Kelly Barnhill's Blog, page 27

The Perils of Photography (or, My Life-Long Obsession With Oscar Wilde)

My whole life, I've wanted to be this guy:

Oscar Wilde. Man of wit, elegance and grace. His stories were delicate, lovely and brutal. He managed to be both honest and coy at the same time and managed a frankness in literary subterfuge that I have always admired and will never, ever master. Indeed, I'll never come close. He was lovely to behold, lovely on the page; his words could insinuate themselves into underclothes, convince buttons and laces to spontaneously undo, unravel a "yes" with the flick of an eye.

What I'm saying is that dude got around, and got some. And bully for him.

And he's my total hero.

Which may sound weird, given that I'm a happily married (and matronly) wife and mama of three. Why is it that I am so utterly, utterly delighted by Oscar Wilde? Honestly, I have no idea, but I've been in love with him since I was eleven years old – when I first read "The Fisherman and His Soul", and I've never looked back.

I love him for his cunning duality, his dark humor, his moral ambivalence. I love him for his loneliness, for his joyful and unabashed love of his own body and its appetites, for his hunger for true love, even as it eluded him. Even as it betrayed him. Also, to be perfectly frank, I love him for his fashion sense.

Indeed, if I were to name my two fashion heroes in life, it would be Oscar Wilde and Catherine the Great. Because if I could pull off these outfits (which, by the way, I can't. As I mentioned: matronly; mama-ish) I totally would.

Oh Oscar! That wrap! That saucy mug! That hat pulled rakishly to one side! That is the face of a young man who honestly wants nothing more than to make love to the entire world, and I for one thinks that he should go right on ahead. But first, he must sit at my table so that I may feed him as he tells me stories.

And the only reason why I bring up my dear, dear Oscar at all is because the good folks at Little, Brown were pestering me last week for a photograph. Something authory and not-horrible, which was problematic, because I have an issue with taking not-horrible photographs. Or, in other words, I tend to be so terribly un-photogenic that cameras, when they are in my vicinity, have been known to spontaneously combust and sometimes explode.

I will never be Oscar Wilde! I will never be dashing or debonair or devastatingly clever. Oh Oscar! A lifetime of loving you and yet you give me nothing! It's enough to make a lady want to despair.

Still, a photograph was owed, so I endeavored to do my best. I had already made it clear that I did not want any images of me to appear on my book at all. Indeed, as a reader, I always find it jarring to see a snapshot of the author who wrote the book on the book. Do I need to know what the carpenter looked like who made my diningroom table? Or the craftsman who built my piano? Or the architect who designed my house?

(Actually, scratch that one. The guy who designed my house also lives in my house. He eats the food that I cook and wears the clothes that I wash and sleeps in the bed where I sleep and I love him very much.)

Anyway, the point is that I had a very bad attitude about any publicity photograph involving yours truly. I didn't see the point, I was sure that the results would be horrifying, and for god's sake it would just be further proof that I was not, nor would I ever be, as awesome as Oscar Wilde, and it was as though the universe was just rubbing it in.

Fortunately for me, I have nice friends.  Bruce Silcox, photographer, and all-around Nice Person, was kind enough to snap some photos for me. I've known Bruce for years – our daughters have been friends since Kindergarten – and he managed to quell any camera-exploding mojo that I had radiating from my skin. And he took a few good pictures.

I'm not Oscar Wilde, and I never will be. I am neither dashing nor quick-witted nor devastatingly handsome. I do not write with his sly grace, nor his looming heatbreak. I do not have the power to make men weep for me like he could. Still, my lifelong obsession with Oscar Wilde has built me into the writer I am today. He was my first love, my first writer-crush, and I will always appreciate him for it.

I will never photograph as well as he could on an off-day. Still I like these pictures a lot. So I feel a strange kinship with my hero right now, and I have a hankering to say something devastatingly witty to someone who richly deserves it. Perhaps I need to be invited to more dinner parties. Or, even better, perhaps I should start crashing dinner parties.

