I just finished reading White Oleander (1999) by Janet Fitch. The novel is gripping, and Fitch has a tone and style that intrigues me. There are so many memorable lines—nearly every page has at least a phrase underlined. After I’ve digested the story, I’ll go back and look at those words and phrases. This read has already sparked ideas for a dozen poems. The story addresses so many issues related to the human condition—survival, motherhood, being a woman in a man’s world, love, art, education, reading and writing, the foster care system, our judicial system, and many others. I’m was so impressed by the novel that I’ve determined to read anything Janet Fitch has written. Her story is touching and compelling, her vocabulary and diction extraordinary. If you love words, you should love this novel. I was led to this novel through the recommendation of my friend E.B. and from watching the 2002 movie version.

Almost as powerful as the narrative, are the letters from Ingrid laced throughout the story. The oleander as a motiff works well. Oleander. A beautiful, hardy, but deadly flower. I’ve decided to plant some in my yard this year. They will be a reminder of this book. I’ll certainly never look at oleanders or many other things in life the same way. To me, this is a sign of good novel—one that haunts you, one you will never forget. To read more about Janet Fitch, go to her homepage herea: http://literati.net/Fitch/

I watched the first episode of Showtime’s Tudors last night. I enjoyed it tremendously, but I wished I had read more of the back story. I’ll be caught up on Henry next week. I wish I had the script so I could analyze it along with my reading of the story of Henry. Here’s the official Tudor site: http://thetudors.fromthefan.com/?L3291
My weekend has flown by. Friday night was spent at Enoch’s, listening to an Irish singer, Gerry O’Bierne. http://discuss.celticgrove.com/stories/storyReader$132  I was out much too late and imbibed too much as well. Saturday was spent helping  a friend with his truck in the morning, recovering from Friday night, and wrapping up business with my Battleground Louisiana project.

Saturday night I went to see The 300. I love the story of the three hundred Spartans, but I did not like this movie generally. I did enjoy some of the actors, many of the scenes, and thought several of the lines of dialogue were really good. This movie was based on the epic graphic novel of Frank Miller, and the movie had the feel of a graphic  novel as well. I’ve never been into the cartoon/digital thing. However, if the movie makes my students interested in Greece that could be a good thing. My freshmen are soon to begin a mythology unit, so perhaps we can discuss this movie.
This week is a four-day work week, as school is let out on Good Friday. We’re having the local clan to my house this weekend, so that means some preparations will be necessary. I’m looking forward to the Easter break so I can get caught up on my writing work. If you’re interested in learning more about Easter’s history and customs, go to this site: http://www.snopes.com/holidays/easter/easter.asp

I’ve loved and played guitars all my life. The image of my father holding his Fender Broadcaster is probably my earliest memory. He wanted me to learn to play guitar, but he never commanded me to. Yet, when I asked, I knew then that my playing guitar had been a dream of his. Continuing my various writing exercises, I decided to make a list of the guitars I’ve owned in my life and see what memories, feelings, and ideas surface. I began by playing his guitars, then when he saw I was serious, he bought me some. After I started working as a teen I had to use my money of course. I think I got the order right.

1. A blue Silvertone electric. We purchased this from Sears. Strings were way too high and butchered my finger tips, but I played on till I had built up good callouses.

2. A Fender Mustang.
3. A Fender Sunburst Stratocaster. (God, was I stupid for ever getting rid of this!)

4. A red Mosrite guitar like the Iron Butterfly played. (I did see them in concert too.)

5. A red Gibson SG. I sold it to Kenny Bill Stenson when I married. He still has it I believe. (Again, selling it was stupid. I mean, how many times can a man get the dumb ass? Probably a rhetorical question.)

6. An American made classical guitar. It was made of cedar and had a bright, bright sound. This was about the time I began a study of classical guitar.

7. A classical guitar made by Fernando Vera.

8. A white Fender Squire Stratocaster. (slight regression in quality)

9. An old Guild accoustic which I love and still have. This is the guitar I use to perform for small groups.
10. A black Takamine electrified accoustic . This is the guitar I use for most gigs. I quite enjoy playing this one.

When I was playing the Gibson SG, I remember my date saying, “You live in a world of six strings.” Our date was my taking her to hear us play. I think then, guitar was an obsession. Now, I just want to enjoy the instrument and continue to develop as a perfomer. Are there more guitars in my future? Probably, but who knows for sure.

