tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80245769064490220472024-03-05T09:16:39.410-08:00GREEN SCOOTERpoetry&proseChristiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.comBlogger455125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-67010794912331409722024-01-11T08:41:00.000-08:002024-01-11T08:41:59.978-08:00Writing Spaces<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WXtihafucV-GkfvrcLYoEFpJX25oMl9ehim5vj6cuSEXuhUXzKp-fIHNp4ZJ9Mx9Ijg0VIoCX_7KS6kG0y5J18M76A5w6pTp7ywY2D635qt07KiYE5ZKlCK2qdBFgxXkm2H1p3bk9Rbbcb1sC9FexSprEbqYYSRFhvsqSG3uOChku5I4TiLztl6TVEk/s640/bouquet%20and%20book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="550" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WXtihafucV-GkfvrcLYoEFpJX25oMl9ehim5vj6cuSEXuhUXzKp-fIHNp4ZJ9Mx9Ijg0VIoCX_7KS6kG0y5J18M76A5w6pTp7ywY2D635qt07KiYE5ZKlCK2qdBFgxXkm2H1p3bk9Rbbcb1sC9FexSprEbqYYSRFhvsqSG3uOChku5I4TiLztl6TVEk/w344-h400/bouquet%20and%20book.jpg" width="344" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">image: Christie Cochrell, Bouquet and Book</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-31715172402206746142024-01-01T08:34:00.000-08:002024-01-01T08:34:14.517-08:00Writing Spaces<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA96a37ZmuHnC6bIiGQcsXvZyXU0vb_CxEQ0IDwsvKfPU6wVu_Ai08ExcoCcBL5K_MRl9iBVOUonHztR6KJ1Evw_3wrPLFJI3ZHVgA-Mvy_KQmSlJgTtfn5RkTnT1lKrg6j7wQ78-Tm2N0m_D3qAjtieFLgCsP3ZjNsONlY6Zf8an9Qj4ZFG6MRIPF4Qo/s640/hawaii-oct2003(320).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA96a37ZmuHnC6bIiGQcsXvZyXU0vb_CxEQ0IDwsvKfPU6wVu_Ai08ExcoCcBL5K_MRl9iBVOUonHztR6KJ1Evw_3wrPLFJI3ZHVgA-Mvy_KQmSlJgTtfn5RkTnT1lKrg6j7wQ78-Tm2N0m_D3qAjtieFLgCsP3ZjNsONlY6Zf8an9Qj4ZFG6MRIPF4Qo/w400-h300/hawaii-oct2003(320).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>alo</i>, 1. sharing 2. in the present <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>oha</i>, joyous affection, joy <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ha</i>, life energy, life, breath<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Using Hawaiian language grammatical rules, we will translate this literally as "The joyful sharing of life energy in the present" or simply "Joyfully sharing life."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Image: <span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(76, 76, 76); color: #4c4c4c;">Canipe, Steve. </span><u style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(76, 76, 76); color: #4c4c4c;">hawaii-oct2003(320).jpg</u></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-59497541729797960492023-12-30T18:32:00.000-08:002023-12-30T18:32:33.790-08:00Writing Spaces<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOlWpnvN66IOi8ojeLBtf_VcXGlfGEUJPFEJ6HsqQ6IKeBDh-bQM1PonoEZrsueHerpaKJ2dwtBDYJ7zg1bRpVXDnkj5BU3NjLVX9-kCzGAhU7E5eMb9IyD1fHDBOE6FlCPQa3g5U_Rmf2DWoolz7vWvDND0WWVui8YgIMAT4XQQ6vCn-LVUh-ZR_AsI/s1024/tumblr_plsj2mt5GB1qbpnnfo2_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOlWpnvN66IOi8ojeLBtf_VcXGlfGEUJPFEJ6HsqQ6IKeBDh-bQM1PonoEZrsueHerpaKJ2dwtBDYJ7zg1bRpVXDnkj5BU3NjLVX9-kCzGAhU7E5eMb9IyD1fHDBOE6FlCPQa3g5U_Rmf2DWoolz7vWvDND0WWVui8YgIMAT4XQQ6vCn-LVUh-ZR_AsI/w400-h266/tumblr_plsj2mt5GB1qbpnnfo2_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUwb2Z4lNwAH_i0DcL8tSrLnkZ_3ljGyTQCFGTjeLBh2Eyj3VqptykKLQ2kTHm7QCPlsYCda8IXIrsdD8kX47akC5ilqi8i2xtHpBaHqsecIF-_k35TqTtCkVdT-1ZFUiP9s-DMf8JmL8SzjtoGviSTjhqteA-K5Db5ZJOSTKDNaeqPK1B4be9KTPEbE/s800/Frijoles-Canyon-Pictographs-aka-Cliff-Dwellers-Ceremonial-by-Gustave-Baumann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="800" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUwb2Z4lNwAH_i0DcL8tSrLnkZ_3ljGyTQCFGTjeLBh2Eyj3VqptykKLQ2kTHm7QCPlsYCda8IXIrsdD8kX47akC5ilqi8i2xtHpBaHqsecIF-_k35TqTtCkVdT-1ZFUiP9s-DMf8JmL8SzjtoGviSTjhqteA-K5Db5ZJOSTKDNaeqPK1B4be9KTPEbE/w400-h226/Frijoles-Canyon-Pictographs-aka-Cliff-Dwellers-Ceremonial-by-Gustave-Baumann.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZF8cu5JxYtQfXNbMkbJ59MIp2TRcJdDJkv-vm0t0XbgZZnRoJNTkepCWw2WuFXCR4rGHDbjPzTmfhUPw5qLcsL6mnfaRaI5IYj86kLjc0fx6JpBeOLXqXDazIZp-lh1Pvr8_ekSBLB3bwaz4ZYc-sCamzikgitDxhc0JEOhm7Vfj_qfPv8ODe6CoJKu8/s1690/Hawaiian%20Petroglyphs%20%C2%A9%20Tor%20Johnson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1690" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZF8cu5JxYtQfXNbMkbJ59MIp2TRcJdDJkv-vm0t0XbgZZnRoJNTkepCWw2WuFXCR4rGHDbjPzTmfhUPw5qLcsL6mnfaRaI5IYj86kLjc0fx6JpBeOLXqXDazIZp-lh1Pvr8_ekSBLB3bwaz4ZYc-sCamzikgitDxhc0JEOhm7Vfj_qfPv8ODe6CoJKu8/w400-h255/Hawaiian%20Petroglyphs%20%C2%A9%20Tor%20Johnson.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My ancient past . . . in three locations. Petroglyphs (essentially, writing on varied stones) in Rome, the Colosseum; in Frijoles Canyon, my New Mexico; and in Hawaii, on black lava flows, sometimes as prayers for the crossing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">images: <a href="tumblr_plsj2mt5GB1qbpnnfo2_1280">Rome</a>, Gustave Baumann lithograph of Frijoles Canyon, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=hawaiian+petroglyphs+%40+tor+johnson&sca_esv=677cc400327ddc8f&sxsrf=AM9HkKmqZloZUQb6IV8cDIDUlINY1RjIWw%3A1703989816892&source=hp&ei=ONKQZb2cNPW2wt0PvYSM6A4&iflsig=AO6bgOgAAAAAZZDgSJv-b7sIxjQ7hzEn-XsR5qtBLFNB&ved=0ahUKEwi9mPDd0LiDAxV1m7AFHT0CA-0Q4dUDCAs&uact=5&oq=hawaiian+petroglyphs+%40+tor+johnson&gs_lp=Egdnd3Mtd2l6IiJoYXdhaWlhbiBwZXRyb2dseXBocyBAIHRvciBqb2huc29uMgUQIRigATIFECEYoAEyBRAhGKABMgUQIRigATIFECEYqwIyBRAhGKsCMgUQIRirAkjGYVAAWLBfcAJ4AJABAZgB9AKgAckuqgEIMC4zMi4zLjG4AQPIAQD4AQHCAgQQIxgnwgIKECMYgAQYigUYJ8ICERAAGIAEGIoFGJECGLEDGIMBwgILEC4YgAQYigUYkQLCAhEQLhiABBixAxiDARjHARjRA8ICDhAAGIAEGIoFGLEDGIMBwgILEAAYgAQYsQMYgwHCAg8QIxiABBiKBRgnGEYY-QHCAgsQABiABBiKBRiRAsICChAAGIAEGBQYhwLCAgUQABiABMICDhAuGIAEGIoFGJECGLEDwgIREC4YgwEYxwEYsQMY0QMYgATCAgsQLhiABBixAxiDAcICCBAAGIAEGLEDwgIOEC4YgAQYigUYsQMYgwHCAggQLhiABBixA8ICFxAuGIMBGMcBGJECGLEDGNEDGIAEGIoFwgIOEAAYgAQYsQMYgwEYyQPCAggQABiABBiSA8ICBRAuGIAEwgILEAAYgAQYigUYkgPCAggQLhixAxiABMICFxAuGIAEGIoFGJECGLEDGIMBGMcBGNEDwgILEC4YgwEYsQMYgATCAgcQLhiABBgKwgILEC4YgAQYxwEYrwHCAgcQABiABBgNwgIGEAAYFhgewgIIEAAYFhgeGA_CAgsQABiABBiKBRiGA8ICBxAhGKABGAo&sclient=gws-wiz#vhid=B8KvXKENDfIFYM&vssid=l">Hawaiian Petroglyphs © Tor Johnson</a></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-74748907113605741322023-12-28T08:36:00.000-08:002023-12-28T08:38:41.728-08:00Writing Spaces<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjy7RUNSBI-rS-FrF_jdSzf6rBrMHV8q2AoaGLW61pHX4GFY2EQz8Aq9jATLN_Z97At1kdLLfBym39tWP-7uAz7g2szzGWX7ObVh3lOvQ69Nc6f4AV5kg21O9tBvyYddVTY7twBn6IbG24qe4fssRsZoazmg8shiFrzyeXk2caSU8yCwmHW2Rq-uS8A8E/s2572/sail.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2572" data-original-width="2028" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjy7RUNSBI-rS-FrF_jdSzf6rBrMHV8q2AoaGLW61pHX4GFY2EQz8Aq9jATLN_Z97At1kdLLfBym39tWP-7uAz7g2szzGWX7ObVh3lOvQ69Nc6f4AV5kg21O9tBvyYddVTY7twBn6IbG24qe4fssRsZoazmg8shiFrzyeXk2caSU8yCwmHW2Rq-uS8A8E/w315-h400/sail.png" width="315" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Uncharted seas ahead . . .</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">with words to buoy us,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">keep us on our course.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">image: Christie, collage page</span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-12047671341369858702023-12-22T14:00:00.000-08:002023-12-22T14:00:28.428-08:00The Days That Must Happen to You<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bWx5ydNTOvZzi4n7oMfQ59qlw8CaPtLDWvBhmsHvWsU1VeSHy73tZ_FJhaVHzifb4MTU1zPhK-ydUTt-MXB8XFQIv7y6jL9ThptnSglVEY0qEF2hhf-RxHMJl0KjtlQfWhtBnTjCjYUWZG9wavymvI6lcQi5fLsZCOatu91seKC23SMdIWyggL9LENk/s1200/our-finished-sandcastle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bWx5ydNTOvZzi4n7oMfQ59qlw8CaPtLDWvBhmsHvWsU1VeSHy73tZ_FJhaVHzifb4MTU1zPhK-ydUTt-MXB8XFQIv7y6jL9ThptnSglVEY0qEF2hhf-RxHMJl0KjtlQfWhtBnTjCjYUWZG9wavymvI6lcQi5fLsZCOatu91seKC23SMdIWyggL9LENk/w400-h266/our-finished-sandcastle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">“When he died, their father had two requests. First, that his ashes be taken to the <i>palacio</i> on the river the third week in September, on what would have been his 90th birthday. And second, that the whole family be there to take part in the scattering. Or, as he put it in the codicil, quoting his favorite poet, Walt Whitman, and underlining the words twice, ‘These are the days that must happen to you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> That second was the sticking point, of course—though he'd cunningly left generous funds with Daniel Kim, his dexterous executor and sandcastling buddy, to cover travel from their various boltholes across the world, and made it clear that only if they carried out that dire last commandment would there be another cent. But even so, could they forget their rancor, their cherished pet peeves, and tolerate each other's company for three interminable days?