Yes. I think I would like that very much.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: August 2011, Debut Novels, fantasy, Juvenile Literature, Little Brown, Middle Grade Novels, New Author Woes, Oscar Wilde, photography, The Mostly True Story of Jack, The Things We Loved and Love

Why I love teaching

I can barely hold my fingers steady over the keyboard at present, and will be soon, and gratefully, folding my tired little carcass into my covers and sleeping for something in the order of one thousand years, but I wanted to take minute to write about how very, very, very much I love teaching.

And, of course, I've written before about my secret joy in corrupting the youth of America,  as well as the benefits in having a legion of minions in the quest for my ultimate goal of one day ruling the world, but I've never written before about the world's best kept secrets of our culture's most over-worked, under-valued and precious profession.

Actually, you should come a little closer, so I can whisper it to you.

No, closer.

You ready? Here's the secret:

Teaching is a pleasure.

"WHAT?" you say. "But what about standardized tests? What about behavior problems? What about paperwork? What about nasty politicians who demonize you and claim that your meager salaries are the cause of our economic meltdowns and lousy job markets?" [Author's note:They didn't.]

And yes, that's all true. Teaching is a difficult and wrenching job, unnecessarily burdened by pointless forms and interminable meetings and the by-products of a society that has effectively ignored and punished its poor.

But still.

Those children!

Those beautiful, grubby, snarky, graphite-smudged, over-sugared, silly, curious, responsive, smart, creative, lovely, lovely children. After only one hour in their classroom, they were already ready with damp hugs and furtive whispers of, "you're coming back tomorrow, right?"

Yes, my darlings, I'm coming back tomorrow, I assured them. And they grinned their gappy grins.

The reasons why I am no longer a full-time classroom teacher – well, they are many. The crummy job security for one. The hours for another. And my career at present allows me to balance my passions as a writer with the needs of my children, and I appreciate that very much. But in any case, I do love the way my life is currently, that I have this opportunity to, every once in a while, access my teacher self. To remind myself of the indescribable joy that I had while managing a classroom.

Teaching requires patience, kindness, an iron will, and  skin thicker than a rhinoceros'. It requires a willingness to endure logic-less exchanges with one's superiors, to make books and resources and supplies appear out of thin air like magic, and to leap tall buildings in a single bound (well, I can't do that, but I've seen it happen, and I've seen the teachers who do it every day – despite what Certain Documentarians have to say about it).  It requires you to bear the pain that some of your students must bear every day – to witness it, feel it, and fight like hell to make it better. It requires one to accept foot aches, back aches, ulcers, kidney infections, gray hair, and wrinkles the size of canyons between the brows and around the mouth. It requires late nights, early mornings, hollowed out zombie eyes.

But in return – moments of grace, moments of clarity, moments of joy and love, love and love again. In teaching, we love the whole child – the child they are, the child they were,  and the adult they will become. We get to see the future in this job, and that ain't nuthin'.

Teaching is an act of love, and we'd all do well to remember that. And I'm glad that, in my sporadic return to the classroom world, I get a chance to remember it, and re-remember it. Because it makes me appreciate all the more the men and women who have dedicated their lives to teaching my children. And your children. And my neighbors' children and the children who may one day read my books, and the children who will one day drive my busses and fix my plumbing and heal my illnesses and run my country and lovingly bury me when I'm dead and gone. Each one of those kids had legions of teachers who guided them, worried about them and loved them.

So I feel pretty lucky. And happy. Despite the fact that right now, I'm so tired I feel as though I've been sapped utterly – I am dry leaf, dry grass, a papery husk in an insistent wind –  it's been a pretty good day. And I'm looking forward to tomorrow.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: compas arts, fiction residency, schools, teachers, teaching creative writing, transformative thinking

Infinity Dollar Bill

My son, last night at bedtime, asked me if there was a such thing as an infinity dollar bill. I asked him what he meant.

"It looks like one dollar, and it is one dollar, but it keeps on being more. And then you'll have all the money in the universe in your very own pocket."

I told him, no, there wasn't a such thing as an infinity dollar bill, though I rather like the thought of it – sort of a conceptual vertigo, like all of heaven dancing on the head of a pin, or an entire universe in the nucleus of a cell, or consciousness and art springing from the gooey carbon muck of our brains, and so forth."It sounds like a pretty cool idea," I told him.

