Maine at Last

Finally...the summer has begun. We are in Maine aka Heaven. We woke up Sunday morning to the sun and the lake and a beautiful Maine day. I spent most of it getting organized--throwing out the all the junk and papers and stuff that accumulated over the winter, stocking my refrigerator (fresh strawberries and raspberries and local cheddar cheese!), rearranging my cabinets and closets and putting away last summer's laundry.

That night, I had my first lobster of the season for dinner--a succulent soft shell cooked perfectly.

Looking forward to the Fourth!

Book Report

I puIled an all-nighter last night. Well, not totally. I went to bed about 2 in the morning. I couldn’t put the book down. I just kept turning the pages wanting to know what was happening, rushing to follow wherever the story was taking me.

And it was taking me down a terrible dark hole but I had to keep reading. Horrible things were happening. Abuse, betrayal, murder, abandonment in some dark, depressing and decaying town in the middle of nowhere. And all written in an incredibly intense and feverish but, at the same time, tightly controlled style. A truly virtuoso performance by the author.

The book is “Little Bird of Heaven” by Joyce Carol Oates. I’ve only read one other novel by her although she’s a very prolific novelist. The list of her published novels at the front of the book is amazingly long.

I wonder if she wrote the novel in the same white heat in which I read it. Was she exhausted or exhilarated after finishing it? Was she glad to be done with this tragic story, its disturbing characters or sorry to let it all go?

Jumping In

Having spent the weekend listening to writers at the Calabash Festival, I’ve been thinking about the different ways I approach the reading of poetry and prose.

To me, there is nothing better than sitting down—even better lying down on my futon in my study--with a nice fat novel, confident that I have the time and the freedom to walk through the words at a leisurely pace, to swim my way backwards and forwards in the flow of the narrative until I reach the end. It’s an exercise, an experience that is relaxing and stimulating for me at the same time.

Not so with reading poetry. I always approach a poem with a certain degree of anxiety. Like diving into the deep end of the pool, or anticipating the shock of cold water when I jump into the lake in Maine. Stimulating yes, relaxing maybe not. I hold my breath, maybe even close my eyes and plunge right in. There’s the shock of entry and then the satisfaction of knowing I did it and, even better, that I like being here in the deep end, in the cold but refreshing water.

Back on the Road Again

Packing my bags tonight for another trip--this time to sunny and hot Treasure Beach, Jamaica, site of the Calabash Festival.





This is the 10th anniversary of the festival and the line up of authors is awesome. I am particularly interested in hearing Sharon Olds, my most favorite poet. Click here to read one of her poems.

Home Again

Well, we're back in the U S of A suffering no significant after effects from our six week sojourn in Bella Italia except for some lingering jet lag and a strong desire for spicy Asian food.

To see a slide show of our month in Tuscany, click here.

Heading Home

I took my last long walk today—3 hours up the hill, across the ridge to La Foce and then on to Castelluccio. The sun was out the whole way, a parting gift. We leave tomorrow for a day and a half in Rome and then back home to Philadelphia.

I’ll miss my rambles through the Val D’Orcia. In one month, I’ve watched the wheat on the hills grow from insignificant green shoots to tall stalks of greenish gold rippling in the wind. I’ve seen wild flowers--new ones every day--speckle the fields in red, white, purple and yellow. I’ve heard the cuckoo bird in the distance. I’ve watched baby lambs stumble awkwardly beside their mothers. I’ve learned to dismiss the angry barking of the sheepdogs with an authoritative “Zut.”

I used to tease Steve about never wanting to leave the house but this year I felt the same way. There’s something so wonderful about just being here—watching the sky and the landscape, drinking in the beauty of this place, breathing in the quiet. Respiro profundo.

Friends

The Kaufman clan has left Casselaccia and Steve and I are left alone to ramble through the house in our fluffy white robes like inmates in some posh sanitarium. Very Magic Mountain only the food is so much better. Weather is still unstable. That’s a nice way of saying it’s cold and wet with occasional spells of sun. We did manage to play unreasonable amounts of bocce with our guests. Even Jeelu participated looking quite adorable if not truly athletic.

There was an excursion to the flower festival in Pienza in our zippy Alfa Romero with the Kaufman clan—fortunately all small people--squeezed into the back seat. Steve rushed out as soon as we got there for porchetta aka roast pork sandwich. Jeelu and Sanaya bought shoes. And for those of you who have had the pleasure of shopping with Jeelu, yes, there was serious discussion and much deliberation about the size, the color and overall appropriateness of the purchase before money finally changed hands.

We all agreed that a good time was had by all.