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thus begins <a href="https://www.eucalyptuslit.com/issue-two/christiecochrell-the-days-that-must-happen-to-you">another story</a> inspired by a prompt from <i>The First Line</i>. (Yes, there are <i>many</i> yet to come!) This was published yesterday by <i>Eucalyptus Lit</i>, who had this to say:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Today is the winter solstice: a natural pivot in the seasonal cycle, aligning with our exploration of change in <a href="https://www.eucalyptuslit.com/issue-2">this issue</a>. Allow yourselves to be changed, inspired by the work of the community around us. Great art is meant to be enjoyed—to be shared—so please feel free to spread the word about our issue to your friends, family, and fellow literature enthusiasts.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I told them when it was accepted, "It is especially nice to have my story published by you, since eucalyptus has graced much of my life—from the Mills College campus to the foothills around Palo Alto where I spent some thirty years, to the park here in Santa Cruz whose eucalyptus shelters long-traveling Monarch butterflies.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">And it was fun to spend some time in the Carmel Valley with this peevish family over three days, along with Walt Whitman, and see where all of us came out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Image: <a href="https://feelgoodandtravel.com/how-to-build-a-sandcastle/">Feel Good and Travel, How to Build a Sandcastle</a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-55758751549804183352023-12-22T13:34:00.000-08:002023-12-22T13:34:25.218-08:00Signature Required<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8gNSZ4Z2zECSbXbIAnKzUKtRJ1SBpKOPPdALQEpixRYYvVfsTLtdJgGg7arRPYxo4Uxwt0eiT0OIexSoJhvS3H2IoVnJo4okbHDVrVaeTpgRxhvMoGQs9_9d8FsQYRqwHGXYYho_zNYhxifeyxbCLxMevAiN4zHjOOUMQOAIZpnMigSHZ2FRp14CumM/s800/Palladian%20Bridge,%20Prior%20Park,%20England.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8gNSZ4Z2zECSbXbIAnKzUKtRJ1SBpKOPPdALQEpixRYYvVfsTLtdJgGg7arRPYxo4Uxwt0eiT0OIexSoJhvS3H2IoVnJo4okbHDVrVaeTpgRxhvMoGQs9_9d8FsQYRqwHGXYYho_zNYhxifeyxbCLxMevAiN4zHjOOUMQOAIZpnMigSHZ2FRp14CumM/w400-h225/Palladian%20Bridge,%20Prior%20Park,%20England.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here’s another of my wilder whimsies, a.k.a. "What Should We Do with the Body?", in response to a prompt by <i>The First Line</i>—who (in more sober frame of mind) did not accept it for publication. It’s been picked up instead by <i><a href="https://cerasusmagazine.com">Cerasus Magazine</a></i>, appropriately situated, as is the story, in England.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">For those who enjoy whimsy involving Punk rockers, Paladian bridges, Polish chickens, an early Renaissance stiletto, and a stray cassowary (or, indeed, as an editor I once worked with once enthused, for “<i>any</i>one with an interest in <i>any</i>thing”), a paperback copy of <a href="https://cerasusmagazine.com/magazines/issue-11/">Issue #11</a> can be purchased from Amazon, or the pdf can be downloaded <a href="https://ko-fi.com/s/ea7ca8ecc2">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve imagined that an ideal film version of this story would star the following:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">John Gielgud as old retainer<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ken Stott (Rebus) as Digby<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">young Stephen Fry or Simon Callow as Aiken<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ian McShane (Lovejoy) or David Jason (Frost) as Man with Clipboard 2<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Richard Briers or John Cleese as Lord Ashenden<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bill Nighy as Parson Q<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Peter Vaughan as the Major General</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">But that's just further whimsy, of course . . .</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Image: Palladian Bridge, Prior Park, England</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-8920387751816474002023-11-15T13:56:00.000-08:002023-11-15T13:58:14.949-08:00A New Biography<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolEQ06VcwNTSoNufieK9N2S_QcGxQrR1txSOD23eP6JZ3x1tzAunxTt8CJ64xvSAVGsu8JAyCiJ_Mpo3TtCqaWgVW7rHGEG1zaYp7Kv9LgBbZMw0GArg44cd_cMTCcQOSWO4384yewNqlNG-Xl8nKT_2Uuzrcdl-Tk7z8JKc1jMpdwApHbliQwohy7Iw/s4032/CBC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolEQ06VcwNTSoNufieK9N2S_QcGxQrR1txSOD23eP6JZ3x1tzAunxTt8CJ64xvSAVGsu8JAyCiJ_Mpo3TtCqaWgVW7rHGEG1zaYp7Kv9LgBbZMw0GArg44cd_cMTCcQOSWO4384yewNqlNG-Xl8nKT_2Uuzrcdl-Tk7z8JKc1jMpdwApHbliQwohy7Iw/w300-h400/CBC.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-size: large;">This will accompany stories now, until further notice—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">"Christie Cochrell is grateful for the several awards and Pushcart nominations given to her diverse array of published stories and creative nonfiction pieces, and for the favorite places far and near that have inspired her writing. <span>Chosen as New Mexico Young Poet of the Year while growing up in Santa Fe, she has more recently published a volume of collected poems, <i>Contagious Magic</i>. </span><span>She lives on the northern California coast in Santa Cruz, the unceded ancestral homeland of the </span>Awaswas-speaking Uypi Tribe, and honors those who came before."</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0anE-2TF0pjJfZYYUkYoCjHnhRPUfBBqQEslIQgdmw2ood3oOHhrNE_lq-hTEEh1XCKarbMgm2o_bjoinBhbkhBtTTCMTRo04Ah0zZczVvzofuXrDlc07Nt7xN_N3eIhZ7AEo5ykqQ9xNWPYCakKuxoXX_lqNyeg7uYBF_o8D9ZsqPo2idQQwsj07Vgk/s4032/ocean%20and%20black%20dog.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0anE-2TF0pjJfZYYUkYoCjHnhRPUfBBqQEslIQgdmw2ood3oOHhrNE_lq-hTEEh1XCKarbMgm2o_bjoinBhbkhBtTTCMTRo04Ah0zZczVvzofuXrDlc07Nt7xN_N3eIhZ7AEo5ykqQ9xNWPYCakKuxoXX_lqNyeg7uYBF_o8D9ZsqPo2idQQwsj07Vgk/w300-h400/ocean%20and%20black%20dog.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCUW7qGMuPSS_ogXC9N_7rRqBATrxqvJZbRrzxldPHW87LjOBT1SucBMFFzYAZQ5SHDa2xwdvksJqmLxLfUBdOEpGyXgip1cD6YGh9rtXiKHzqlY3zYQ2L12_LFmMipXDk5pibpfFLqsw4Y4-SbANG_H0GB-p7iPdNEs0VhjFKwGaqaSS_ygp94zvJwQ/s4032/two%20waters.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCUW7qGMuPSS_ogXC9N_7rRqBATrxqvJZbRrzxldPHW87LjOBT1SucBMFFzYAZQ5SHDa2xwdvksJqmLxLfUBdOEpGyXgip1cD6YGh9rtXiKHzqlY3zYQ2L12_LFmMipXDk5pibpfFLqsw4Y4-SbANG_H0GB-p7iPdNEs0VhjFKwGaqaSS_ygp94zvJwQ/w300-h400/two%20waters.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Image: Santa Cruz Beach, with Author</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ocean and Black Dog, and Two Waters, Christie Cochrell</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-45914772258136908142023-11-15T13:45:00.000-08:002023-11-15T13:45:31.284-08:00Out with Lanterns<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dZVWe8EHblRAkoUZO5LlcZIs2uWvr4AIi1SxCfXglpFv6ie7JaeQFEXAPDgHDA8TmDlAxSh9s0ann12E6ZRhK6wyIPfl1MnzF0Eqwm7bzSLCEQfcfO7Olx5aUkRBjZ66EZpHrfkpSorFravEf0sotlmDK5tcisoOa7Oz99iiPm4HQBcFSUt1X3_FoWo/s4032/Museum%20Hill.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dZVWe8EHblRAkoUZO5LlcZIs2uWvr4AIi1SxCfXglpFv6ie7JaeQFEXAPDgHDA8TmDlAxSh9s0ann12E6ZRhK6wyIPfl1MnzF0Eqwm7bzSLCEQfcfO7Olx5aUkRBjZ66EZpHrfkpSorFravEf0sotlmDK5tcisoOa7Oz99iiPm4HQBcFSUt1X3_FoWo/w300-h400/Museum%20Hill.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">It makes me so happy to see <a href="https://www.sybiljournal.com/work-2/2023/10/13/out-with-lanterns-by-christie-cochrell">this long, rambling meditation</a> finally published—<i>and</i> with photos I took (New Mexico, Oxford, Kew Gardens) nicely fitted in by <i>Sybil</i>, making it a true hybrid. Prose, poetry, and images all mine, and me. A kind of screenshot of who/where/why I am at this juncture. Started towards the end of lockdown, when it was dawning on me how stir-crazy I'd become, after so many years of traveling more or less whenever I wanted, and having to worry that I'd never in my life get to travel again; and finished/edited as I was getting ready to travel again (yes, really!) to Santa Fe—time-travel back, for my 50th class reunion. Getting ready to babble on about (in twenty words or less) what I'd been doing all that time, and where I have come out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">So here we are! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The format kind of rambles too, which seems appropriate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">(And I learned after coming home that a Santa Fe friend named Sybil had just passed away—so a tribute of sorts, as well.