He crawled under his covers. "When I grow up," he said, "I'm going to invent an infinity dollar bill."

"I'm not sure they'll let you do that," I said.

"Oh," he explained. "No one will know. It will be electric."

"Will you need to plug it in?"

"No, it will have solar powered chips in it. And when I invent it, it will only be one dollar. But when I give the dollar to someone else, it will become one hundred dollars. And when they give it to someone else it will turn into a thousand dollars. And when they give it to someone after that, it will turn into ten thousand dollars."

His eyes were shining.

"So," I asked for clarification, "if you keep it, nothing changes, right?"

"Right," he said "I can't wait to invent this thing."

"But what if you spend it?"

"Nope," he said. "The infinity dollar only works when you're giving it to someone. It can only be a present."

"Why?"

"Because I'm inventing it," he said. "And presents are awesome."

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: art, conceptual vertigo, cosmology, infinity, kids and economics, this kid is too smart for his own good

I'm pretty sure I just squashed the dreams (and possibly the souls) of a bunch of college students.

I just got back from a student/alumni networking event for Liberal Arts majors at my alma mater, St. Catherine University – a small, Catholic, all-lady college in Minnesota. I had agreed - foolishly, yes, I see that now – to sit down and chat with a bunch of current students about my career trajectory, my past experience, how my academic grounding prepared me for where I am today, and…..I don't know. Some other stuff.

And I told them the truth.

And their faces fell.

And honestly, I'm not (entirely) sorry about framing the things I said the way I said them. No one really prepares college kids for the directionlessness of the post-college years. The uncertainty. The self-doubt. No one tells kids how much utter re-invention their life paths will require of them, how much they will have to rely on their creativity, their vision, their willingness to change direction, change thinking, change everything. And that's okay – it's just that it's good to be prepared.

I told them that graduation really sucked for me. That I floated in a state of ennui for a couple of years, without direction, without spark, without a sense of the shape that I wanted my life to be.

I told them that they'll never feel like a grownup. That they'll always feel like a learner – and that's actually good. If we feel like we're one step behind where we want to be, it means we're moving. Life requires motion, and action and response. We can coast when we're dead.

I told them that they needed to be flexible and creative and innovative with their career choices, that they had to be willing to research and analyze, that they need to be able to apply their skills to one day do jobs that may not even exist now. And even more – that they'll have to do that again and again and again. I told them that the world is dynamic and changeable and there was very little that they could count on, so they'd have to build a life with their own two hands.

I told them that my career – hell, my entire life -was built on a precarious structure of duct tape, string, popsicle sticks and gum. And fairy dust. And prayer. And a couple hocked loogies. And that was okay, because it is the life that I built, which means that I can claim it – even the wobbly bits and the annoying bits and the guess-what-kids-we're-only-eating-ramen-noodles-this-week bits.

I told them to be prepared to work jobs that they hate, to take orders from people they despise, and to do it with a smile. I told them that they well may be fired one day for reasons totally outside of their control, that good jobs can go suddenly bad, and that things that seem like scraping the bottom of the barrel can turn into the opportunities that define their careers. I told them to take chances. And that self-employment is a terrifying, exhilarating, nail-biting and beautiful, beautiful thing.

I told them that being a writer required masochism, a thickness of skin bordering on delusional, a willingness to be simultaneously separated from the world and integrated into it. A willingness to go to a place of not me. When I'm writing, there is no me. There is only the book. Indeed, when someone reads my book, there is no me there either. The only thing that exists is this: characters, place, story, and the reader's relationship with the three. Being a writer is both prestidigitation and vanishing – you see the thing I make, but I disappear.

But mostly, I told them to lose everything that they should be doing. Should is a word that has driven many a twenty-something (including myself, once upon a time) straight into the waiting arms of their therapists. Not to knock therapists, or anything, but it seems that we could all save ourselves a lot of trouble if we forget about shoulds and forget about the standards by which our eighteen year old selves judge our twenty-eight-year- old selves (or thirty-eight, or forty-eight) and simply focus on the paths that we're on, and pouring our hearts and souls into each blessed (and sucky) day.

