Midori Snyder's Blog, page 2

My Father Emile Snyder In the War

 

 

Ok..so here are two more photos of my father Emile with his cousins on leave after the liberation of Paris (a follow up to the post below). I am almost certain the man is his cousin Yves Jouffa and the woman Yves sister Roselyne-- but I am waiting for the family in France to confirm this. I find these old photographs so endearing, their faces so open and vulnerable to the camera. They want to remember themselves like this, happy to be alive, to be reunited again after such horrible times. It is odd for me as my father's child to find myself now so much older and relating to these photos of him the age of my children now with a nostalgic affection and amusement. I feel protective of that younger Emile -- and charmed by those oh so expressive eyebrows of his and that boyish smile (never-mind the pipe!).

Emile on Leave

What Has Blogging Become in the Age of a "Like Button?

I have been blogging at this location for the last fifteen years and it is with pleasure that I continue to so -- but perhaps with a much changed mission. When authors I know first started blogging, it was a way of communicating with people. I look back at the posts from five -six years ago, and I am surprised to see how many comments there are, sometimes a rich on-going discussion inspired by something in my post, or sometimes an exchange of very useful information. But such community is rare now on a blog. We have switched our allegiance to Facebook, where an announcement of a post does not actually mean someone will follow the link and read it, but they will express approval for the general idea by clicking the "like" button. And then we move even farther out, to a mere 280 characters in a tweet, to announce our blog post and receive a few "hearts" and maybe a re-tweet -- but still rare responses on the blog itself. Those kinds of conversations are pretty much over. And when I went down my list of bloggers, I was surprised to discover how many had packed it in for the nimble, quick-release variants of Facebook and twitter. And then there is Instagram, where the totality of an idea must be summed up in perfectly constructed images and hashtags.

Don't get me wrong -- I am not really complaining, just observing the transition and what it means for dinosaurs like me who still love to blog, even if it is for an audience of one. When I started blogging, I did so for the Journal of Mythic Arts and the Endicott Studio. We wanted to be a resource of myth, art, and folklore goodness. We wanted to share the wonderful work done by so many talented people. So the posts were always aimed outward. When we archived JoMA and the Endicott Studio, blogging finally shifted to the personal. I set up my own blog, In the Labyrinth in 2007 and wondered where it might take me.

What I discovered was a profound shift -- from promoting others to promoting myself and my work -- and it took a while to figure that out. How much personal information to share, family photos, events, favorite meals -- all the early posts that now seem so much better suited for Facebook. And somewhere along the way, I also wanted to review books I loved, write short critical essays on literary culture, folklore, my own writing, and what inspired me. I am pretty eclectic, I know that -- a magpie who is happy to post on the intellectual roots of Garcia Lorca's "Duende" to theatrical work with trance-inducing masks, to Medieval bad-boys who wrote pornographic poetry, deconstructing a brilliant sentence by Joseph Conrad, Balzac's treaties on Coffee drinking (which bordered on the hallucinogenic), Russian artists, Medieval Manuscripts and Irish poets, and The Voynich Manuscript. I do try and promote my work by sharing my research notes and excerpts, my struggles sometimes with getting a story right, and the ever important announcement of a completed new work.

I understand that I am writing a journal, and that actually pleases me. I am less concerned with how far a post of mine travels, but rather that I can call up the evolution of my ideas over time -- a long time -- and revisit past ideas. A body of my own thought. But...in the interest of not feeling quite so lonely, I go every day now to other people's blogs that I find interesting and I make a point of responding to the post, to asking questions, sharing my own thoughts on the subject where appropriate. And I am planning once a week to share  the best of the blog posts for the week that I found, and encourage you if interested to visit them and respond.

Art credits: The inestimable Edward Hopper.

What Has Blogging Become in the Age of a "Like Button" and Messaging in 280 Characters or Less?

I have been blogging at this location for the last fifteen years and it is with pleasure that I continue to so -- but perhaps with a much changed mission. When authors I know first started blogging, it was a way of communicating with people. I look back at the posts from five -six years ago, and I am surprised to see how many comments there are, sometimes a rich on-going discussion inspired by something in my post, or sometimes an exchange of very useful information. But such community is rare now on a blog. We have switched our allegiance to Facebook, where an announcement of a post does not actually mean someone will follow the link and read it, but they will express approval for the general idea by clicking the "like" button. And then we move even farther out, to a mere 280 characters in a tweet, to announce our blog post and receive a few "hearts" and maybe a re-tweet -- but still rare responses on the blog itself. Those kinds of conversations are pretty much over. And when I went down my list of bloggers, I was surprised to discover how many had packed it in for the nimble, quick-release variants of Facebook and twitter. And then there is Instagram, where the totality of an idea must be summed up in perfectly constructed images and hashtags.