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">One small excerpt from towards the end:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am still sad, far from England and all the other far places I love, missing my life as Clarice Lispector describes it perfectly—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I miss everything that marked my life. ... I miss <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">the things I lived and the ones I let go. ... <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">How many times I want to find I don't know what... <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know where... To rescue something I don't <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">know what it is or where I lost it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> But I have understood, putting the recent feeling of loss down in words, in the same notebook that now holds the little beach, the cardamom, the dogwalkers, the Sterling Silver “wishy-washy” ink I find today along with letters from Emily Dickinson translated charmingly into Italian, that I’m still me, enduringly, even at this remove. Still weird as weird can be. That the whorls of labyrinths, like fingerprints, are uniquely and indelibly mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvmNzYbApBvFtNeH5-A3NBEpeT98ExKfGsiLFrRVC9Nj4PGZPfOtTb_9-vUUvPhqy8MpaNXcRwNMZUR40abK8vMPI5NBV41xHfbTzrBkl3BPPUSL5oQym69XSbztRFESwMDM8Hr_zCnnqMwoelhv5KjlajQ_GdsO8stE2bn1VijnnNTZtxEzp7PTrwWg/s3264/Cycladic.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdvmNzYbApBvFtNeH5-A3NBEpeT98ExKfGsiLFrRVC9Nj4PGZPfOtTb_9-vUUvPhqy8MpaNXcRwNMZUR40abK8vMPI5NBV41xHfbTzrBkl3BPPUSL5oQym69XSbztRFESwMDM8Hr_zCnnqMwoelhv5KjlajQ_GdsO8stE2bn1VijnnNTZtxEzp7PTrwWg/w300-h400/Cycladic.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Images: On Museum Hill, Christie Cochrell<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Cycladic Figurines, The Ashmolean, Christie Cochrell</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-24185009374487376002023-11-15T13:19:00.000-08:002023-11-15T13:19:52.601-08:00Salve Porta<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCu_nN7rp2FeKCXZ-INQPAeo7mhWpkbrrywE8TOsTdHqpdWn9I643vrIvz360X7r8CYPHPP7wDzNgcwbPpkGKTbMldYfs-CniLgj3gfYv_G0FiwQebNZQdnegmE4DXuYxoy_H8cXiiAAD_yyDcrj8aee0Jsgl_4gkHDyEpEH8EQxqXdBpV7CsYSapzrKM/s2000/Aztec%20doorways.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCu_nN7rp2FeKCXZ-INQPAeo7mhWpkbrrywE8TOsTdHqpdWn9I643vrIvz360X7r8CYPHPP7wDzNgcwbPpkGKTbMldYfs-CniLgj3gfYv_G0FiwQebNZQdnegmE4DXuYxoy_H8cXiiAAD_yyDcrj8aee0Jsgl_4gkHDyEpEH8EQxqXdBpV7CsYSapzrKM/w266-h400/Aztec%20doorways.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The wonderful online journal, <i><a href="https://www.theplentitudes.com">The Plentitudes</a></i>, has again honored me by publishing a story in their Fall issue, “The Clarity”—<a href="https://www.theplentitudes.com/piece/salve-porta">this</a>, all about doors and what they signified to Emmy Salas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doorways were fraught. Portals to the unfathomable place where absence dwells. The loneliest, most haunted spaces in the world. They swallowed people whole. Emmy had lived with a phobia of doors—<i>entamaphobia—</i>much of her life, having watched too many of her loved ones vanish through what Rilke in one of his Sonnets to Orpheus called “the inconsolable open door.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Other elements in this story, “Salve Porta,” include Mesa Verde and Aztec Ruins, Willa Cather’s novel <i>The Professor’s House</i>, Hitchcock’s <i>The Lady Vanishes</i>, and a black Skye terrier, Pautiwa, named for one of the Hopi sky gods.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioPTTBDYqoJCxYfmI9VznuMP1X5mKfAoquDjot2UxRinYoXcWxaXSu9FJYgO50d3Jzd0cSYBg1ULA-uhri1C5O6T_XHE-nDCA-_7dTvBpBqFZ1PnwdfxIZuCADshZqCqIu-jqFIOxZR-PlFZ_e6qGORSqv2xsJtiXJH84Wxt-sB25IxEJVAFYe0dT7JLA/s1100/Gates-of-Heaven-Bali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1100" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioPTTBDYqoJCxYfmI9VznuMP1X5mKfAoquDjot2UxRinYoXcWxaXSu9FJYgO50d3Jzd0cSYBg1ULA-uhri1C5O6T_XHE-nDCA-_7dTvBpBqFZ1PnwdfxIZuCADshZqCqIu-jqFIOxZR-PlFZ_e6qGORSqv2xsJtiXJH84Wxt-sB25IxEJVAFYe0dT7JLA/w400-h255/Gates-of-Heaven-Bali.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXu-4PsYFxBSKyi5m2ewVXBfOdlzgKTIb8S3MvdoHyQbrmhPgH5Q4PyYYEZEwtyWwZ_w982bsu7Ta2LYdjXJxbRoJDFJnpBQAGlHr29LXDpj9VYx2AUXqkeVyBT9bXDArmzl2VfwDFi4dVe95vg8PLS0UVIngx11hv4s-mfL0fs3aXvqJo36p2LRpJcs/s4000/Pisa%20light.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXu-4PsYFxBSKyi5m2ewVXBfOdlzgKTIb8S3MvdoHyQbrmhPgH5Q4PyYYEZEwtyWwZ_w982bsu7Ta2LYdjXJxbRoJDFJnpBQAGlHr29LXDpj9VYx2AUXqkeVyBT9bXDArmzl2VfwDFi4dVe95vg8PLS0UVIngx11hv4s-mfL0fs3aXvqJo36p2LRpJcs/w300-h400/Pisa%20light.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Images:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Aztec doorways, photographer unknown<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gates of Heaven, Bali, photographer unknown<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pisa light, Christie Cochrell<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-40658936843451458422023-10-03T09:43:00.000-07:002023-10-03T09:43:09.449-07:00Writing Spaces: The Gap<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-J_VWtTxlRJ7pKy8_pZfLEYQXf0kyGSqyG2Iw7XqgnhLh2mj85fBW9cX-iceMQXC15bQHEPx_vahZ6e2Swm5HVxMSQrNxA0B1OE5ljMfWuWqNWYfeY00r-gRAumTD27Cum25TuGN9o_vd-Mv1ZfjuxhtCOkTTOsSgaur50DpXZbUd2J8WJJ72dGBSOM/s1600/sycamore-gap%20(Fabulous%20North).webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-J_VWtTxlRJ7pKy8_pZfLEYQXf0kyGSqyG2Iw7XqgnhLh2mj85fBW9cX-iceMQXC15bQHEPx_vahZ6e2Swm5HVxMSQrNxA0B1OE5ljMfWuWqNWYfeY00r-gRAumTD27Cum25TuGN9o_vd-Mv1ZfjuxhtCOkTTOsSgaur50DpXZbUd2J8WJJ72dGBSOM/w400-h266/sycamore-gap%20(Fabulous%20North).webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The empty space which dwells now where the tree once was—the haunted space, uneasy with recriminations and with dread, heavy with loss, mourning, fraught with remembered days and skies and moods, passing seasons, passing travelers, hopes past, love holding on, but just—exactly there, we enter into the sacred, echoing precincts of writing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">"The tree was so old, and stood there so alone, that his childish heart had been filled with compassion; if no one else on the farm gave it a thought, he would at least do his best to, even though he suspected that his child’s words and child’s deeds didn’t make much difference. It had stood there before he was born, and would be standing there after he was dead, but perhaps, even so, it was pleased that he stroked its bark every time he passed, and sometimes, when he was sure he wasn’t observed, even pressed his cheek against it."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">—Karl Ove Knausgård, from <i>A Time for Everything</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Said to be 300 years old, this famous tree was cut down with a chainsaw by a vandal on 28 September, 2023. RIP compassion and love and gentleness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: <a href="https://fabulousnorth.com/sycamore-gap/">Sycamore Gap, The Fabulous North</a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-6841237435189930712023-10-01T08:42:00.003-07:002023-10-01T08:45:52.353-07:00Writing Spaces: October<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYAuaobNfTIN2LpNWwCx6L51EUm0HevgtDawh1i6I7iWmfOtYcIJHnSOp1fUIqsIYljhounQFfpwkb93jK9iLBqetc0g2uMjUxXAAEfiZq1x4VI8HMFqtxFYJcLAN7U5wUfrb8BGvJYwEMNRu1tvIFXpmtgeV-r5KBOnrMxqWF-Stl_ZNWcYagFpq6FI/s1250/Helena%20Miozga:ChingYang%20Tung.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="703" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYAuaobNfTIN2LpNWwCx6L51EUm0HevgtDawh1i6I7iWmfOtYcIJHnSOp1fUIqsIYljhounQFfpwkb93jK9iLBqetc0g2uMjUxXAAEfiZq1x4VI8HMFqtxFYJcLAN7U5wUfrb8BGvJYwEMNRu1tvIFXpmtgeV-r5KBOnrMxqWF-Stl_ZNWcYagFpq6FI/w225-h400/Helena%20Miozga:ChingYang%20Tung.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spaces between . . . summer and fall (rising, falling), the light and dark, the trees and their deep (soaring) clarity- and mystery-laden interstices . . . Places in which the writer gladly dwells.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1451923151625939&set=a.105263976291870">Helena Miozga/ChingYang Tung</a><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p> </p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-33790367495176966942023-09-14T08:46:00.002-07:002023-09-14T08:46:58.232-07:00Wayfinding, revisited<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3NeEM9t3k9TRhtWrtm2NzMdE4pCbGtiUWWFFr5btCKboPhhk5za5fTTxtqkOoxwRw3zM_jgldp6my9xyzkSc7hyWBXHfLMP01xP4OWm3wmesmz_Xb6NyxtkcNkMjBGasVWhPkqr_n8GB_v8KI1RNbCv1S9zjuCeHVjkU1qPk8syw83v4omTvwBm989w/s4000/cas-holmes-36Q1kTbhSwM-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3NeEM9t3k9TRhtWrtm2NzMdE4pCbGtiUWWFFr5btCKboPhhk5za5fTTxtqkOoxwRw3zM_jgldp6my9xyzkSc7hyWBXHfLMP01xP4OWm3wmesmz_Xb6NyxtkcNkMjBGasVWhPkqr_n8GB_v8KI1RNbCv1S9zjuCeHVjkU1qPk8syw83v4omTvwBm989w/w300-h400/cas-holmes-36Q1kTbhSwM-unsplash.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A story I revised in response to an inspiring class on revisions at Stanford, “Wayfinding,” was originally published in <i>The Avalon Literary Review</i>. (See details <u><a href="https://ourgreenscooter.blogspot.com/search?q=wayfinding">here</a></u>.) I am particularly fond of it not just because it’s set in Salisbury, a favorite place, but also since it set in motion these past several years of writing faithfully, fully, fantastically (salvation during the Pandemic) and publishing most of the shorter things I write.