Once upon a time, I was a starry-eyed co-ed too. The life that I had assumed that I would have was radically different from the life that I had. And honestly, thank god. Because I was kind of an idiot in college. Much of the turns my life has taken, have been entirely accidental. I didn't mean to fall in love, for example. And then parenthood kind of presented itself when I least expected it. These things dramatically altered my course – away from the shoulds of my college self into the doing the best I can of my adult self.

I didn't mean to become a bartender. Or a homeless youth worker. Or a janitor. Or a park ranger. Or a receptionist. Or an activist. Or a journalist. Or any of the random jobs I've held in my life. Sometimes you get to seize opportunities, and sometimes you take what you can get. All the same I'm glad that I did the lot of them, because each step brought me to where I am now. Novelist. Mom. Teacher. It's not a comfortable life by any means, and it's fraught with uncertainty, but I can't imagine doing anything else.

It's a pretty good life, actually. And I'll keep it.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: ah! College!, alma mater, alumni, College of St. Catherine, networking, starry-eyed co-eds

Know what I love?

Sand animation.

And I think I need to take a few days forcing my eyes away from the things that make channel my inner Fury- and meditate instead on moments of beauty, moments of grace, and moments of the friggin cool.

This, for example:

Gorgeous. With that wicked sting at the end. I had to watch it several times in a row to catch that subtle and sly pull from image to image to image.

And this (because Spring eludes us still. And because I love Vivaldi – and yes, I know he's pedestrian and overplayed, but don't hate on the redheaded priest! I still like him. So sue me.)

And this:

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And of course there's this, which was one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever seen on Youtube:

Which means I must now thank Youtube for bringing me out of my funk yesterday and awaking my heart to art and beauty and sand.

Dear Youtube,

Stay solid.

Love,

Kelly

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: a moment of thanks for sand, beauty, joy, Summer, truth, Ukraine history as told in sand, Vivaldi, Youtube totally rules

In Which Kelly Barnhill Admits Everything

Some days I don't know if I should become a flaming tower of righteous rage, or if I should just point and laugh.

Up til now, I've chosen the point-and-laugh strategy. Because I like laughing. And rage gives me the runs. After all, the crazy whack-jobs who are spouting this Birther nonsense? Well, it's this guy:

Joseph Farah, adviser to Donald Trump. (Hey! Buddy! Your fake mustache IS FREAKING ME OUT!)

I'm not surprised, honestly, that Mr. Trump would hire that used-car-salesman-turned-talking-head to run his sideshow of a campaign. This is Donald Trump we're talking about. But for Mr. Trump-Loving-Mustache-Man to, in the face of the down-dressing the media got from our president, would start making even more insinuations – that he was secretly adopted, that the date was wrong, and that maybe his dad wasn't his dad? (And who was it, Joseph? This guy?)

I mean seriously, if he told me that the sky was blue, I'd go and get my eyes checked out. There is absolutely nothing that guy could say, no manipulations in diction or synatx that would possibly make him seem like an informed individual. That 'stache screams wingnut. Sorry, bro.

And then I learned that 1 in 4 Americans thought – before today – that Obama wasn't a citizen. And then I despaired.

I think I can blame my current ennui and despair over the state of my country on my parents. It was my parents, after all, who taught me that human beings were brave and honest and noble and good. That the upstanding individual was the norm, and that anything else was a sad outlier in the human experience, and can be redeemed through love and tenderness and adequate food, shelter and education.

I believed this. I believe it still. Mostly. On a good day. Indeed this is what I've taught my own children. I need to believe it, you understand. But the rise of BirtherNation – its conspiracy theories nothing more than very thinly disguised racism - well, it has sent me into a friggin tailspin, I'll tell you what.

The birther nonsense is racism. It's not curiosity, it's not holding our leaders responsible for their actions, and it certainly is not patriotic. It's only racism. Also racist: the new assertions that he didn't really go to Harvard. Or if he did go to Harvard he did poorly. Or if he did well, someone else was writing his papers for him (possibly terrorists). And he only got in because he was black. And the Nation of Islam – according to one commenter – paid for his education.

These assertions won't go away, and they are repeatedly mentioned (with smug little grins to boot) by people who should know better. People who do know better. People who are cynically attempting to strip the presidency of its credibility so they can keep giving tax breaks to rich people.

