Kelly Barnhill's Blog, page 23

Socialism in the Public School System?? OH NOES!!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, Socialism – that's right, I said it: SOCIALISM – has reared it's ugly face in Our Nation's Schools and is now terrorizing the innocents. Don't believe me? Well look at this:

SOCIALISM!!!!

(Graphic representation of Socialism, rendered by supercomputers.)

And if that wasn't proof enough, here is what I pulled out of my son's backpack this morning. Not only is he being indoctrinated in Socialism's false gospel, but he's being forced to say it after the pledge of allegiance – hand over his red blooded American heart and EVERYTHING:

The Kindness (read: Socialism) Pledge

 

I pledge myself on this day

To try to be kind in every way

To ever person, big or small

I will catch them if they fall.

When I love myself and others, too

That's the best that I can do!

Leo has this memorized.

And all snarky sarcastic hyperbole aside, I kinda got weepy when I read it. I also thought it best to not show it to his die-hard-Capitalist, Ayn-Rand-quoting-and-Wild-Kingdom-watching grandpa. Because my beloved Father-in-law just wouldn't understand.

Those of you who read this blog know that I am a pinko-commie nanny-state liberal and proud of it. You probably also know that I adhere to the Gospel of Kindness (in addition to some other Gospels, but we don't have to get into that right now). The point is that kindness matters, but I've never seen it as a central core principal in a classroom before – so central, in fact, that children recite it. Daily.

And I love that.

And I think that I should write my own Kindness Pledge. And that I should recite it – hand over my heart – every day. And I think that maybe our folks in Congress, and the blowhards on the news, and the suits in the Executive Office – they should take a Kindness Pledge too.

Can you imagine if people thought that it would be better to be kind  than to be right?

Can you imagine if we valued kindness over bull-headedness? Kindness over military prowess? Kindness over money?

And honestly, I think we actually do, which is why the lack of kindness hurts us so much. But I think it would be helpful for us – as a community – to actually make explicit that which is implicit. If we put our need for kindness into words.

Because words matter.

Just ask a first grader.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: "And a little child shall lead them", creating just communities, education, first grade, Kindness, restorative justice

The Reasons For My Excellent Mood: A Numbered List

Several things have been conspiring to put me in an exquisitely excellent mood. Here are some:

1. My Beloved Editrix wrote me last night with the next round of notes on IRON HEARTED VIOLET. And guess what! She doesn't hate it! In fact, she kinda digs it. And I am ludicrously happy about that.

2. I, Kelly Barnhill, have received my very first piece of fan mail. And this after getting some pretty nasty letters over a particular poem that, shall we say, portrayed a rather salty version of Jesus. (I don't care if those people didn't like the poem, by the way. It's not great literature by any stretch of the imagination, but I still like it, after all these days, so there.) Anyway, FAN MAIL!! Who knew?

3. My baby brother is getting married this weekend. And now I'm feeling super lovey-dovey, which always embarrasses the heck out of my husband, which, of course, is an added bonus. Ah! So fun to be of the long-married!

4. Because my brother is getting married, and because we are Catholic and therefore more numerous than the stars in the heavens and the sands on the sea shore, I have a SLEW of relatives descending on our fair city as we speak. So there's lots of folks to hang out with – including a particularly beloved Aunt and Uncle that I got to have coffee with just yesterday. Hooray!

5. I'm doing a reading at one of my very favorite-ist bookstore ON EARTH: Wild Rumpus Books.

6. I'm letting the newest draft of WITLESS NED sit for a little bit, and in the meantime have started on a new project. And I'm really digging it!

7. I'm writing poetry again. Granted: the poems themselves mostly suck, but I don't care. I'm not interested in sending them anywhere or doing anything with them, or even editing them. I just like writing them and sending them into the air. Like balloons.

8. IT'S FALL! And after WEDDING MADNESS ™ finally winds down, I will be raking leaves and going apple picking and spiking cider and roasting vegetables and preparing for snow. Autumn is, by far, my favorite season. I can't wait until we have our first fire in the fireplace.

So those are my reasons. Does anyone have anything to add? Anything that you are feeling particularly happy about (and that I can share in your excellent mood)?

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: blessings, moments of grace, Things That Make Kelly Happy

Today's Poem: "Farewell Goose"

Farewell Goose

 

Thirteen geese fly in formation

over the head of a boy on the ground.

The boy is denim blue against a fading green,

hair so yellow it gleams.

The geese are sharp, black curves

against a pale blue sky.

The boy raises his hands, waves,

calls out to the birds overhead.

But all I hear is the call of geese,

their voices cold, cold, cold,

and flying away.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: geese, Lake Nokomis, migration, Minneapolis is Beautiful, nature writing, poem-of-the-day, poetry

Off to the vet

Well, my dog – the one who was lost and then found, the one who was dead and then was alive – is still with us. She still has a very large tumor on her foreleg, and it is still infected.