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, “Wayfinding” has been published again, this time online in <i>Wild Roof Journal</i>, <a href="https://wildroofjournal.com/issue-22/">Issue 22</a> – Sept. 6, 2023 (in Gallery 2, or find me by name). I do really love their format and their art, so do browse all the galleries.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here’s a sampling of my rather wistful piece:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She felt again the rise of the great spire above them, its miraculous continuity. Continuity: the connective breath of families, of the universe, that the Tewas believed they kept alive. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Like hope, the only thing left in Pandora's box—and in Hazel's. Brother Raymond had given her that. This quiet cloister, the sweep of stairs at Wells, the chance to know the brave, bright Salisbury spire, triumphant over despair. In-spire-ing, breathing into, ‘filling the heart with grace.’ Inspire came from <i>spirare</i>, to breathe; the breath of life continuing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Continuing, if in shuddery gasps, after the human storm. Out of the box opened by Pandora, that fatally meddlesome woman formed from clay by the gods, had sprung war and pestilence, the stuff of Evan's work. Hazel's intention, as she'd told herself over and over, was only to set free a wistful prayer, fragile as one of the Holly Blue butterflies found in old churchyards. Palest blue wings with a small spattering of ink spots, embryonic words. What she had loosed instead had been catastrophic.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Image: </span><span style="background: rgb(241, 241, 241); color: #111111; font-family: Garamond, serif;">Photo by </span><span style="color: #93c47d;"><a href="https://unsplash.com/@cas1111?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Cas Holmes</span></a><span style="background: rgb(241, 241, 241); font-family: Garamond, serif;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/36Q1kTbhSwM?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Unsplash</span></a></span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-71412811922492720562023-09-13T18:16:00.001-07:002023-09-13T18:16:21.748-07:00Sea Stars<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8UBGRsfoHiGB_snY53dMrHuV6e2wjg80_jb5WqkJAQX5caRLjZfyDH5k8EEHFw6IuGs0xsv_onRKEx1cNBnODNQCwQDEDwumijnIZF69ZJd1nygJ0U6iB3Qwkq5nj3fdaXCDqwaOTPCDVMNUV018fAfhldG3d65Pe7kR5WjNC7YLnm77dpGNYntnkrg/s2048/373653499_993801878704716_7128293707852226230_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1741" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8UBGRsfoHiGB_snY53dMrHuV6e2wjg80_jb5WqkJAQX5caRLjZfyDH5k8EEHFw6IuGs0xsv_onRKEx1cNBnODNQCwQDEDwumijnIZF69ZJd1nygJ0U6iB3Qwkq5nj3fdaXCDqwaOTPCDVMNUV018fAfhldG3d65Pe7kR5WjNC7YLnm77dpGNYntnkrg/w340-h400/373653499_993801878704716_7128293707852226230_n.jpg" width="340" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m immensely grateful once again to be one of the authors published by our wonderful local journal, <i>Catamaran Literary Reader</i>. My story “Sea Stars,” also set on the Monterey Bay, has just launched in the Fall 2023 issue—Volume 11, Issue 4. It’s also featured <a href="https://static1.squarespace.com/static/50a3e7b0e4b0216a96954b82/t/64f1006034e3785e01391fda/1693515873051/Fiction+Cochrell+Sea+Stars.pdf">online, here</a>. The artwork chosen to grace it, used on the cover too, is an amazingly perfect complement, particularly to the myth mentioned at the end of this passage.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Tobias slept for hours when Lainey had gotten him into the house, into a cozy yellow room with fog outside and kindly evergreens standing sentry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later, well after normal suppertime, her old friend woke, uncomprehending, in the foreign yellow room, the soft yellow throw blanket over him, but when he saw Lainey he smiled tentatively at her, the way a baby or a child might. Practicing. Following her lead. She brought him warm potato soup, and bread with unsalted butter, and he ate a little before sleeping again. She followed Leonard’s directions to the linen closet, and found herself sheets and a comforter for the daybed in the front room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tobias still hadn’t said anything, which was entirely unlike him, and Lainey worried, despite the reassurance of the others. She sat in a butterfly-print wing chair, and talked to him again. She told him his aquarium was safe, the fish fed, his fellow docents missing him, his stars aligned. [She mentioned the Greek myths, the stories of the sea creatures and constellations he so often talked about. That had in many ways brought them together.] <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘My favorite is that myth of Poseidon extinguishing the stars in the heavens to help the Cretan fisherman woo the woman he loved. They fell into the sea, all of the stars . . .’ (she waited for the old marine biologist to chime in and finish, but he stayed quiet) ‘. . . and he gathered them up in his hands to offer her—a gift she couldn’t possibly refuse.’”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Image: </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=993801882038049&set=a.709378503813723"><span style="background: white; color: #050505; font-family: Garamond, serif;">Andrea Kowch</span>, “Light Keepers,” <i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Catamaran</span></i></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-23420925000994440402023-09-13T17:52:00.003-07:002023-09-13T17:53:18.656-07:00The Road to Hana<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfgWXoFSpBQG5Qj5bs0zGOBJ_Jd9OrxLI_6FyDkYQeKOb_XQjkSW0RwJXyFGT88MmVUp2JzcFemekuv0IW6jZzViYpvaaMk0gX1WPWFU1EdzrphFcrF5JrqfNyXvyfC7bLw_hxtgSXcTr0XmKOBqYUAPJGMXK5bSNG5FAnZWBLhfDC-oru7AVOBV0FY0/s5184/dwinanda-nurhanif-mujito-71r-CaIQCiY-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfgWXoFSpBQG5Qj5bs0zGOBJ_Jd9OrxLI_6FyDkYQeKOb_XQjkSW0RwJXyFGT88MmVUp2JzcFemekuv0IW6jZzViYpvaaMk0gX1WPWFU1EdzrphFcrF5JrqfNyXvyfC7bLw_hxtgSXcTr0XmKOBqYUAPJGMXK5bSNG5FAnZWBLhfDC-oru7AVOBV0FY0/w266-h400/dwinanda-nurhanif-mujito-71r-CaIQCiY-unsplash.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sadly, the appearance of this story set on Maui was terribly timed—its <a href="https://jmwwblog.wordpress.com/2023/08/16/fiction-the-road-to-hana-by-christie-cochrell/">online publication by </a><i><a href="https://jmwwblog.wordpress.com/2023/08/16/fiction-the-road-to-hana-by-christie-cochrell/">JMWW</a> </i>coming on August 16, 2023, only a week after the terrible fires. I like, though, to consider it<span style="color: #b6d7a8;"> a</span><span><span style="color: #b6d7a8;"> kind of celebration of the island and its unique spirit; a gathering of <i>mana</i> to wish all its denizens good health again; a healing prayer, <i>pule ho’ouluulu</i>. After all, my heroine is rather lost until she summons back (or conjures back, as is her wont) the special magic that she found there once.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">“<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">As usual, her approach was to brush the crumbs fallen from the mess of her life under a bright magic carpet, Turkish or Flokati. Ignoring the real problem. She thought of Gilbert and Sullivan's Bunthorne, lofty Aesthetic poet and self-acknowledged sham, asking his beloved Patience, lowly dairymaid, </span>‘<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Tell me, girl, do you ever yearn?</span>’<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> And her matter-of-fact answer, </span>‘<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I (y)earn my living.</span>’<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> That was Hana's standard approach as well, deflecting all attempts at getting at her emotions, through side-stepping words, adroit language and puns. The stage magic she used daily, to make herself seem whole and functional.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">In her job as Dear Sybil, dispensing advice, she had to endlessly sift and digest the advice of others—ancient Persian poets, Motown greats, Athenian philosophers, Tibetan sages born in the year of the Wood-Pig, Bishops of Lesotho, experts on black holes and relativity, Jungian analysts, the butler Jeeves, the Farmer’s Almanac and the ancient Toltec, the rich-voiced Maya Angelou, all-seeing Mary Oliver, Pippi Longstocking, cartoonists. Shakespeare, often. She was a collage artist, when you came right down to it. A pickpocket, a thief of ideas and words. A conjurer, of sorts, pulling bright scarves out of her empty sleeve. Out of thin air.