And I'm sick of it.

And since I'm neither a mover or a shaker, and since I have no money nor clout nor status in the inner circles of power that run this country, I'll do the only thing that I can do.

Make fun.

I started earlier today on my Twitter feed encouraging Mr. Obama to just stay ahead of the conspiracy theorists and start making up his own insinuations. He could start a rumor that he was having an affair with a Marylin Monroe-shaped robot for example. Or he could get a trending tweet going that he had simultaneous citizenship in every nation on earth, thus hastening his establishment of the One World Government. He could put himself on the terrorist watch list. Or start a rumor that he must devour the still-beating hearts of kittens in order to maintain his youth (he's 198. Did you know?)

But really, that's not enough. Because in the end, I think his decision today to put the matter to rest, share the stupid birth certificate, and fight insane racism with evidence and truth – well, it was a lawyer's move, but I think it was the right one.

And so, in the spirit of Full Disclosure, I, Kelly Barnhill, have decided to come clean. I've decided to air all of my dirty laundry, and make some admissions that will probably lead you to believe that I am not fit for my job (as a housewife. Also, as a writer.). So here it goes:

1. Despite the fact that I call myself a vegetarian, I still have a bratwurst every year on Fourth Of July. It's the It's Fourth Of July And Nothing Counts Clause. You can look it up.

2. While I was a proud English Major and love everything about the classes I took and the books I read and the papers I wrote and the discussions I had – I came very close to not graduating, because I did so TERRIBLY in my senior seminar on John Keats. In my defense, I had fallen in love with a lovely young man from Princeton, which really killed the semester. And fortunately, my professor let me re-write my paper and shoved my starry-eyed self out of her class with a gentlemen's B-. But really, I deserved an F.

3. Despite my history as a park ranger and a wildland firefighter and despite the fact that I take the children camping multiple times every year and despite the fact that I'm a committed environmentalist, I actually hate camping. Don't tell my husband.

4. Once, one of the kids who was bullying me in grade school told me that if I jabbed a kid in the back with a pencil, she'd leave me alone for the rest of the day. And then I did it. I didn't get in trouble because I told everyone that I had tripped and it was an accident – a thing that was universally believed because A.) I'd never hurt anyone before, and B.) I was and am the klutziest person on the face of the earth. On the bus ride home, the bully in question pulled my hair and pinched me – hard, and everywhere. And she wouldn't stop. So much for my attempt at violence.

5. While I enjoy my job in housewifery and I really dig being a full-time household coordinator, I am really not suited for this work at all. I'm sloppy. I cut corners. And I'm crafting deficient. My proof: In seventh grade we had to take Home Economics, where, though I worked and slaved and sweated my brains out trying to do well in that stupid class, I only got a D. It was my only D of my life. (And it should have been an F)

6. I've only ever gotten one speeding ticket in my whole life. But I've deserved…..many. Prior to my speeding ticket, I had actually been pulled over for speeding nineteen times previous – in four different states. Each time, I burst into tears. Each time I was let off with a warning. Clearly I'm a lady who doesn't heed warnings. Also: I can sense a sucker from a mile off. I'm not proud of either of these qualities.

7. When I watch television shows with my husband on Netflix, I ALWAYS read the plot summaries of the entire season before I begin. Ted has no idea. Don't tell him.

8. I once wrote a query letter for a book that I hadn't written, and had no intention of writing. I just wanted to know if I could write a good one. I got 27 emails back requesting the full manuscript. I never wrote back.

9. I once accidentally let my drivers license expire, and didn't notice for two years. We travel by plane 3 and sometimes 4 times a year. No one – not the folks at the ticket counters, not the TSA folks at the checkpoints, not the people carding me at the liquor store – NO ONE noticed.

I think nine is a pretty good start. Anyone else want to unload their souls? Clear the air? Combat crazytalk and lie-mongering with a good old fashioned TruthSpeak? Let's hear it, folks!

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Birth Certificates, making fun of those who hate, Presidential Woes, racism gives you wrinkles, the benefits of truth telling

On Becoming a Billionaire

Today, for our Easter family activity, we strapped the canoe onto our car and drove up to the put-in spot on Minnehaha Creek at 54th Street and France avenue, with the intention of paddling all the way to our house, about a half mile above the falls. It was a perfect day for paddling – high, swift water, clear skies and bright sun without too much wind. And we nearly made it.

