Meg Sefton's Blog, page 32

Inktober: Escape

I begin today this year’s fall-fifty-word-challenge. Some of these small pieces may be kitschy; some may be tongue-in-cheek; and some may not have as much to do with Halloween as with the darker aspects of life in general. I confess I wrote this one sans prompt. I intend to post some prompts for those interested in participating.—Margaret

Unkempt Angel, Wayne S. Grazio (Abandoned Mauseleum, Manila Chinese Cemetery, Manila, Philippines) flickr

Sitting on the toilet lid, she slumps against the bathroom wall, her eyes fixed on the shower curtain, the spoon fallen to the floor, blood trickling down her arm.

They found her blue-lipped. Her sister said it was China Girl, come to take her from the pain.

Sunday with Hayde Bluegrass Orchestra

This Norwegian bluegrass band covers this Alison Kraus & Union Station song masterfully.

And I love the sentiment on this Sunday of Labor Day Weekend: I need a place where I can rest.

Be well.

taking my respite with May Sarton

This week, I finished a course at the University of Chicago: Essentials of Grammar for Professionals. I trust I am finished. I am waiting for the score on the final assignment. But my work has essentially concluded.

I’m not going anywhere for the holiday weekend. I lack the funds. And I’m tired. I do plan to take life at a slower pace for the next couple of days, even though I am at home. I feel grateful to have this time and this space.

In the spirit of taking it easy, I opened an old book I keep on my desk along with a few others, books that are meditations, devotionals, words of encouragement. The book I chose this morning was May Sarton’s Journal of Solitude.

I include here a few pictures of the extra bedroom, converted this summer into an office. The final picture is a picture of the opening paragraph of Journal of Solitude.

Be well. May respite find you.

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“Horse Girl”

Greg Westfall, “ghost,” flickr

In this week leading into Labor Day weekend, our nation and my state is literally wracked with illness and death; Louisiana has been ripped apart by a hurricane; there is fear and uncertainty in Afghanistan and mourning for lives lost. Furthermore, there are school districts who will be financially punished for trying to keep children safe from a deadly virus and there are many people facing eviction notices. Last year, the inception of the pandemic was only preamble.

This morning, it was in an addled frame of mind that I opened my closet door to see a small open bin on the floor, something from my previous move I have been gradually sorting through. There on the top, I noticed a collection of pictures which were scattered face down. On the backs of the pictures, there were names and dates written in cursive in an unknown hand. I turned them over to see some glimpse of an almost forgotten history, a record someone else kept for interested parties. I don’t remember who took the pictures of me because I was a baby, but there I was supposedly and playing with a playmate I would never see again. There were also pictures of my biological mother as a child and and also as a young woman. There was a picture of my biological grandmother. I hadn’t expected to see these pictures this morning. Oddly, I felt nothing. But years ago, when I first saw them, I felt a great deal. It was at that moment of being presented with them that I learned things that were hard to know. For years, I kept the pictures tucked away in a bookshelf in a manilla envelop, away from view as if they held an electric charge. But moving and disruption has a way of discombobulating everything, and there we are, our private things lying about like a tossed salad.

Watching the film Horse Girl this afternoon, I was drawn into a deep grief, perhaps primed by the pictures of my biological mother in various stages of her life. And there was something so disturbingly recognizable about the film’s main character and her story, something so recognizable in her foibles and derailing mind, her struggle with a mental illness passed down by her grandmother and mother. The major existential question she asks is: How much of their illness is also mine?

I have also been in a grieving process since the onset of the pandemic for I have begun to lose my adopted mother to dementia. It brings home more starkly than ever that sense that when everything is stripped away, we stand naked and alone.

I will not get into more detail about the film and I won’t go into my own history here, though I have done so elsewhere, having spent years keeping it to myself. But for now, I’ll just leave it at this: I could relate to so much material that was in this film. I was riveted. It broke my heart. It is worth your time if you care to explore.

My Fieldwork in Southern Italy — Foundation Operation X for languages, cultures and perspectives

Prefatory note by yours truly: I wanted to share this fascinating post. Several years ago, at the Florida Film Festival, I saw the film I Dream in Another Language. a dramatic and beautiful film exploring the stakes of the death of an indigenous language in Mexico. Though the film explores sometimes mystical concepts, it also explores an intriguing line of thought: When a language dies, whole realms of experience and culture die with it. If you are interested in this concept, I invite you to watch the film and read the reviews to start your exploration. And I hope you will follow the link to this website to read about this linguist’s inspiration and work in Southern Italy.

Written by Dyami Millarson This picture was taken during my last visit to Southern Italy, I played football outside like some of the locals. Whilst I was there, I had taken the opportunity to continue my Molesian fieldwork. Profoundly inspired as a teenager by David Crystal’s Language Death, David K. Harrison’s When Languages Die, Daniel […]

My Fieldwork in Southern Italy — Foundation Operation X for languages, cultures and perspectives

Piano Monday: Khatia Buniatishvili

Inktoberfest 2021

Man in chair with dog in his lap, Florida Memory, State Library and Archives of Florida, flickr

It is almost September! Which means it is almost October! Which means it’s close to Halloween!

I was revising some posts this morning, and particularly the fifty-word fiction pieces I wrote for last year’s Inktober. A few years ago, I started following someone for this little literary spooky spree, writing a delicious bite-size story each day of October. But for a couple of years, I have blazed my own trick-or-treat trail, creating my own prompts. And last year, I wrote several posts laying out my thoughts about writing fun size.

I plan a return to Inktober excitement this year. And I may start as early as September. October being what it may be for me this year, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to craft gloomy confections. If you want to join me, I hope to post prompts soon, some of which may be repeats, but which I enjoyed, ergo: Favorite prompts, round two!

Prime the pump with scary thoughts while I put a cauldron over the fire.

Tuesday with Ryuichi Sakamoto

Chopin and a clip from Warhol’s “Empire”

Rhiannon Giddens