Monday, July 6, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Serial Sunday
Rescuing Ranu: Chapter two
England may have been the death of Ramanujan, but it had saved Nela. Once she was back in her own English cottage, she could forget the man, her mother, and the demands of her various personae. She could be herself, unobserved for the first time in months, out of the spotlight, a fugitive from the fishbowl. She opened the front door quickly, in hopes that no neighbor would stop to make her talk.
Taking the stairs two at a time, she unwound her sari as she went, tugging off her gold bangles. She was aware that the air was stale, and that dust and the mail had piled up. She would take care of all that later. For now, what she wanted most was to stand in the doorway of her bedroom, that haven of blue silk walls, and let the fluttering sensation of homecoming overtake her.
She opened the window, her eyes half closed. This was her ritual. Whatever the weather, no matter how jet-lagged she might be, the scent of her garden always brought her to life, like a newborn spanked to its first breath. She had designed the garden herself, according to a variation of the principles of vastu shastra, by which she had also organized the furniture and traffic flow in the house. So what if those principles were ancient, and Hindu? Nobody knew that. Nobody suspected her of being other than modern, a product of her time.
Nela wanted to tease herself a little, to prolong the anticipation. The jonquil and verbena would be in bloom, and she put her elbows on the twin stains on the window ledge, lowering herself to a kneeling position. The window is a shrine, I am a devotee. She inhaled, and what began as a deep breath ended in a gasp when her eyes fully opened. The garden was a jungle of weeds winding around tender stems, mossing the earthen floor. Couldn’t her cousin Ashoke or one of his army of children have turned the hose on it once in awhile? Couldn’t her neighbor Ida be bothered? Damn, damn it to hell!
Nela’s office, at least, would be exactly the way she left it. The janitors would have kept it free of dust and aired out. The following morning, she rose early. She did not allow herself to rush through her normal routine, but applied meditative attention to every detail—drank her black coffee slowly, let the water in the shower gradually loosen her gnarled muscles, assembled the papers in her briefcase with care. After pulling on her running shoes, she tucked her pumps in her bag, and locked the door behind her. The university was only a few blocks away, and she enjoyed the walk along empty streets with their green spring smells. Watching the fog lift over a chorus line of yellow finches, the fact that the birds had rehearsed their song during their sleep cycle seemed like something made-up, but since it was real science, Nela indulged in its whimsy.
At the math building, she opened the door, relieved that the key still fit. She hurried along the corridor to her office, resisting the urge to break into a run or slide along the waxed surface the way children do. She turned the light on, and ran a hand over her books, not to check for dust, but because she had missed them as living, pulsing things. She stroked the covers of Abraham and Marsden’s Foundations of Mechanics and Green and Schwartz’s String Theory. She paused at the Feynman, and pulled out the volume whose title teased her—What Do You Care What Other People Think?
She turned around in the embrace of her four walls. It was the twirling of an unfettered spirit. What made her stop short, then? We have such good pattern recognition, she would congratulate herself later. We can sense change long before we are convinced of it. And there was something out of place in the area behind her computer. She approached the site slowly, and examined the familiar elements—-a calendar, a rolled wall hanging, her favorite coffee mug. They had all been removed from their places and neatly packed in a cardboard box under the windowsill.
“Welcome back, how was your trip, what the hell did you do to your hair?” Nela groaned. It was an involuntary reflex whenever she heard Ashoke’s voice. He was a constant reminder and remnant of childhood, and now a colleague, her shadow.
“Thank you, trip was OK, I shaved my head for Amma’s sake,” Nela said. She touched her forehead with the fingers of both hands reflexively. Most of what she called her Indian “tics” had been consciously trained out of her, like her accent, which was now more Oxbridge Indian. But whenever she saw Ashoke, it triggered the old cadences. At least he understood her shorthand. Anyone else would want details about the custom of hair sacrifice, and force her to respond to their succession of why, why, why. A world of three- year-olds, forever asking the same questions.
She looked at Ashoke unblinkingly, determined not to let her head waggle while she changed the subject. “So who is responsible for this presumption?” she asked, pointing to the box. There must be a logical reason that her fortress had been breached. Wait for it, she told herself. Don’t rush him.
Ashoke smoothed his mustache in a gesture he’d used since he’d been able to grow one. What did it mean again? He’s got something to hide. He has something to tell her, and she won’t like it.
He took a rattling breath and plunged forward. “The department is interviewing a candidate for an interdisciplinary project, and possibly a faculty position. We had to find office space for him, and you gave us no real notice of your return, so…” he waved his arms helplessly. He looked the way he had as a child right then, and a wave of sympathy flooded her. He had grown into a pompous man who used too much hair oil, but he still bit his nails to the quick. Often he stood the way he was standing now, with his hands captured behind his back, trying to hide his nervousness. The posture pushed his belly out so far, Nela worried for his balance.