Nearly.

I ended up carrying two freezing cold, sopping wet, and very terrified children in my arms for a half-mile home.

But I'm not here to talk about our fiasco at a low bridge, where the combination of high water, low clearance and swift currents managed to fill our canoe with water, traumatize my children and nearly kill us all.

No, I'd like to talk about the conversation that happened about twenty minutes before our near-drowning.

About becoming a billionaire.

First, there was some discussion about the difference between one million and one billion, in which several metaphors were used by my eleven year old in her explanations to her six year old brother – particularly in her assertions that one billion was very, very different than infinity – though they are both, without a doubt, very very large.

After that, the conversation that my children had from their loungy spot at the bottom of the boat shifted to becoming a billionaire – and what they would do with their billions.

Ella, the oldest, thought about it for a while. "If I were a billionaire," she said, "I'd live in a motor home. An Airstream. But I'd paint it purple. And then I'd use the rest of the money to build libraries all around the country."

Cordelia, the middle child, said this. "I'd hate to live in a motor home. If I had a billion dollars, I'd buy a big house – not a mansion, but maybe kind of close to a mansion.  A big house without being mansiony. And I'd use the rest of the money (after buying food and paying taxes, of course) [AUTHOR'S NOTE- I love that my kid knows about paying taxes and assumes that it's something that rich people ABSOLUTELY MUST do.] to save the sea turtles. Because somebody's got to save the sea turtles.

Leo stared at his sisters incredulously. "I wouldn't do any of those things," he said.

"Really," I said as I dipped my paddle into the creek. "What would you do if you became a billionaire?"

"That's easy," he said. "I'd pay to be president. Also, I'd buy a Lego Death Star set."

And there you have it folks – the inverse nature of idealism in reference to birth order. And while I can't prove that this is the case with all families, I figure that since Jean Piaget created an entire theory of cognitive development solely on his observations of his own children, I'm just going to do the same.

Oldest child: Idealist.

Youngest child: Realist.

And middle children find their place somewhere in the spectrum.

The other thing I learned: My son is – really and truly – obsessed with owning a lego death star. So much so that even if he had the option of owning any game, toy or trinket on this broad, green earth, he only wants one thing: A lego death star set. That and being president. And for some reason, the two things are, for him, related.

    

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Airstream trailers and other cool stuff you can have if you're rich, Being a billionaire, Donald Trum has nothing on these children, Idealism as a product of birth oder, Jean Piaget, Minneapolis is Beautiful, Minnehaha Creek, Taxes

Two weeks to MECHANIQUE! Two weeks!

Ladies and Gentlemen! On May 5, 2011, Genevieve Valentine's gorgeously glorious novel Mechanique, a Tale of the Circus Tresaulti will be available to anyone with a bookstore nearby – or, failing that, an internet connection and a credit card and a penchant for indie book sites. (Actually, you could get it from Amazon, too, but I prefer the indies, and so should you.)

Now, I've blogged about this book before, and will do so again, but just so you know that a WHOLE LOT OF PEOPLE are excited about this novel, here's a bit from the good folks at Publisher's Weekly (they gave it a star! A star!):

"This steampunk-flavored circus story begins with a disturbing undertone, like an out-of-tune calliope, and develops in hints and shadows. Touring a drained postwar world, the Mechanical Circus Tresaulti rarely visits a city twice in anyone's lifetime; borders are lax, and lives are short. The circus's performers have no time for training, instead undergoing terrible trials in the ringmaster's workshop to gain their skills. Enter the "government man," who dreams of bringing back the order and security of the old world and wants the ringmaster to help him. She shares many of his dreams but mistrusts his offers of alliance. The drama and climax come not from the rivalry between the two but their similarities as they decide how to use their powers and who will suffer the consequences. Fans of grim fantasy will love this menacing and fascinating debut."
— Publishers Weekly

If that's not enough, then how about this. On May 6, the inimitable Ms. Valentine will be hosting a book launch party. A circus-themed book launch party. In a warehouse. With performers. AND IT IS GOING TO RULE.  Check this out:

Performers! Readings! Snacks! If I was living in NYC I'd wait outside the door for weeks and weeks just to make sure I could snag a book, get her to sign it, listen to a reading, hob-nob, and watch amazing artists to ridiculously amazing things with their bodies.