It will be infected forever.

It will be infected until she dies.

This is not to say that she is dying, necessarily. She could well die of something else entirely. She'll just have to be on antibiotics the entire time. And normally, my bright line with animals, and whether their life should or should not be artificially extended is what I like to call the "fun standard".

Is this animal having any fun?

Is this animal living with dignity?

Is this animal afforded moments of pleasure, moments of ease, moments of joy?

If the answer is yes, then we will continue with the antibiotics. Currently, the answer is yes. Harper, despite the -let's face it – distressingly ugly lump on her leg,  still chases squirrels and rabbits (she catches them too), still wags her tail when she sees us, still steals peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when she sees an opportunity, still splashes in the creek when I let her.

She's still having fun.

Still, the vet is going to see her today, and I a bracing myself for bad news. The lump is considerably larger than it was before, and it feels hot. This can't be good. She still likes walks. She still runs. It doesn't seem to be slowing her down. Still, I worry.

Oh Harper! Oh my sweet little beastie! How deeply you are loved!

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: dogs, end-of-life, Harper, human-animal relations, tumors

Today's Poem: "Harvest"

Samuel Palmer, Harvest Moon, 1830s

Harvest

 

In autumn we make lists:

pumpkin soup and sweetened nuts;

tough winter greens; an armload of herbs drying at the hearth;

brussel sprouts, tubers, bright fleshed squash;

salted cheese curing in the basement;

casks of ale keeping cool underground;

tomatoes brought in by the truckload

in anticipation of frost, heated for hours in oil and wine -

a gentle urging of sauce.

We plan pies, freeze berries,

chant an endless litany of bread.

 

And you, my love, I shall feed and feed.

Here, I say as I seat you at my table.

Here, as I push in your chair.

Here is the bounty of the spinning world.

Here is food for the nose, food for the tongue,

food for the beating heart.

 

A seed placed in the earth becomes food – a miracle.

Food, gathered from gardens and heaped in kitchens

becomes palatable, irresistible – a narrative of pleasure.

And this is another miracle.

Love is a miracle, I say

as I slip roasted vegetables

into your open mouth,

as I lick the oil from my fingers.

Love is a miracle.

And so are you.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: autumn, autumn cooking, harvest, love stories, muse, poem-of-the-day, poetry

Presenting…..THE TANGLEWOOD TERROR!!!!!

Would you get a load of that cover? I have so much love for this book, it's not even funny.

For those of us who spend a lot of time with kids (as I do: students, offspring, short relatives, hordes of neighborhood children stomping around my house all day), we've all had the experience of reading a kid's book and wanting desperately to shove it into the hands of every grubby-faced, scabbed-kneed, gap-toothed kid of our acquaintance. There are some books that speak fluent Kid – and do so in a way that jock kids and nerdy kids and anti-establishment kids and outdoorsy kids and adventurous kids and timid kids will all somehow see a hint of their experience reflected in this novel.

There is a mystery in the woods behind Tanglewood – one that could possibly destroy the town, and Eric Parrish – football player, pig keeper, rotten big brother and poor-choice-maker – decides to find out exactly what it is…..before it's too late! THE TANGLEWOOD TERROR, by Kurtis Scaletta does it for me on so many levels. Indeed, because of this, I've decided to compose a list:

KELLY BARNHILL'S LIST OF REASONS WHY SHE DIGS THIS BOOK:

1. SCIENCE! – Now, I love science fiction as much as the next geek, but one thing that we really do not see enough of – in Middle Grade fiction – is fiction that engages explicitly with scientific facts, and uses the unravelling of mysteries in the natural world as a tool to raise the stakes and deepen the mystery. I've always been fascinated with fungi and have spent a lot of time mushroom hunting, particularly when I lived on the West Coast. But here we have GLOWING MUSHROOMS! And MONSTER FUNGI! And MAD ADVENTURES! And KOOKY OLD SCIENCE FICTION WRITERS! And SECRET HOVELS! And it's awesome.

2. PIGS! Honestly, there are not enough pigs in children's literature. And the pig in this particular book is a delightful creature and I adore her.

3. FOOTBALL! You don't see a whole lot of books in which science and football overlap, but they do so here. Eric Parrish, like most kids, is good at a lot of stuff, and tries to be better at a lot of stuff and is interested in a lot of stuff. And his willingness to engage in the different parts of himself is one of the things that makes his portrayal so real, so genuine and so endearing.

4. PESKY, UPPITY GIRLS! 'Nuff said.

5. BULLYING! Actually, that's not a good thing – of course it's not – but the issue of bullying, and the consequences both overt and subtle, and the toll that it takes on a person, are all handled with the sensitivity and grace of a grownup combined with the cluelessness and confusion of a kid. It's handled extremely well, and I was pleased to see it.