</span>”<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #00b050; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Image: Photo by <span style="color: #45818e;"><a href="https://unsplash.com/@dwinandanm?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Dwinanda Nurhanif Mujito</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/71r-CaIQCiY?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></span><span face="-webkit-standard"></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-40399815277752772972023-09-13T17:29:00.001-07:002023-09-13T17:29:34.473-07:00Green Was the Dream<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkh-vr4lZwtSuKRlvLv2f17FX7G7RZAnd89NjY9uzU-zXt7SDgJbSrjamgXgVT_Nc9rgPTGgw5u2nRODutLOTjxwSxLTArhpalDhhzsZRstA6kc14Z2XpYAI565JG6zXpGLQyCYCFXXs1keFv4hT9vFrj3tk4ilUE3_gIjynlxs6ziw1vZJY3t0W3Zsk/s4608/aaron-burden-sI8V_ax011I-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkh-vr4lZwtSuKRlvLv2f17FX7G7RZAnd89NjY9uzU-zXt7SDgJbSrjamgXgVT_Nc9rgPTGgw5u2nRODutLOTjxwSxLTArhpalDhhzsZRstA6kc14Z2XpYAI565JG6zXpGLQyCYCFXXs1keFv4hT9vFrj3tk4ilUE3_gIjynlxs6ziw1vZJY3t0W3Zsk/w400-h300/aaron-burden-sI8V_ax011I-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="https://www.thefirstline.com">The First Line Literary Journal</a></i> has once again inspired a story bringing together far-ranging memories and ideas. “Green Was the Dream” was subsequently selected for their Volume 25, Issue 2—Summer 2023. It’s mostly about lawns, a poem of Federico Garcia Lorca’s I read and loved in Spanish class long, long ago, a class trip to Baja, Mario Lanza, and how the world has changed. (Also a little bit of this and that.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's a taste of Cody’s green dream, vastly different from her father’s—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“A closet Romantic (with a nostalgic cursive R), Cody despite her guilt can't stop loving that pristine patch of Kentucky bluegrass. She lies out in it sometimes too, luxuriating, reading the García Lorca poem her class has been assigned, and dreaming herself green, desired, like the woman in the poem, on the Spanish balcony. <i>Green, how I want you green. </i>Dreaming that Nolan Ewing, who is (ever so much) in the class, will murmur that into her ear one afternoon, beside her in the sultry shade, or as evening lengthens and deepens into night. <i>Verde que te quiero verde . . . </i>And then those other dreamy lines, <i>Con la sombra en la cintura, ella sueña en su baranda . . . </i> <i>With shadow at her waist, she dreams</i> . . . She traces the shadow of the camphor tree that lies across her skin where her shirt has rucked up, imagining Nolan sitting above her, leaning down, his sun-bleached hair brushing his cheek, and hers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Keeping those dreams of green alive for others and not just for her makes her feel powerful and cool, like the sorceress in the Waterhouse painting of Circe (the poster in her bedroom) with her grass green dress and deep green bowl—poison, admittedly. Dangerous and enthralling. Unlike the practical Cody of the pert Stoppard-like screenplays, the papers on Lorca and on the donkey, Platero, she writes in competent Spanish with no mistakes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Image: <span style="background: rgb(241, 241, 241); color: #111111;">Photo by</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: rgb(241, 241, 241); color: #70ad47;"> </span></span><span style="color: #70ad47;"><a href="https://unsplash.com/@aaronburden?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="color: #70ad47;">Aaron Burden</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: rgb(241, 241, 241);"> </span></span><span style="background: rgb(241, 241, 241);">on<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/sI8V_ax011I?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="color: #70ad47;">Unsplash</span></a></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-24988664530528186382023-09-13T17:10:00.002-07:002023-09-13T17:11:00.014-07:00Etymology for Beginners<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwkE8TF4sCycgbpcEDG21v27sMuha6pzD4HzsRft9-cx63yiVH_RsWVCJoX6VX4iGNBNtfJc7mqCENQq2CqjB4hEz_XNVDYEIW2XXMTPW7VegGaYuYtc1ziSTsxKEhE5Swow-VS3zlsf4KWhvHZpQ1OfNYwMo2ihpK6siXO5q3MGiDV2eVvhj2o91gto/s5184/ruiqi-kong-bB1bk42xBKU-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwkE8TF4sCycgbpcEDG21v27sMuha6pzD4HzsRft9-cx63yiVH_RsWVCJoX6VX4iGNBNtfJc7mqCENQq2CqjB4hEz_XNVDYEIW2XXMTPW7VegGaYuYtc1ziSTsxKEhE5Swow-VS3zlsf4KWhvHZpQ1OfNYwMo2ihpK6siXO5q3MGiDV2eVvhj2o91gto/w400-h266/ruiqi-kong-bB1bk42xBKU-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The fun <i>Pigeon Review</i> has published a story I had fun writing, indulging one of my favorite fascinations, etymology—and right along with it, wordplay. You can find “Etymology for Beginners” online, <a href="https://www.pigeonreview.com/post/etymology-for-beginners">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">And for an <i>amuse-bouche</i>—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Florence would have liked to be named for the famous Italian city, with its Etruscans (<i>the tower builders</i>) and its bridge of gold. Or, adding an F for femininity, for the Friar in Shakespeare’s play, with his knowledge of herbs and family politics, his role in that famously bad ending. Or for the Saint, patron of poor people and school children, comedians and cooks, martyred on an iron grill in the third century. (Another bad ending.) Or even for Quebec’s great river, <i>bedded in an ancient geologic depression</i>. That she'd been named instead for her Aunt Florence Wilson, with no distinguishing characteristics whatsoever, other than her stolid decency, had set in motion a lifetime of yearning and making do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Her fascination with names, for one. (Flo—Flora—Flory, all considered and rejected as not suiting her at all.) With words, more broadly—and what they meant, what they implied, and where they led, both backwards and forwards. Her need to be part of the great world and its wonders, setting off a lifelong quest for connection. For following the rivers (and their flow—so maybe after all, then, Flo would name her perfectly) from source across uncertain boundaries to outlet (<i>River of the Algonquins, Big Water Current</i>); the aqueducts from snowmelt in a slow descent to the Villa d’Este’s glittering fountains via Rilke’s poetry; the nightingale (also related indirectly by her name) from nurse to lovers’ near mistake.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Image: <span style="background: repeat rgb(241, 241, 241); color: #111111;">Photo by </span><span style="color: #45818e;"><a href="https://unsplash.com/@sakamotomari?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"><span>Ruiqi Kong</span></a><span style="background: repeat rgb(241, 241, 241);"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/bB1bk42xBKU?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"><span>Unsplash</span></a></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #00b050;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-88708267824120545722023-09-13T16:53:00.003-07:002023-09-13T16:56:49.030-07:00Release<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1l_tXMD5TWyzE-ZNIuiDcT3GjdXy0QsEM7Hbd8k52qykLw7DVqoOcYu0X5JiTVX88wu6eR4EERYGSvQm-mNgHlHSVvViWW4KF2tf_8rCtuNdMDyNElJh2uggZMJBcFgXRB9yDCJYpcsr57MO8nom3CgeKuDKOGeS3U5ayeb7yF4dal5EkRsA5zy5CGs/s7929/white-rainforest-94TvFpJNdv8-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5289" data-original-width="7929" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1l_tXMD5TWyzE-ZNIuiDcT3GjdXy0QsEM7Hbd8k52qykLw7DVqoOcYu0X5JiTVX88wu6eR4EERYGSvQm-mNgHlHSVvViWW4KF2tf_8rCtuNdMDyNElJh2uggZMJBcFgXRB9yDCJYpcsr57MO8nom3CgeKuDKOGeS3U5ayeb7yF4dal5EkRsA5zy5CGs/w400-h266/white-rainforest-94TvFpJNdv8-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>My short story “Release” was published online in the Spring Issue (2023) of <a href="https://amarillobay.net/2023/05/08/christie-cochrell-release/"><i>Amarillo Bay</i>. </a> </span><span>Set by the Pacific Ocean in Santa Cruz the day after Thanksgiving, it involves a chance encounter and a spur-of-the-minute decision which will change the direction of Georgiana’s life—sadly stifled lately.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Though unseen, the tides of the Monterey Bay were ruminative in their overheard rhythms, their profound exhalations, over and over, and Georgiana's own breath began to imitate them naturally as she traversed the night. A bright planet hung low in the darkness off towards Monterey, and then eventually Japan, farther than far. Venus, she guessed, wishing she could remember more from the semester of astronomy she'd taken for fun one year at Mount Holyoke.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> What a relief to be outside, walking, her thoughts her own, the possibility of other places there again. Places with life, color, substance, quirks. Not all high tech and ungiving unalluring white or stainless surfaces. A few dogs, flitting or lumbering along the oceanside sidewalk. Lighted windows to look in, passing. She envied some with deep bookshelves and antique wooden tables set with burgundies, burnt oranges, copper, chocolate, mulberry, and dusty rose. Always the gentle soughing of the nearby waves as they came in, went out, audibly grazed the shore.