I'm so excited about this book, I can hardly tell you. And I'm so excited for you, dear readers, who will be attending this little shin dig.

Promise you'll send me pictures.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: A tale of the circus tresaulti, Book Launch Party, circus, fantasy, Genevieve Valentine, House Of YES, Mechanique, Post-Apocalyptic literature, Prime Books, Publisher's Weekly, tresaultiverse

On Michele Bachmann and Justin Bieber: Pan, meet Flash.

Over the years, I've had to make peace with Michele "Hot for God" Bachmann. It hasn't been easy.  Back when she was spreading her own little vitriolic brand of HateMongeringCrazyTalk ™ at the State Capitol (when, she was convinced, for example, that "the lesbians are out to get me", and then she did a little reconnaissance mission spying on a pro-gay-marriage rally by hiding in the bushes and playing peek-a-boo with the gays) (um….Michele…..metaphor much?). Anyway. And now, for some bizarre reason, the 6th district sent her to Washington for the sole purpose of utterly ignoring her both constituents and her job so she can spread her HateMongeringCrazyTalk to a nationwide audience.

All with a little (R-MN) under her name, thus sullying the fair name of my great State, and I for one have been SICK OF IT.

Here's a little taste of what we've been suffering from, straight from the mouth of Michele "Not All Cultures Are Created Equal" Bachmann herself:

On the problem of THE GAYZ IN THE SCHOOLZ, she said: "This is a very serious matter, because it is our children who are the prize for this community, they are specifically targeting our children." — Senator Michele Bachmann, appearing as guest on radio program "Prophetic Views Behind The News", hosted by Jan Markell, KKMS 980-AM, March 20, 2004.

"And what a bizarre time we're in, Jan, when a judge will say to little children that you can't say the pledge of allegiance, but you must learn that homosexuality is normal and you should try it." — Senator Michele Bachmann, appearing as guest on radio program "Prophetic Views Behind The News", hosted by Jan Markell, KKMS 980-AM, March 6, 2004.

And on Americorps, she said: "It's under the guise of — quote — volunteerism. But it's not volunteers at all. It's paying people to do work on behalf of government…. I believe that there is a very strong chance that we will see that young people will be put into mandatory service. And the real concerns is that there are provisions for what I would call re-education camps for young people, where young people have to go and get trained in a philosophy that the government puts forward and then they have to go to work in some of these politically correct forums." – The MN Independent, 4/6/09

"If you're involved in the gay and lesbian lifestyle, it's bondage. It is personal bondage, personal despair and personal enslavement." — Senator Michele Bachmann, speaking at EdWatch National Education Conference, November 6, 2004.

And then on Global climate change: "Carbon dioxide is portrayed as harmful. But there isn't even one study that can be produced that shows that carbon dioxide is a harmful gas." -Rep. Michelle Bachmann, April, 2009

It's enough to make a girl want to set her hair on fire.

And now, with the rumblings of presidential inclinations, I've had to force myself to make peace. Because I was getting ulcers. Because I was waking up at night. Because the thought – the possibility – of a person that crazy being anywhere near the White House makes me so terrified that I'm willing to sign my family up for the first wave of colonists on Mars. Hell, I'll help them build the colony.

Now, I meditate. I have found calm. I have made peace.  I have mantras. "Donotlookaththecrazydonotlookatthecrazy" is one that works pretty well.  "Fighthatewithlove" is another. And that's an important part. The list of people that Michele Bachmann hates? Well it's long. She hates gay people, that's pretty clear. She hates Muslim people. She hates Democrats. She really hates Barack Obama ("The first post-American president"? Really, Michele? Really?) She hates women's clinics. She hates children, and apparently doesn't want them to get health insurance. And she really, really, really hates poor people.

So I just need to love all of those people more.

And so do you.

Because when you love someone, when you really, really, really love them, you fight like hell to protect them. Ask a parent. We know.