6. SELF-CENTERED PARENTS!! There really is nothing worse than people who justify their self-centeredness by claiming that their selfishness is just altruism in disguise. In TANGLEWOOD, we have two parents on the brink of divorce, and neither is demonized, neither is overly wicked, but selfishness really is the underlying organism that begins to pull the family apart. Indeed, that each parents would have dreams of their own – and thwarted dreams – allows the reader to see their actions from their perspective, and mourn their choices that led to this mess. Scaletta never preaches and leaves it up to the reader to make their own determinations about what, exactly, is going on with this family. Suffice to say, as Eric vainly tries to patch up the cracks in his home-life that his parents leave behind, he shows exactly what he is made of – and it is some tough stuff. Good on you, Eric.

7. ANNOYING LITTLE BROTHERS WHO ARE SECRETLY AWESOME! 'Nuff said on that, too.

8. POSSIBLY CRAZY PULP SCIENCE FICTION WRITERS!  As writer who sometimes writes science fiction, and is more possibly completely crazy….AND who really digs the old school, "Golden Age of Pulp Fiction" stuff, I loved this aspect of the story. And it made me want to cultivate my inner crazy-but-brilliant hermit. Yanno. For posterity.

9. MADCAP ADVENTURES! ON WHEELS! Everything is better when motors are involved. And when it's motors in the hopes of rescuing a town from possibly-murderous fungi? SIGN ME UP!

Now, I have already purchased a copy for a Certain Nephew on his Certain Birthday, and will be snagging another for myself when Kurtis reads at the Red Balloon this Friday, but I want to encourage all of you to snag a copy now. Hell, get two – one for you and one for a kid.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Adventures for Boys, Adventures for Girls, Fungi, Juvenile Fiction, Maine, Middle Grade Novels

Today's Poem – "The Fox"

The fox behind my house

settles deep in the grass

his long tail draped cunningly to one side.

Red, green, red, green, whispers my heart.

My fingers freeze above the keyboard on my lap.

No. They are frozen. They are crumbling to bits.

The fox winks its black eye.

"If you were as beautiful as me," he says,

his white teeth flashing like pearls,

"your stories would never falter.

They would move mountains,

crumble stones.

They would be as implacable as gods."

"I do not doubt it," I said through my shortage of verbs,

through my paralysis of action.

The screen flickers, and dies.

 

The fox rested its face upon its small feet,

its face tipped upwards. It grinned its foxy grin.

"Close your eyes," it said.

And I did.

"Arch your shoulders."

"Sway your back."

"Dig your paws into the ground."

"Leap."

 

And in my mind, I moved as a fox moved

and breathed as a fox breathed

and leaped as a fox leaps.

I inhaled the world, smelled as a fox smells.

 

"You understand now, don't you?" it said.

"I do," I said. And the story began itself.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: foxes, nature writing, poem-a-day, poetry

Back to Normal

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The children are back in school. My hands are raised to the heavens. My mouth sings hymns of praise. I have cleared away the debris on my desk (there was beach sand on my desk. And a flip flop. And nine snail shells. And a note from my daughter demanding her own room) and I have gotten back to work.

There was a time, when my kids were small, that my only time to write fiction was between the hours of four and six in the morning. This is a scenario that I cannot recommend. During those years, I would haul my shaking carcass out of bed, stumble to the stove and light it. Sometimes I would forget to put on the kettle, and would, instead stand in the darkened kitchen, staring at the cold blue of the hot flame. Once I burned my hand. Another time I singed my bathrobe. Honestly, I'm astonished that I didn't – not once – burn down the house.

Or maybe I did. In a different universe. I've been obsessing with universes lately.

In any case, I would stumble, tea in hand, sloshing it all over my damn self, and lean into my desk chair and start to write. I wrote a grown-up novel that collapsed under its own weight (I had actually started that one in college), and a young adult novel that was so dark and so upsetting and so violent that no one in their right mind will ever want to read it (all copies – I'm pretty sure – have been destroyed) and a mystery novel that wasn't horrible, but still wasn't particularly publishable.

It was an important time for me, but it wasn't a time of producing good work. Just work.

But then – oh! then! – my kids went to school. No more collapsing at keyboards! No more zombified visage! No more potential disasters with fire! Instead I was rested, rejuvenated and organized. I planned out my writing day the night before, and worked in time to read. I had time, each day, to plunk words on the page, and the words – while not good, per se – weren't terrible. I had graduated from Sucky to Mediocre. I was on fire!

