters with magical and sometimes dangerous creatures.

 

"...For weeks I asked Lysia to bring me any storybooks she might have on Costa Rican folklore, mythology, or duendes (faeries). Then, on my last day at the school, she took me aside and quietly suggested that I speak with her after class. Thrilled, I assumed that she had brought a book to loan to me ��� but what Lysia had in store was not a book. Instead, it was a personal story of her encounter with a creature called La Segua. Sitting in the cool shade of the rancho, the midday sun glistening off the restless sea and white sands, Lysia recalled for me her frightening encounter with Costa Rica's other world..."  Read the article.

 

Sawhill Ponds and Knitting with Dinosaurs and Dragons

This last weekend was full of favorite activities. Knitting a new pair of socks while my granddaughter staged an elaborate drama on the kitchen table between dinosaurs, dragons, and Godzilla. I am in awe of her knowledge of dinosaurs and love it when she proclaims herself a T-Rex, stomping for emphasis. 

And then a Sunday hike through Sawhill Ponds, a wonderful bird sanctuary. In this approaching winter season everything is muted or going to seed. The cattails burst with brown fuzz and the milkweed pods are exploding with cream-colored down filled with seeds. My granddaughter stuffed my pockets with some of the down, with the purpose of making fairy beds later. And we tossed more of it up to the wind, to watch them lift into the air and scatter over the ponds. 

I Don't Want to Lose My Spot in the Band.

Over a long past Christmas as our family gathered at meals, it was discovered that we all love bluegrass and that between us, there were enough musicians to start a band, which included: two guitars, bass, banjo, fiddle, and last and apparently least, me on mandolin. There was a great deal of merriment at my expense for of the group I had not been playing nearly as much as I should. (well...there was that whole shop, clean, cook meals, do laundry, listen to outpourings of "my life,"  and write novels which did occupy a lot of my time.) I had to endure (with good humor) tongue and cheek comments about being potentially tossed from the band for my lack of initiative.

For reasons I don't understand, my twelve years in Arizona really was a long dry haul across the desert. I simply stopped doing the things I loved most. Since moving to Boulder CO, nestled up high in the mountains, I have returned to so many activities that I put aside. Perhaps I needed seasons to push me along, perhaps the cool mountain air and the change of light was enough to rekindle so many past pleasures. Now, I write more, I sing more, I hike more, my loom always has a warp, and my knitting needles a work in progress. And I have retrieved my mandolin from its case and begun toughening my fingers. So many tunes are returning and what a joy it is. The mandolin like me, suffered a bit from the arid life in Tucson -- a crack has appeared on its face and I go now to a local luthier to see what can be done to repair it. 

 

 

Botte Piccola Fa Vino Buono

A lovely Italian phrase which translates as " A small cask makes good wine"  an Italian compliment to a short person.  To which I reply stretching to my full height of 5' 2", Grazie! 

(Art: Philippe Mercier 1689 -- 1760)