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> This was, nearly, what she'd been looking for."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">. . .<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">"He picked up the soft-sided mesh carrier the mouse had traveled in, and a bigger canvas shoulder-bag, which he opened when they got to a couple of Adirondack chairs just off the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 'Oh, I'd forgotten,' he said with what sounded like amusement. 'We can dine in style.'<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Out of the bag he pulled a candelabra with five flameless taper candles which flickered realistically when he set it on the slightly tilted stump between the chairs and turned it on.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 'You carry that instead of a flashlight?' Georgiana teased him, amused and curious.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 'I took it along to my boyfriend's apartment last night for our Thanksgiving revels, and hadn't gotten it home yet.'<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> From Bly's more prosaic thermos cups they drank Mayan hot chocolate with ground chiles and cinnamon and ate wedges of vegetable pakora and curried eggplant roti. Though Georgiana felt out of place and embarrassed sitting 'slumming' in it, as her mother would scold, she was grateful for her warm shin-length camel hair coat."</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: Photo by<span style="color: #6fa8dc;"> <a href="https://unsplash.com/@whiterainforest?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"><span>White.Rainforest ™︎ ∙ </span><span style="font-family: "MS Gothic";">易雨白林</span><span>.</span></a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/94TvFpJNdv8?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText"><span>Unsplash</span></a></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p><br /></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-13469601521442258792023-03-24T13:34:00.004-07:002023-03-24T13:36:06.225-07:00Ambiguous Figures<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68O75KLI93nV4FZzJJD647hLJK-QkPEIaj-eBxaXKpf5VpAZeqeI4zaHiB2hEVW0YN4NOahPqfoGbUmfrLuxL8hsVaalo4xKYpirFStTIFqQeFjZkMA8-DvCueHNqiMx9AsKyOgRz4Eef4TXkYguJ23XmWCtjAibuyRlhWvs4y1lGJ77Dmq_oBZ4N/s366/The_Hallucinogenic_Toreador.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="271" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68O75KLI93nV4FZzJJD647hLJK-QkPEIaj-eBxaXKpf5VpAZeqeI4zaHiB2hEVW0YN4NOahPqfoGbUmfrLuxL8hsVaalo4xKYpirFStTIFqQeFjZkMA8-DvCueHNqiMx9AsKyOgRz4Eef4TXkYguJ23XmWCtjAibuyRlhWvs4y1lGJ77Dmq_oBZ4N/w296-h400/The_Hallucinogenic_Toreador.png" width="296" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s always fun to write stories for <i><a href="https://www.thefirstline.com">The First Line</a></i>, following their four prompts a year. The first of my attempts they published was the rather unique “<a href="https://ourgreenscooter.blogspot.com/2020/10/checking-out.html">Checking Out</a>,” back in September 2020 (Vol. 22, Issue 3), beginning “The Simmons Public Library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots, a mixture of homeless people and the wealthy older residents of the nearby neighborhood.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have just had a second story published by them, in <a href="https://www.thefirstline.com/index.htm">Vol. 25, Issue 1</a>. This, “Ambiguous Figures,” begins with the line “I am the second Mrs. Roberts.” And continues:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-size: large;">No one seems to know except for Perry's sister Jane; his otherwise-absorbed students and colleagues haven't noticed any change. The neighbors to our south are half an acre and luxuriant hedges away, and to the north an impersonal major intersection cuts us off from one-on-one contact. In this hectic, clamorous world, who pays attention to the introverts, the chronically depressed, those who would rather pass unseen?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"> "Dulcie," the academics say to me, indifferently polite, over the Brie and dry baguette slices at the Art History dos—thinking they recognize me by the wavy bob, the half-glasses, the frumpy clothes. The fading-into-the-woodwork faculty wife demeanor: nothing to stand out. Jane's face shows disbelief when she sees me accept their assumption, but it hasn't seemed worth the trouble explaining that I am Johanna, instead; how my own clothes burned up with house and everything I once was, in the terrible Caldor Fire last fall.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">It includes, variously, Salvador Dalí, two older Golden Retrievers, Stanford’s Festival of Lessons and Carols, a bunch of academics, some shrimp remoulade (my mother’s recipe), an illicit kiss, and a wayward Nunuma bush buffalo colored by red ochre and black resin. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: Salvador Dalí, <a href="image: Salvador Dalí, The Hallucinogenic Troubador">The Hallucinogenic Troubador</a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-20489044364085671962023-02-26T08:13:00.001-08:002023-02-26T08:13:32.687-08:00After Julian<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrsU8UjQV4H35HouHA0ay1Q8ZpP6MckBcJPnR1muGBba1VXTe4RjGaS3PRFHqcoD7RTaIg9ZJ9XNqwaF4-fJ8f9xema5UFqF6RZdyzYPmkOdfLoGs8hLyISD0luG2V1g32vLxG289aoWPqxL9ou7L6CXp2EDilkA711MbwMODG0Kpl8og8WQKI-Rp/s739/hat%20again.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="739" data-original-width="710" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrsU8UjQV4H35HouHA0ay1Q8ZpP6MckBcJPnR1muGBba1VXTe4RjGaS3PRFHqcoD7RTaIg9ZJ9XNqwaF4-fJ8f9xema5UFqF6RZdyzYPmkOdfLoGs8hLyISD0luG2V1g32vLxG289aoWPqxL9ou7L6CXp2EDilkA711MbwMODG0Kpl8og8WQKI-Rp/w384-h400/hat%20again.png" width="384" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">How fun! I’ve been given my very own Valentine’s mini-issue by <i>Poor Yorick (A Journal of Rediscovery)</i>. It’s Santa Fe being rediscovered in this story, as well as a high school romance, and besides some mischievous exchanges between the old sweethearts (an author and an editor, no one I know), I enjoyed remembering my own Spanish class trip to Mexico City, back when—especially Chapultapec and Teotihuacan. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">See <a href="https://pooryorickjournal.com/valentines-mini-issue-after-julian-by-christie-cochrell/">here</a>, for some travel back into past places. And even some cockatoos!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> “On beautiful October days with brilliant leaves and skies, she sat in her new second bedroom/office with its rustic trestle table in a pullover that had been Julian's, and skinny jeans, and as the month went on turned up her ancient writing files. There were a few old stories that she thought weren't bad, from early classes in college, all of them exploring the insatiable aches and hungerings of female adolescence. That fateful trip to Mexico City with her Spanish class. The story of the pyramid she hadn't finished at the time, suddenly catapulted into her future instead. Maybe, she thought, something worth rescuing? A little personal—but so much time had passed, she knew it couldn't make any difference to anyone, including her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> She fiddled with the language of the stories, changed a name or two, and sent them off to various journals she found online. She hadn't published anything for years, since her two lesser novels, and thought she'd like to find herself writing again after too long just helping with Julian's papers and reports. It would be one more step towards rejoining the living. Last week she'd been persuaded by a coworker at the Library for the Blind where she'd started volunteering to buy a pair of cockatoos whose owner (the librarian's mother) had just gone into care. The birds, Salsa and Mambo, did add some whimsical color to her days.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: Christie B. Cochrell, figurine from Teotihuacan<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-29297532027546449722022-12-27T13:15:00.001-08:002022-12-27T13:15:15.091-08:00Writing Spaces<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofjnn9S4-RBiUgA_cVLwwspLVr5TnolXhydjrtDEbSzLQ8K2npOR1VgJWoB1d_5kNxbdFe4cRguCqkF05v1tmFNK7Hf1assAnq5idasjL8VR0ieEIUjG4OETz28ZsO8n4wQQCzbNTGl-r1f7WDfVz6SrdqakARkaKeW-80StQEZSl5mA00WujhAkp/s2524/Jean%20Misceslas%20Peske%CC%81,%20Femme%20a%CC%80%20l'ouvrage.