Don't get me wrong -- I am not really complaining, just observing the transition and what it means for dinosaurs like me who still love to blog, even if it is for an audience of one. When I started blogging, I did so for the Journal of Mythic Arts and the Endicott Studio. We wanted to be a resource of myth, art, and folklore goodness. We wanted to share the wonderful work done by so many talented people. So the posts were always aimed outward. When we archived JoMA and the Endicott Studio, blogging finally shifted to the personal. I set up my own blog, In the Labyrinth in 2007 and wondered where it might take me.

What I discovered was a profound shift -- from promoting others to promoting myself and my work -- and it took a while to figure that out. How much personal information to share, family photos, events, favorite meals -- all the early posts that now seem so much better suited for Facebook. And somewhere along the way, I also wanted to review books I loved, write short critical essays on literary culture, folklore, my own writing, and what inspired me. I am pretty eclectic, I know that -- a magpie who is happy to post on the intellectual roots of Garcia Lorca's "Duende" to theatrical work with trance-inducing masks, to Medieval bad-boys who wrote pornographic poetry, deconstructing a brilliant sentence by Joseph Conrad, Balzac's treaties on Coffee drinking (which bordered on the hallucinogenic), Russian artists, Medieval Manuscripts and Irish poets, and The Voynich Manuscript. I do try and promote my work by sharing my research notes and excerpts, my struggles sometimes with getting a story right, and the ever important announcement of a completed new work.

I understand that I am writing a journal, and that actually pleases me. I am less concerned with how far a post of mine travels, but rather that I can call up the evolution of my ideas over time -- a long time -- and revisit past ideas. A body of my own thought. But...in the interest of not feeling quite so lonely, I go every day now to other people's blogs that I find interesting and I make a point of responding to the post, to asking questions, sharing my own thoughts on the subject where appropriate. And I am planning once a week to share  the best of the blog posts for the week that I found, and encourage you if interested to visit them and respond.

Art credits: The inestimable Edward Hopper.

From the Archives: David Foster Wallace on Art, Writing, Life and Work

Years ago, I posted in the wake of his suicide, quotes from a commencement speech he gave at Kenyon College in 2005. And they are as timely today as they were then. 

"Because here's something else that's true. In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of God or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things -- if they are where you tap real meaning in life -- then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you. On one level, we all know this stuff already -- it's been codified as myths, proverbs, clich��s, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The trick is keeping the truth up-front in daily consciousness. Worship power -- you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart -- you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. And so on....

...Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom."

Another Year, Another Birthday

 

I am very grateful this New Year as my mother has survived the last two weeks, which included a harrowing medical-emergency flight from Canada in a small air ambulance in those snow storms that shut down the Midwest, a week of tests, bad news, more bad news, then not so bad news, then finally, last night, six and half hours of surgery. Her prognosis is much better now -- yes, weeks of recovery and then perhaps more corrective surgery down the road, but wow, she is still here. I can not thank the surgeons and nurses, and especially her attending physician nearly enough for all their hard work, patience, and care. And my children who pitched hit long nights at the hospital with her, her husband Enver and my brother and his wife who co-ordinated everything and kept me updated constantly. I will be heading north soon to help her with the recovery and am so looking forward to the task.

I have posted this photo of us because today is also my birthday (I was the first baby of the New Year in Santa Monica that year) and this picture was taken by a newspaper reporter a couple hours after my arrival. I also think it was the last time before this that my mother actually spent any time in a hospital.

Happy New Year everyone!

Looking Back on Kilimanjaro

Kilimanjaro Rainforest, 1967

Just today, I received a Facebook message from an old friend, Mary, who was living in Tanzania when I was 13-14 years old -- and she recalled when we climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro in 1967. At 13 years old, I was the youngest of the troop, composed of students from the Economics department, my father (who was teaching Contemporary African Literature), and Mary and her younger brother. My father made it to the first hut, at about 8,000ft. And decided that he would wait for me. I continued with the group, but when we reached what was to be the final ascent to the summit, everyone in my party -- except me--was too sick from the altitude (one travels from 2,000ft to 16,300ft in three days). Due to my age, the guide did not want to take me alone -- so close, but no go. I returned with everyone else, very disappointed.