But I've gotten off track. The reason why I'm writing this at all is because of Time Magazine's recent list of the top 100 supposedly influential people - a list that included Michele "Cukoobananas" Bachman.

Really, Time? The Representative that has used her position to grandstand and media-whore instead of actually representing? That's influence? The Rep who was shut out by her party's own leadership? That's influence? The Rep whose main legislative contributions includes limits on the individual's right to sue a business that has harmed them and a guarantee that people can still purchase wrinkles-hiding incandescent light bulbs? The supposed "public servant" who has said publicly that global climate change is a hoax?

And so I sank into despair.

But then!

I read the rest of the list! And hope bubbled forth like a spring!  I saw that beautiful, magnificent, flash-in-the-pan name. The Already-Irrelevent-and-even-my-behind-the-curve-tween-daughters-know-that-his-star-has-dimmed-fizzled-and-fallen, Justin Bieber.

Justin "Please-Still-Love-Me-And-By-The-Way-I-Now-Have-My-Own-Line-Of-Nail-Polish" Bieber.

Justin "Kelly-Barnhill's-Kids-Think-I-Have-Rabies" Bieber.

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If that kid is on the list…….well, that changes everything.

And then I remembered: Space Junk.

When it hits the atmosphere, it flashes, ignites and burns. It casts a brilliant streak across the night sky. On the ground, we crane our heads and smile. We hold our children to the light and point our fingers to the heavens.

And then it is gone.

All that remains: cinders, ash, vapor, air.

And that's what you are, Michele "I hate gay people" Bachmann. Go ahead and cast your short-lived-light upon the crazy hate-mongers of the world. We all know that the time is short. We all know that irrelevancy looms – and gets closer by the day – and that while you may get open-mouthed stares for now, that at the heart of it, your words are junk, and will reveal themselves as cinders, ash, dust, and will be gone.

And I, for one, can't wait.

Farewell, Michele! Have fun on the way down!

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Crazy For President, Flash in the pan, Fun with astronomy!, hope, Hot For God, Michele Bachman is batshit nuts, Sometimes Time Magazine is Full of It, Space Junk, Tea Party Crazy, Time Magazine List of 100 Most Influential People

Adendum to the Infinity Bottles of Beer on The Wall post

Thanks to the glorious time-wasting machine that is my internet router, I have discovered an entire movement in house and building design that I had never heard of before – one that is so exquisitely marvelous – an amalgamation of whimsy, innovative green design, uber-recycling, art, and beer-drinking – that it might actually change my life forever.

I am speaking, of course, about buildings built from beer bottles. Like this:

a Buddhist temple built entirely out of beer bottles. The sheer scope of the amount of alcohol that was required to be consumed in order to build a thing of that size is truly, truly humbling. I mean, just off the top of my head, I'm assuming we're looking at close to 400,000 gallons of beer, which means a minimum of 400,000 REALLY bad choices, approximately 90,000 fist-fights, 40,000 STD's, 9,000 questionable choices of karaoke songs, and approximately 1000 babies.

Truly, a glorious, glorious structure, and I think I want to print out that picture and frame it. (here's a relief made from bottle caps):

And it's not just the Buddhists! Here's a christian chapel:

and the Transcendentalists:

And some Finnish immigrants in Michigan built their house out of beer bottles (which, I know, has nothing to do with worshiping anything or meditating on anything. But it's still pretty cool.)

And all of this has gotten me thinking: I am married to a friggin architect. He built us our house with his own two hands (some other peoples hands as well – including mine – but it was mostly Ted because he doesn't sit down. Or rest. And rarely sleeps. Fer serious you guys, I'm married to a Cylon.)  And he has had some plans along the way to turn our garage into a writing studio for me. Which would be lovely. Our garage borders a park and green space, and would provide me with views of trees and meadows and a creek and a foot bridge and a scruffy little wood.

Lovely, yes?

Of course. But wouldn't it be lovelier if it was constructed out of beer bottles?

I'm starting to think it would.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: architecture, beer glorious beer, dwell magazine, green building, innovative design, interesting things that a person can do with a beer bottle, really really really cool buildings, recycled building materials