She’d call him on his use of “we” and “us” later. Fat cat! For now, she would stick to the point. “Well, find him someplace else. I need my privacy. I’m about to start my new book on the mathematics of collectives.”
Worry passed over his face, and he stammered a weak protest. Nela knew he had less power than he pretended to have, and the thought made her smile, confusing him. “Just fix,” she ordered, flinging her hand at the wrist.
He slunk out the door and left her alone with her belongings. She upended the carton onto the desk, hung the tapestry back on its place on the wall, flipped the calendar to the correct month, and placed the mug to the right of her chair. Ashoke would leave it there, if he knew what was good for him. He usually did. He had a feel for appearances, and valued the opinion of the crowd, and would not want to lose face with the newcomer, but Nela knew that he would find a way to accede to her demands. He never worried about misleading people, only the way they viewed him. He had been overjoyed by Nela’s arrival on campus so long ago, and literally took her under his wing—a brotherly arm always around her as they walked across campus. One day, Nela lifted his hand from the small of her back, and said, “We don’t want people to get the wrong idea, do we? Gossip might get through to your wife.”
Ashoke’s face had collapsed, and he scratched his dark hair vigorously. “Oh, I did not think!” Both hands locked behind his back once more.
Now Ashoke was back in Nela’s office again. He had forgotten to extend a dinner invitation. “It is in honor of your homecoming, so you cannot refuse.” Going to a dinner party was the last thing she wanted, but she considered the idea while he rocked on his heels in front of her desk. She was impressed with his level of restraint, when he was bursting with the desire to convince, cajole, and beg her. She had taught him, long ago, the uselessness of such tactics. He raised his black eyebrows, flecked with recent silver, and began to hum softly, some nervous, tuneless song.
Perhaps going to the party would be the best thing for her. It would plunge her firmly back into her routine, and allow her to catch up on everything she missed. She said, “See you at eight,” in a way that closed the conversation, and put Ashoke out of his misery.
He left a manila envelope on her desk. Just as she began to call out to him, she noticed the package was addressed to her. She pulled out an official-looking sheaf of papers, stamped here and there with gold seals. It was her new contract. She shoved it into her briefcase. There would be plenty of time to read it later. She was in no rush to discover what hoops the new dean had erected for her, and whether she had the energy to jump through any of them.
England may have been the death of Ramanujan, but it had saved Nela. Once she was back in her own English cottage, she could forget the man, her mother, and the demands of her various personae. She could be herself, unobserved for the first time in months, out of the spotlight, a fugitive from the fishbowl. She opened the front door quickly, in hopes that no neighbor would stop to make her talk.
Taking the stairs two at a time, she unwound her sari as she went, tugging off her gold bangles. She was aware that the air was stale, and that dust and the mail had piled up. She would take care of all that later. For now, what she wanted most was to stand in the doorway of her bedroom, that haven of blue silk walls, and let the fluttering sensation of homecoming overtake her.
She opened the window, her eyes half closed. This was her ritual. Whatever the weather, no matter how jet-lagged she might be, the scent of her garden always brought her to life, like a newborn spanked to its first breath. She had designed the garden herself, according to a variation of the principles of vastu shastra, by which she had also organized the furniture and traffic flow in the house. So what if those principles were ancient, and Hindu? Nobody knew that. Nobody suspected her of being other than modern, a product of her time.
Nela wanted to tease herself a little, to prolong the anticipation. The jonquil and verbena would be in bloom, and she put her elbows on the twin stains on the window ledge, lowering herself to a kneeling position. The window is a shrine, I am a devotee. She inhaled, and what began as a deep breath ended in a gasp when her eyes fully opened. The garden was a jungle of weeds winding around tender stems, mossing the earthen floor. Couldn’t her cousin Ashoke or one of his army of children have turned the hose on it once in awhile? Couldn’t her neighbor Ida be bothered? Damn, damn it to hell!
Nela’s office, at least, would be exactly the way she left it. The janitors would have kept it free of dust and aired out. The following morning, she rose early. She did not allow herself to rush through her normal routine, but applied meditative attention to every detail—drank her black coffee slowly, let the water in the shower gradually loosen her gnarled muscles, assembled the papers in her briefcase with care. After pulling on her running shoes, she tucked her pumps in her bag, and locked the door behind her. The university was only a few blocks away, and she enjoyed the walk along empty streets with their green spring smells. Watching the fog lift over a chorus line of yellow finches, the fact that the birds had rehearsed their song during their sleep cycle seemed like something made-up, but since it was real science, Nela indulged in its whimsy.