 

Kilimanjaro Rainforest, 1967

Then a year later, in 1968, I had a second chance. Everyone was young and eager for this trip -- including my older brother Gil who had just arrived from the States; the Hill sisters, Pru and Deb (who climbed in waterproofed hightops); Mary and her older brother Andre; and the Martin brothers. This time was more successful; five of us reached the snowy, icy summit at 19,300 ft. So this time -- in honor of that trip -- I dug back to the small collection of photos I have -- most of them taken with a tiny disposable camera!

 

 Leaving the hotel, we hiked for about 6 hours through farmland, a three-mile band of rain-forest that was wet and misty, like being in cold, green clouds, and then rocky hills of running streams and short, scrubby trees -- until at last, we popped out above the clouds here, having arrived at Mandara Hut: the first campsite at 8,990ft. 

 

My father Emile, enjoying the rest and the camp as the clouds rolled in below. He was happy enough with having accomplished this much of the trip. I wonder now, if he was hoping that I would back out as he did have to hang out here for two more days while I wandered up to the last hut on the first trip. 

 Leaving Mandara Hut, the sky became more expansive, bluer, and free of clouds as the path opened into a beautiful alpine stretch. As we continued to climb, the alpine fields gave way to steep rocky terrain, much drier, the course now inundated with big clumps of long grass, low clinging plants, and massive bluffs colored with black and white zebra stripes. We also got our first views of Mawenzi Peak -- a rugged, craggy peak at the base of Kilimanjaro's volcanic plain and the snow-covered top of Kilimanjaro, high above. We arrived in the late afternoon -- footsore and starving at the second campsite, Horombo Hut at 12,400 ft.

 

Kilimanjaro Snow Capped Peak.

The third day of climbing took us through a vast high-altitude desert -- without water, without much of anything except sparse rocks and a couple of grave markers. Known as the "The Saddle," this flat, barren stretch was deceptive. From afar, we could see our destination Kibo Hut at 15,500 ft, which seemed close enough. But we walked for hours over the soft, sandy soil, and like a mirage, it never seemed to get closer. By the time it was in front of us, we were exhausted, and for some, their ears were ringing from the altitude, and they were suffering headaches and nausea as well.

Mt. Kilimanjaro, The Saddle. 1968

The trail to Kibo Hut, Mt. Kilimanjaro, 1968

 One doesn't sleep long at the last hut. For some it is impossible. I will confess that I loved it. I felt giddy (probably due to the lack of oxygen) and extremely happy. We were awakened at 12:30AM -- and by bright full moonlight, we made the final ascent -- up through a rocky path that became snow and ice for the next five-six hours. It was challenging -- one could see a bit of the ledge above you, which beckoned like the end of the trail until you got to it and discovered another shelf above it. My brother was sick as a dog, throwing up the last mile up to the summit -- but he refused to turn back. I am glad because it was the most memorable and epic thing we ever did together.

The summit is 19,300 ft, and we signed our names in a book with other intrepid climbers who had made it up there. We arrived at the summit at sunrise, which was breathtaking as the moon was still high in the early dawn. Below us was stretched East Africa and the Indian Ocean on one side where we were sitting, while the other side gave us a view into the mouth of the volcano, filled with ice, snow, and stone. The journey back to base camp took two days -- from the summit, we barreled down the trail to 12,000ft and then slept like stones. In the morning, we ate a quick breakfast and walked down the hills to the hotel, where we began our trip at 2,000ft. There, they presented us with wreaths of everlasting flowers for successfully reaching the summit. I still have some of the flowers left in a keepsake box.

Mary reminded me that we returned by a city bus over 500 miles of rough corrugated roads, packed with people, chickens, babies, parcels of all sizes and us. It took all night, and where we sat at the back, a window stuck open, the red dust from the road covered us completely. We arrived home in Dar es Salaam a mess: my feet were a wreck of blisters, my face sunburned, and grime on top of grime from not having changed my clothes for five days. But yeah...I was really, really happy. (That's me in the blue parka, and my brother sitting below me. And beneath that photo are Gil and I on the morning of our arrival back in Dar. )

 

The Dreamer as Architect by Marly Youmans:

I was surprised and very grateful to my longtime friend Marly Youmas for dedicating this wonderful poem to me. 

 

 

Last night in dreams, she lived a thousand years
And was the architect who made a house
That wandered from the mountains to the sea.