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2524" data-original-width="2096" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofjnn9S4-RBiUgA_cVLwwspLVr5TnolXhydjrtDEbSzLQ8K2npOR1VgJWoB1d_5kNxbdFe4cRguCqkF05v1tmFNK7Hf1assAnq5idasjL8VR0ieEIUjG4OETz28ZsO8n4wQQCzbNTGl-r1f7WDfVz6SrdqakARkaKeW-80StQEZSl5mA00WujhAkp/w333-h400/Jean%20Misceslas%20Peske%CC%81,%20Femme%20a%CC%80%20l'ouvrage.webp" width="333" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Writing from my heart, today, to fill the space of gray, the in-between spaces, the spaces that words can't quite light. Some images that warm me, in this year-end time, the not-quite-threshold time, the waiting, waning time not yet ready to wax.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61IDCfgphZEOA_cOOA0g6Y2BI70M7mqPR-2B8613eK8IiJYUO1IdWhStZ70-o46-oYKj267AXYvf3E00nDi39Grz_IW2E2gtee3p976cX0G2xCCSn4lSvztq1jB2CSpJ_dv-WWKklVBlGQOkcoKhzTA139oRCTe2N7i2TKa2ZakbiYuJe6Hi5MF4C/s960/medieval%20roof%20angels,%2015thC,%20St%20Agnes,%20Cawston,%20Norfolk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="716" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61IDCfgphZEOA_cOOA0g6Y2BI70M7mqPR-2B8613eK8IiJYUO1IdWhStZ70-o46-oYKj267AXYvf3E00nDi39Grz_IW2E2gtee3p976cX0G2xCCSn4lSvztq1jB2CSpJ_dv-WWKklVBlGQOkcoKhzTA139oRCTe2N7i2TKa2ZakbiYuJe6Hi5MF4C/w299-h400/medieval%20roof%20angels,%2015thC,%20St%20Agnes,%20Cawston,%20Norfolk.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPti9vtJA71Nx2gn9pCJcvLgSIjcQ4baVqqBTVLPkueKtXoeYkeSp6LM0zClhJovGHTh8aYKS8RkT1jgcxVNxerpefCYX5htz8EAY2o_nBQG50Qv3I53mo38yp6DROmeVpk-Ot1FK9VV1VyEUOwVLcop2-4tcVU3ydPSVx51AK1NSAf898Kr7r20jz/s997/Francis%20Killan,%20Bird%20Woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="997" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPti9vtJA71Nx2gn9pCJcvLgSIjcQ4baVqqBTVLPkueKtXoeYkeSp6LM0zClhJovGHTh8aYKS8RkT1jgcxVNxerpefCYX5htz8EAY2o_nBQG50Qv3I53mo38yp6DROmeVpk-Ot1FK9VV1VyEUOwVLcop2-4tcVU3ydPSVx51AK1NSAf898Kr7r20jz/w400-h265/Francis%20Killan,%20Bird%20Woman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPBX9Vr8F0CiodNT0VD89Nsk2AlVkyWtgCrcVD02b0gw4OJk9RHg39LmZlpoJAcgtZQsn5rTNbPnf1YTStt_a1cmHrRdpN0UVOGmv9QOOwRKituuRg2KDpJwmcK6UcFFq8IO7KNiZhPIJTJ3xLvH4jHSGN_9DQ9vSCN3nQLBToz7WZ4giLYpDUCKQ/s1325/Maurice%20Marinot,%20Inte%CC%81rieur.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1060" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPBX9Vr8F0CiodNT0VD89Nsk2AlVkyWtgCrcVD02b0gw4OJk9RHg39LmZlpoJAcgtZQsn5rTNbPnf1YTStt_a1cmHrRdpN0UVOGmv9QOOwRKituuRg2KDpJwmcK6UcFFq8IO7KNiZhPIJTJ3xLvH4jHSGN_9DQ9vSCN3nQLBToz7WZ4giLYpDUCKQ/w320-h400/Maurice%20Marinot,%20Inte%CC%81rieur.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IkLW5jijHrqITZtLzqkvVw-27LhoyUg_G1RpUCy5d_ddsbvb405L0cqM5w4m9CPosigSuNybeQ9xgJs0XPyPc4MZcup7X8ZPERJVSfTgl6CEfcxto3_PakEKesf2iFMrRqlSulI9WwOuq44M0EgRATlT6RlSajIahr1lA1_Om_pvKs9zpxWjmnjj/s2048/Odilon%20Redon,%20Fleurs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IkLW5jijHrqITZtLzqkvVw-27LhoyUg_G1RpUCy5d_ddsbvb405L0cqM5w4m9CPosigSuNybeQ9xgJs0XPyPc4MZcup7X8ZPERJVSfTgl6CEfcxto3_PakEKesf2iFMrRqlSulI9WwOuq44M0EgRATlT6RlSajIahr1lA1_Om_pvKs9zpxWjmnjj/w305-h400/Odilon%20Redon,%20Fleurs.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">images: Jean Misceslas Peské, Femme à l'ouvrage; Medieval roof angels, 15th c, St Agnes, Cawston, Norfolk; Francis Killan, Bird Woman; Maurice Marinot, Intérieur; Odilon Redon, Fleurs</span></p><br />Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-1028780004059232572022-12-21T09:54:00.004-08:002022-12-21T09:54:20.484-08:00Winter Solstice<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmUsZw_6FvQn75Z51pPEAORQYisHpE2PnoIPIu3yfNZrFy1G2CWmhSevrPZ5hr-eDFDUdKucr83vvLBfYBaFeJ3HPVZGvWqcVzUW_3kstP-Z2K6rTeOy3_DSptOCRTL27lOGpSQ6ixne3hIfJLxzFHpGtrsDgHEyImsDwukAeyJU1otANVBQBsY8o2/s1500/bouquet-de-mimosas-257_50964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1379" data-original-width="1500" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmUsZw_6FvQn75Z51pPEAORQYisHpE2PnoIPIu3yfNZrFy1G2CWmhSevrPZ5hr-eDFDUdKucr83vvLBfYBaFeJ3HPVZGvWqcVzUW_3kstP-Z2K6rTeOy3_DSptOCRTL27lOGpSQ6ixne3hIfJLxzFHpGtrsDgHEyImsDwukAeyJU1otANVBQBsY8o2/w400-h368/bouquet-de-mimosas-257_50964.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">On this shortest day, this day to reflect and stay still, to revel in silence, I've turned again to my account of one of the perfect silent retreats that restored me in years past. (And this year, sadly, the leader of those retreats has passed too.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">___<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back from a day’s silent retreat at the Green Gulch Zen temple and farm, I’m full of quiet wisdom. I’ve come back not with the silence itself, which is hard come-by in our obstreperous world, but the <i>capacity</i> for silence (as my father wrote about never losing the capacity for happiness, however unhappy we might be). This is the richer gift, I see. The key to that place inside myself I can return to, over and over, at need; where I can hear birdsong, or twigs falling onto the canvas of the yurt, where I can hear my heart expressing gratitude over a simple handful of October flowers, the hard wood (Eucalyptus) and the soft wood (pine) ready for our first-morning fire should we need one, the taste of peppermint tea made with two teabags. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The capacity for brilliant yellow, too—the walls of the old wooden laundry room, open at both ends. Inside humming with clean clothes tumbling in a row of dryers, outside colored the most intense and radiant yellow, from (I’m guessing) lichens or pollens collecting on the wood over the years. Accumulating yellow: a good way to live. (And like my favorite painter, Pierre Bonnard, who used to go back and add yellow to his finished paintings, sometimes years later.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the silence I learned I need to listen to my heart, foremost. I walked out to the ocean with the others, because my bad knee didn’t let me walk that far the last time I was there, so my mind told me I needed to make up for that. It told me I like the walk, and the ocean. All of that true, but what I really wanted, above all, was to sit the whole while in the garden, which I don’t just like, but <i>love</i>. The beach was terribly crowded, with people happily engaged in their noisy business, and though that taught me an important lesson once before—that I don’t need to be a part of that, that I can maintain my silence and just observe (something I do naturally anyway)—it wasn’t what my heart needed. Not then. So I walked quickly back to the garden, and spent a precious ten minutes just being there, with end-of-summer roses, lichen-ey old wooden trellises, my favorite apple tree in all the world, a couple and dog on the grass, the play of sunlight and late-afternoon early-October shadow just perfect by then, the silence absolute—except for my heart’s exclaiming its utter delight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another of the members of our group had said at introduction time that he had recently decided to quit work, to work on opening his heart. Meaning that going on working was led by mind, and trying something else important for heart. I know I need to do that too—live that yellow!—and maybe some day soon will find the courage to do so. To know that following my heart is the right thing to do. Not willful or unwise (as I’ve been gravely taught over the years), but essential. The wise course born of silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">(October 2014)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Palatino; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: Pierre Bonnard, Bouquet de mimosas</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-9552434111573634002022-12-17T09:16:00.004-08:002022-12-27T13:17:07.965-08:00Kachinas: A Christmas Story<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_4xGBCqzOLu3MIwnaZ4i3Q0koE_tSlB4Xve1eVw8Xsr41chOF_J_LP8IVrMCPSU8nu_oaMETTsypHvdIWG0sSO80lPt6souUMgxNquazyY8-DZk9u7jzBNF7SaLSnP-CIzFjrBzERxVGU33ZXJZq0cm_j2Spl2cyMK3nbN3Un9c5gt_j-9tnAJnB/s990/Kachinas%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="990" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_4xGBCqzOLu3MIwnaZ4i3Q0koE_tSlB4Xve1eVw8Xsr41chOF_J_LP8IVrMCPSU8nu_oaMETTsypHvdIWG0sSO80lPt6souUMgxNquazyY8-DZk9u7jzBNF7SaLSnP-CIzFjrBzERxVGU33ZXJZq0cm_j2Spl2cyMK3nbN3Un9c5gt_j-9tnAJnB/w400-h300/Kachinas%20photo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm pleased that my short story "Kachinas" has been published in the December issue of <i><a href="https://www.grandedameliterary.com/post/kachinas">Grande Dame Literary Journal</a></i>—an appropriately seasonal tale, making me terribly nostalgic for New Mexico and its incomparable way of being.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>"Lil didn't know the meaning of the intricate rhythms and steps, since no outsiders were allowed to know, but she felt it somewhere deep within, encouraged by the drums. The story being told and prayer offered. The waiting clouds they danced into being, and quickened into hope. Nimbus, nimbostratus, the fertile, undulating clouds Xavier painted with abandon, with enormous swooping strokes of not just fingers, wrist, but his whole body—in a way becoming cloud himself, just as the dancers in their masks became the spirit-beings they embodied. Kachinas." </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">This story is part of a thread also including "<a href="https://ourgreenscooter.