At the math building, she opened the door, relieved that the key still fit. She hurried along the corridor to her office, resisting the urge to break into a run or slide along the waxed surface the way children do. She turned the light on, and ran a hand over her books, not to check for dust, but because she had missed them as living, pulsing things. She stroked the covers of Abraham and Marsden’s Foundations of Mechanics and Green and Schwartz’s String Theory. She paused at the Feynman, and pulled out the volume whose title teased her—What Do You Care What Other People Think?
She turned around in the embrace of her four walls. It was the twirling of an unfettered spirit. What made her stop short, then? We have such good pattern recognition, she would congratulate herself later. We can sense change long before we are convinced of it. And there was something out of place in the area behind her computer. She approached the site slowly, and examined the familiar elements—-a calendar, a rolled wall hanging, her favorite coffee mug. They had all been removed from their places and neatly packed in a cardboard box under the windowsill.
“Welcome back, how was your trip, what the hell did you do to your hair?” Nela groaned. It was an involuntary reflex whenever she heard Ashoke’s voice. He was a constant reminder and remnant of childhood, and now a colleague, her shadow.
“Thank you, trip was OK, I shaved my head for Amma’s sake,” Nela said. She touched her forehead with the fingers of both hands reflexively. Most of what she called her Indian “tics” had been consciously trained out of her, like her accent, which was now more Oxbridge Indian. But whenever she saw Ashoke, it triggered the old cadences. At least he understood her shorthand. Anyone else would want details about the custom of hair sacrifice, and force her to respond to their succession of why, why, why. A world of three- year-olds, forever asking the same questions.
She looked at Ashoke unblinkingly, determined not to let her head waggle while she changed the subject. “So who is responsible for this presumption?” she asked, pointing to the box. There must be a logical reason that her fortress had been breached. Wait for it, she told herself. Don’t rush him.
Ashoke smoothed his mustache in a gesture he’d used since he’d been able to grow one. What did it mean again? He’s got something to hide. He has something to tell her, and she won’t like it.
He took a rattling breath and plunged forward. “The department is interviewing a candidate for an interdisciplinary project, and possibly a faculty position. We had to find office space for him, and you gave us no real notice of your return, so…” he waved his arms helplessly. He looked the way he had as a child right then, and a wave of sympathy flooded her. He had grown into a pompous man who used too much hair oil, but he still bit his nails to the quick. Often he stood the way he was standing now, with his hands captured behind his back, trying to hide his nervousness. The posture pushed his belly out so far, Nela worried for his balance.
She’d call him on his use of “we” and “us” later. Fat cat! For now, she would stick to the point. “Well, find him someplace else. I need my privacy. I’m about to start my new book on the mathematics of collectives.”
Worry passed over his face, and he stammered a weak protest. Nela knew he had less power than he pretended to have, and the thought made her smile, confusing him. “Just fix,” she ordered, flinging her hand at the wrist.
He slunk out the door and left her alone with her belongings. She upended the carton onto the desk, hung the tapestry back on its place on the wall, flipped the calendar to the correct month, and placed the mug to the right of her chair. Ashoke would leave it there, if he knew what was good for him. He usually did. He had a feel for appearances, and valued the opinion of the crowd, and would not want to lose face with the newcomer, but Nela knew that he would find a way to accede to her demands. He never worried about misleading people, only the way they viewed him. He had been overjoyed by Nela’s arrival on campus so long ago, and literally took her under his wing—a brotherly arm always around her as they walked across campus. One day, Nela lifted his hand from the small of her back, and said, “We don’t want people to get the wrong idea, do we? Gossip might get through to your wife.”
Ashoke’s face had collapsed, and he scratched his dark hair vigorously. “Oh, I did not think!” Both hands locked behind his back once more.
Now Ashoke was back in Nela’s office again. He had forgotten to extend a dinner invitation. “It is in honor of your homecoming, so you cannot refuse.” Going to a dinner party was the last thing she wanted, but she considered the idea while he rocked on his heels in front of her desk. She was impressed with his level of restraint, when he was bursting with the desire to convince, cajole, and beg her. She had taught him, long ago, the uselessness of such tactics. He raised his black eyebrows, flecked with recent silver, and began to hum softly, some nervous, tuneless song.
Perhaps going to the party would be the best thing for her. It would plunge her firmly back into her routine, and allow her to catch up on everything she missed. She said, “See you at eight,” in a way that closed the conversation, and put Ashoke out of his misery.
He left a manila envelope on her desk. Just as she began to call out to him, she noticed the package was addressed to her. She pulled out an official-looking sheaf of papers, stamped here and there with gold seals. It was her new contract. She shoved it into her briefcase. There would be plenty of time to read it later. She was in no rush to discover what hoops the new dean had erected for her, and whether she had the energy to jump through any of them.