And in its rooms the strange and marvelous
Began to stir with songs and images
And words of radiance by those who knew

That every stone and changing face and tree
Was singing forth a name, a fullness���word
Of self that joins with music of the spheres.

And how that potent work of loveliness
Could fall away, she hardly grasped, though knew
The grief aimed arrows at her flesh, her soul.

She kept one room intact and hidden safe,
One jeweled image on the plaster wall,
One melody that curled inside her ear,

One archway onto mountainside and sea,
One spell, one tale that murmured: Everything
That dies���for all must die���will be renewed.

���Marly Youmans

Mythic Moments: The Arrival of the SS Excambion at New York Harbor, January, 1941

This is an older post, but one that I love to revisit as a way to memorialize my father Emile's life and the journey he took to arrive in the United States as a Jewish teenager fleeing Nazi-occupied France. In this time of trial in our nation where politicians seek to use their positions to engage in mutual venial squabbling and punishing of "enemies" in Congress and the administration, I return instead to the purity of the moment my father found true freedom at last in the US.

But I am also delighted to write that I discovered an attractive website called Critical Past -- which captured random films from historical events. In my case, Critical Past had a movie of my father turning around and smiling. I started crying instantly. I knew this was when his life would change, from his past life as a dancer in the Paris Ballet opera house to something entirely different and new. He would become an essential professor of African Languages and Literature. He would publish volumes of poetry in French and English, he would marry twice and travel to Africa,13 countries along the coast, would meet with many emerging African writers, and be an influential force through the journal he co-founded, Pr��sence Africaine.  

Can you imagine the most mythical moment of your childhood? That moment when everything changes, and you know that you will be profoundly changed in the future, that your life as you once knew it would be over. My father Emile was born in Paris -- his father an American ex-patriot, and his mother a beautiful young Jewish woman -- anxious to leave her working-class origins behind her. They lived in a fashionable area of Paris, and my father and his sister Rosine studied ballet at the Paris Ballet Opera House. By the time he was a teenager, my father was on his way to becoming a principal dancer.

Then WWII happened, and the Occupation of France in collaboration with the Vichy Government happened, and my father's life as a dancer was shattered. They were Jews and no longer welcomed at the Opera House. For the last six months of his life in Paris, not one friend would speak to him -- they would cross the street to avoid him for fear of his pariah status rubbing off on them. My father rose early in the morning before curfew and slipped through streets unseen to be first in the bread lines.

My Grandfather had been out of the country on business when the Germans invaded and could not return to France. But he was able to provide the children with American passports through the embassy. My grandmother and the children traveled to Portugal, where they were promised passage on a cargo ship, the SS Excambion, that was carrying several dignitaries (Madame Curie's daughter on her way to try and convince the US to enter the war on behalf of the Jews, and Isaiah Berlin and his future wife) and many Jewish children traveling alone to relatives in the US.

The photo above is a still from a short film of the refugees arriving in NYC in January 1941. Someone sent me the link to the film, knowing my father's history, and asked, "See anyone you know?" In the opening shot, two young teens turn to face the camera, and there they are -- my father, fifteen years old, and his 14-year-old sister. Later in the film, there is a close-up of the two of them leaning out to take in the sight of NYC and the Statue of Liberty. (If you click the link, you will see the short film.)

This moment was critical to my father; he spoke of it often and included it in his poetry. So how amazing is it that some 80 years later and 29 years after his death, this film surfaces, and I can see him again as a young man leaning into the sun, into his future? Yeah, you know I cried when I saw it.

Love and Do What You Will...

St. Augustine of Hippo is remembered by many young Catholics for his plea to God during his wild youth, "Give me chastity and continence, but not quite yet." (Actually, I have many non-religious friends who are familiar with this particular quote, finding it very amusing, indeed.) Recently, a friend of mine sent me this second quote which struck me as particularly powerful for our time:

"See what we are insisting upon; that the deeds of men are only discerned by the root of love. For many things may be done that have a good appearance, and yet proceed not from the root of love���Once for all, then, a short precept is given you: Love, and do what you will: whether you hold your peace, through love hold your peace; whether you cry out, through love cry out; whether you correct, through love correct; whether you spare, through love do you spare: let the root of love be within, of this root can nothing spring but what is good." (7th Homily on John 1)

I find it so compelling because I am sure almost every one one of us could expand this precept to our own struggles, goals, and desires. Mine would be: "Love and do what you will, whether you create, through love create; whether you write, through love write."