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-persian-warrior.html">The Persian Warrior</a>," "<a href="https://ourgreenscooter.blogspot.com/2022/07/day-of-dead.html">Day of the Dead</a>," and "<a href="https://ourgreenscooter.blogspot.com/2022/05/linconnue-de-la-seine.html">L'inconnue de la Seine</a>."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I, henceforth, would love the honorific "Grand Dame."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: Kachinas, photographer unknown</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-13438001175837411392022-11-28T13:07:00.007-08:002022-11-28T13:10:03.188-08:00Writing Spaces<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLiPoMrATaAUD6FRSaYdP8fP8hCrm3l_n3iDBQZf7GCqTX3jwSunJu8-QUvMnqn7ruaqCpjztEd13c-pW1QB248gpbaAsxq4FzPs-O_NG464gVY3tSalwhU2_EJ0_KvZTSqE21yPSyCzGK3tdpzclPy8DtR_3oXp6_2TKUDQzjP0lfC_4iAMOCymE/s500/writing%20spaces.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLiPoMrATaAUD6FRSaYdP8fP8hCrm3l_n3iDBQZf7GCqTX3jwSunJu8-QUvMnqn7ruaqCpjztEd13c-pW1QB248gpbaAsxq4FzPs-O_NG464gVY3tSalwhU2_EJ0_KvZTSqE21yPSyCzGK3tdpzclPy8DtR_3oXp6_2TKUDQzjP0lfC_4iAMOCymE/w400-h400/writing%20spaces.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><h1 class="quoteText" style="caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); color: #181818; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></h1><h1 class="quoteText" style="caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">"The Moving Finger writes; </span></h1><h1 class="quoteText" style="caret-color: rgb(24, 24, 24); font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">and, having writ, Moves on . . . "</span></h1><div><span><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">(</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Omar</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> <span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Khayyám)</span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #d0e0e3;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #d0e0e3;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #d0e0e3;">image: photographer unknown</span></span></div>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-15327008374744291302022-11-06T13:58:00.006-08:002022-11-06T14:03:59.261-08:00Ghost Light<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_B0y60BeHIMkT7WmZ_1_3IgIPZUrguLWWeUaqr97XO5WwOFeiGeH3SRJmZdSc_Fg3aC8BoSzqg6i4j9iHocKiWHne9p4fmwd5rQceMGleQrTJOwOQJ1Svpz9L7mr8x044K_HWpYcmGcEBfaut6WjAVmK04NRruLJ2dJviKNpkUZ94ttICcIuoImW/s1024/Lion%20breathing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_B0y60BeHIMkT7WmZ_1_3IgIPZUrguLWWeUaqr97XO5WwOFeiGeH3SRJmZdSc_Fg3aC8BoSzqg6i4j9iHocKiWHne9p4fmwd5rQceMGleQrTJOwOQJ1Svpz9L7mr8x044K_HWpYcmGcEBfaut6WjAVmK04NRruLJ2dJviKNpkUZ94ttICcIuoImW/w400-h266/Lion%20breathing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #134f5c;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: #134f5c;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"><span>"</span><span>a kind of glow—humanity, noblesse, beatitude—lingered in the great spaces that like Space itself held stars already dead but luminous, inherently present, the residue of suns long since burned out. </span> <span class="il">Ghost</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span> </span></span><span class="il">light</span><span>, Aash thought of it."</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p style="background-color: #134f5c;"><span style="color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;">Just published in <i><a href="https://www.livinapress.com">Livina Press</a> Literary Magazine</i>, <a href="https://www.livinapress.com/issues">Issue 2, Fall 2022</a> (print only)—my short story "Ghost Light," <span>set in the ruins of the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, a museum which was originally a collaboration between the places and peoples of its collections and between the collections and the viewers who engaged with them. And then between me, the author, who's collected them again, and the characters I have sent into the ruins to collect what they can of what's left after the world's culture has been destroyed and most animals and plant-life gone extinct.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;">This work is a collaboration too with the author of a book one of the characters once read—Russell Hoban, who offered his amazing <i><a href="http://www.russellhoban.org/title/the-lion-of-boaz-jachin-and-jachin-boaz">The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz</a></i> to the world. The book is integral to my main character's identity, and has remained for many years in my own consciousness, now informing my writing. In it are extinct lions, which are regenerated in the haunted spaces of the museum, later joined by other extinct animals gathered between the covers of a salvaged bestiary.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;">And finally, or really first, the work is a collaboration between me and a writer friend's grandson, Westley, who offered us the first line as a gift.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;">At its heart this story is about the essential shared responsibility of carrying the memories of things past, things gone, as we all do—together saving what we can in these destructive times. It no longer takes a village. It takes a world. A museum, with all its salvaged, plundered ghosts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="background-color: #134f5c; color: #d0e0e3; font-size: large;">image: photographer unknown</span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8024576906449022047.post-37504154129839829602022-11-06T09:04:00.005-08:002022-11-06T09:04:29.890-08:00The Queens Gambit [sic]<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXOjQ9kzriENqpzvNvvg7hlRJYxI03SJ8TEdj2ZDi_6f9WFjEQG7TgUM6aEIwpI_wHY6EjOPtF2YaLf9jmFLT9qCnb2ta0MsqMebZhs6IJ63-MH7rNvTUKFUH8INV3UBgADESOkTjNI22dfTrRmjCXfpTEMHrnQQOQwtjdJWyrNsH31WG6I7eS9Q3/s844/chess%20game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXOjQ9kzriENqpzvNvvg7hlRJYxI03SJ8TEdj2ZDi_6f9WFjEQG7TgUM6aEIwpI_wHY6EjOPtF2YaLf9jmFLT9qCnb2ta0MsqMebZhs6IJ63-MH7rNvTUKFUH8INV3UBgADESOkTjNI22dfTrRmjCXfpTEMHrnQQOQwtjdJWyrNsH31WG6I7eS9Q3/w268-h400/chess%20game.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've had a quirky short story published in <i><a href="https://flightsscc.wordpress.com">Flights</a></i> (just <a href="https://flightsscc.wordpress.com/pissues/flights-2018/">print</a>, so far, but online someday, it's suggested)—"The Queens Gambit." Not a typo; indeed there's no apostrophe, because the story's set in Queens, NY, and involves chess somewhat peripherally. A gambit is the core of it, "a device, action, or opening remark, typically one entailing a degree of risk, that is calculated to gain an advantage," and specifically, as in chess, "an opening in which a player makes a sacrifice, typically of a pawn, for the sake of some compensating advantage."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">A subconscious long-ago inspiration was apparently Guy de Maupassant's "The Necklace," which I hadn't remembered, and I much more consciously had in mind the twist in O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's a playful tale at heart, and was great fun to write. Fun to remember some of the chess moves and concepts from the also long-ago days when I played often and voraciously.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of the main characters is Tante Cristelle, moved from Guadeloupe to Paris for art school to Far Rockaway, Queens—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">"In recent days he'd seen his landlady becoming a ghost-in-training. Gliding around the house both day and night, moving chess pieces stealthily in games they'd left out to finish (always to good effect), cunningly challenging the stairs as if they were an ascent of Kilimanjaro. She went unseeing and all but unseen, shuffling along the upstairs corridor in a bathrobe the color of oatmeal but set off by her many-colored carnival headdresses, meant to hide her nearly hairless head, with her wheeled walker—a skeletal companion who Gino had seen her do something like salsa with, Haitian kompa he thought she'd said. The last of her dance partners in this world, likely. And on her ancient phonograph at odd hours she set playing Maurice Ravel's "Five O'Clock Foxtrot," a favorite of her Paris beau ("prince of the sturgeon eggs," she'd called him). Ravel had been in Paris when she got there, Cristelle had once reminisced, her proud head cocked sideways, seeing it all, her young-again profile splendid."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">image: Chess Game, artist unknown</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Christiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232403106779550742noreply@blogger.com0