Our New Book
Introducing my sister Janet's and my newest duet, a collection of oil paintings and poems from Scattered Light Publications called MEMENTO MORI. It's a 48 page, 6x9 inch paperback on sale now for $13.00. If you'd like to try before you buy, there's a preview on the left side of the Scattered Light blog.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts
The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur—
There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;
And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;
Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full
And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,
You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,
You are humped higher and higher, black as stone—
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.
--Wallace Stevens
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur—
There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;
And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;
Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full
And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,
You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,
You are humped higher and higher, black as stone—
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.
--Wallace Stevens
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
New Review!
OUTWARD BOUND
“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.” *
But for mystics, the disabled and convalescent, those in enclosed orders, those dedicated to fulfilling their genius, those in jail and those who exist in a mental straitjacket, whatever the cause, there is always a conundrum:
Does the elusive Truth exist on the Inside or Outside?
Hostages like Brian Keenan, Anne Frank, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, all attested a life of the spirit and the imagination that would not and could not be limited by physical and ideological constraints.
So does narrowed focus confer a sharper and profounder vision, offering its compensations? Or is Freedom only to be found upon the exterior, in the prolix toil and muddle of human activity where opportunities for discovery abound? Even where choice is possible, aren't these states mutually exclusive?
Cheryl Snell in a new chapbook, Prisoner's Dilemma, explores this theme in situations concerning many kinds of effacement. Each short poem is offered like a remnant of woven fabric placed under the microscope so that the colours, slubs and knots and arabesques, can be appreciated. The imagery is often stark and reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, the emotion bottled which, unstoppered, pervades an air of vaguely fragrant stoicism. Where the subtext is menacing, it frets away at a blithe surface like a sliver of glass stuck in the weave. But, often, it's uncompromising, violent, in-your-face, leaving the reader with no more than the merest scintilla of hope. The images juxtaposed in Snell's phrases cleverly release new flights of meaning as, for example in Dirty Laundry:
Tumbling from the fold
of a fitted sheet – balled-up
silk, some foreign lace. Things come
and go in this house. Last night, an earring
tangled in the wrong colour hair, everything
gone bloodshot and damp.
The man's non-sequiturs circled the drain
of his stranger's ear: Let lovers go fresh and sweet
to be undone. How else to go
with a come-on like that – innocent as soap,
pink bubbles bursting like an alibi
on the verge of coming clean.
The collection as a whole hangs together with the shape and atmosphere of René Magritte's surreal painting The Empty Mask and, in miniature, I don't doubt is as accomplished. Cheryl Snell ably demonstrates that Richard Lovelace was right!*
RJC
(Rosy Cole)
Chapbook hauntingly illustrated by Janet Snell.
“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.” *
But for mystics, the disabled and convalescent, those in enclosed orders, those dedicated to fulfilling their genius, those in jail and those who exist in a mental straitjacket, whatever the cause, there is always a conundrum:
Does the elusive Truth exist on the Inside or Outside?
Hostages like Brian Keenan, Anne Frank, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, all attested a life of the spirit and the imagination that would not and could not be limited by physical and ideological constraints.
So does narrowed focus confer a sharper and profounder vision, offering its compensations? Or is Freedom only to be found upon the exterior, in the prolix toil and muddle of human activity where opportunities for discovery abound? Even where choice is possible, aren't these states mutually exclusive?
Cheryl Snell in a new chapbook, Prisoner's Dilemma, explores this theme in situations concerning many kinds of effacement. Each short poem is offered like a remnant of woven fabric placed under the microscope so that the colours, slubs and knots and arabesques, can be appreciated. The imagery is often stark and reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, the emotion bottled which, unstoppered, pervades an air of vaguely fragrant stoicism. Where the subtext is menacing, it frets away at a blithe surface like a sliver of glass stuck in the weave. But, often, it's uncompromising, violent, in-your-face, leaving the reader with no more than the merest scintilla of hope. The images juxtaposed in Snell's phrases cleverly release new flights of meaning as, for example in Dirty Laundry:
Tumbling from the fold
of a fitted sheet – balled-up
silk, some foreign lace. Things come
and go in this house. Last night, an earring
tangled in the wrong colour hair, everything
gone bloodshot and damp.
The man's non-sequiturs circled the drain
of his stranger's ear: Let lovers go fresh and sweet
to be undone. How else to go
with a come-on like that – innocent as soap,
pink bubbles bursting like an alibi
on the verge of coming clean.
The collection as a whole hangs together with the shape and atmosphere of René Magritte's surreal painting The Empty Mask and, in miniature, I don't doubt is as accomplished. Cheryl Snell ably demonstrates that Richard Lovelace was right!*
RJC
(Rosy Cole)
Chapbook hauntingly illustrated by Janet Snell.
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