But here's the thing about the school year – it's only nine months. Like a pregnancy. And like a pregnancy, it ends with interrupted schedules and lack of sleep and crying fits (mine, mostly) and bouts of vomiting and sticky surfaces and howls of rage. (Also mine). It is almost impossible for me to work during the summer.

Now sometimes, one has to. Deadlines, after all, exist, and boy did I have one. I needed to get the new version of Iron Hearted Violet to my beloved editrix, and I fear that I tried her patience, alas. My time was interrupted, and the work was slow, and the deadline began to creep, and bend, and topple forward. If I lived in NYC, I think she might have strangled me.

Right now, I miss my kids – I really do. The school day is long, and I'm lonely without them, but I need the time away from them in order to make fiction. Right now, my house is quiet. Right now, my heart is quiet. And right now, my new book is taking shape – even as I write this post, even now - under my hands. It presses on my skin. It whispers in my ear. And now, with the kids blissfully at school, it's quiet enough for me to hear it at last.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: fiction is my job, I wish I was better at this sort of thing, Middle Grade Novels, My Kids Totally Rule, parenting, raising kids, school, the muse is a devilishly quiet thing., work/family balance, writer-mama, writing novels

Today's Poem: "Cheating at Cards With Jesus"

Cheating at Cards With Jesus

 

The Lord is a pain in the ass when He's had too much whiskey.

But then, so's anyone, so I couldn't fault Him for it.

He leered over the rim of his cards and winked.

The table had cleared out. It was just him and me.

He sipped on the dregs of His drink and belched.

"Well," He said. "What'll it be?"

 

"I thought people bet their souls with the Devil," I said.

Jesus yawned. "It's cliché," He said. "And you're stalling."

He fingered the card that I knew was a queen of hearts.

"And anyway, the Devil sucks at cards. Only a poet can play poker properly.

The Devil's a numbers guy."

 

"Hit me," I said. Jesus paused.

"You sure?" He said, thumbing the top card.

King of clubs. I already knew it. I had marked it myself.

Or Jesus had marked it.

After all this time, the cards were well-worn and as readable as faces.

There were no more surprises, and I was about to go bust.

 

"Hit me," I said again. Jesus nodded and filled our glasses.

The whiskey burned its way down until my whole body gleamed.

Jesus held His glass next to his drink-flushed face. He closed His eyes.

"A poem works, not for what it says, but what it does not say," He said.

"A poem speaks from the empty spaces; silence brings light to the gloom."

 

"Your point?" I asked. Why drag it out? I snatched His drink and gulped it down.

"A game is the same way. Just when you think you've won, you've lost,

and just when you think you're lost, you are found."

"I think you're confusing your words," I said.

Drunk asshole, I thought.

 

"I fold," Jesus said. "You win."

A boozy smile. A hard stare.

Two bright eyes,

hot and old as nebulas,

burn across the table. I wince.

"So," He said. "What are you gonna do about it?

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: astronomy, fiction is my job, Jesus, poetry, poker, religious poetry, sacrilegious poetry, transcendence, transformative thinking, whiskey

Today's Poem

 

Cheating at Cards With Jesus

The Lord is a pain in the ass when He's had too much whiskey.

But then, so's anyone, so I couldn't fault Him for it.

He leered over the rim of his cards and winked.

The table had cleared out. It was just him and me.

He sipped on the dregs of His drink and belched.

"Well," He said. "What'll it be?"

"I thought people bet their souls with the Devil," I said.

Jesus yawned. "It's cliché," He said. "And you're stalling."

He fingered the card that I knew was a queen of hearts.

"And anyway, the Devil sucks at cards. Only a poet can play poker properly.

The Devil's a numbers guy."

"Hit me," I said. Jesus paused.

"You sure?" He said, thumbing the top card.

King of clubs. I already knew it. I had marked it myself.

Or Jesus had marked it.

After all this time, the cards were well-worn and as readable as faces.

There were no more surprises, and I was about to go bust.

"Hit me," I said again. Jesus nodded and filled our glasses.

The whiskey burned its way down until my whole body gleamed.

Jesus held His glass next to his drink-flushed face. He closed His eyes.

"A poem works, not for what it says, but what it does not say," He said.

"A poem speaks from the empty spaces; silence brings light to the gloom."

"Your point?" I asked. Why drag it out? I snatched His drink and gulped it down.

"A game is the same way. Just when you think you've won, you've lost,

and just when you think you're lost, you are found."

"I think you're confusing your words," I said.

Drunk asshole, I thought.

"I fold," Jesus said. "You win."

A boozy smile. A hard stare.

Two bright eyes,

hot and old as nebulas,

burn across the table. I wince.

"So," He said. "What are you gonna do about it?"

 

 

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: astronomy, fiction is my job, Jesus, poetry, poker, religious poetry, sacrilegious poetry, transcendence, transformative thinking, whiskey