One of the first songs I heard Neil Diamond do, and it is still my favorite of his songs, is “If You Go Away.” That album was not the first time I had heard the song, one based upon the French song “Ne Me Quitte Pas”, written by Jacques Brel. I heard two guitarists on one of the late night talk shows perform it, one sang the words in English, the other in French. I was enthralled. In a writing exercise in which I was writing down the favorite songs of my life, I noticed this one on the list. As I like to post lyrics at least once a week on my blog, I thought I’d use this song too.
I found the lyrics here: http://www.julioiglesias.com/letra/ifyougo.htm

If you go away on this summer day
Then you might as well take the sun away
All the birds that flew in a summer sky
And our love was new and our hearts were high.

When the day was young, and the night was long
And the moon stood still for the night bird’s song

If you go away, if you go away, if you go away

But if you stay I’ll make you a day
Like no day has been or will be again
We’ll sail on the sun, we’ll ride on the rain
We’ll talk to the trees and worship the wind.

But if you go, I’ll understand
Leave me just enough love you fill up my hand

If you go away, if you go away, if you go away.

If you go away, as I know you must
There’ll be nothing left in the world to trust
Just an empty room full of empty space
Like the empty look I see on your face.

Can I tell you now as you turn to go
I’ll be dying slowly ’till your next hello.

If you go away, if you go away, if you go away.

But if you stay, I’ll make you a night
Like no night has been, or will be again
I’ll sail on your smile, I’ll ride on your touch
I’ll talk to your eyes, that I love so much.

But if you go, I won’t cry
Though the good has gone from the word goodbye.

If you go away, if you go away, if you go away.

Well, my six-week program with the Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities is over. Last night, we evaluated The Civil War in Louisiana by John D. Winters. An excellent book. We were fortunate to have one audience member who had actually studied under Mr. Winters. All of our reading group agreed that it is a fine book, chock full of information. Some of us felt it would be a better reference tool, or if it were used in this pilot program, it should be the first book read in advance of the series. Of course, the history fanatics in our group absolutely loved the book, but most of the lay readers felt it a little technical for what we were trying to do in our series. My mistake was using this book on the last week instead of the first week. Once again, several participants brought stuff for our little show and tell session. I brought a few Civil War Relics (Yes, I’m a digger) and I also played and sang a few tunes on my Guild guitar. Our wonderful librarians fed us a first class meal of pork loin, baked beans, cole slaw, and fruit salad.
Well, now that the class is over, I’ll have Thursday nights again. Yet, I’ll miss the time I spent with these devoted readers at the Winnsboro, Louisiana Public Library. I learned so much from facilatating this series. I hope I’m able to present it again. Hopefully, I can present it even better. Now I must organize my books, notes, and visuals I used and file them away. I also have a self-evaluation of the course and books I must turn in today. As always, too much to do and not enough time.

I’m working on a novella with a working title of The Ghost in the Poem. My story is set in this decade, originally in New Orleans, but I think I’m going to change it to Charleston, SC. (Due to the hurricanes so changing things in New Orleans) The storyline is based on  an incident in Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s life. This influential Pre-Raphaelite poet and artist had married his model, Elizabeth Siddell. According to: http://www.love-poem.org.uk/ Rosetti, “true to his offbeat beliefs, however, he continued to seek his pleasures with prostitutes, whilst portraying his wife as the pure, unattainable, almost divine beauty; his comments that his overwhelming love for her could only be increased by her death struck a cord with Elizabeth, and she obliged him by taking an overdose of his favourite laudanum, at the age of just 31. Rosetti’s reaction was, as usual, over the top; he collected up the manuscripts for all his unpublished poems and had them buried with her in her coffin. However a few years later he had her dug up, rescued his works, and sent them off to be published. This action seemed to have jolted away the last of his sanity and he spent his final years as a depressed recluse, tormented by a persecution mania. An artist’s soul is mirrored in his poetry . . .”

My idea is for a modern day poet to find a poet in the madhouse who went through a similar experience and interview him, seeking for some lost poems. I’ll have to give the plot more thought. I may use a female protagonist to be the poet who is looking for the lost poems. To help me get into this story, I wrote this poem today:

My Ghost

My ghost will haunt you,

There’s too many places

Where we were together,

And each one will prick your heart

And you’ll drink both bitter and sweet

Memories from those wells.

Those places, and us, will

Never be the same.

You could totally reconstruct

Your life and change your schedule,

But you won’t.

Even though you’ve embraced

A life without me now,

You would miss my ghost too much.

There’s certainly a ghost in the poems you hide,

You can sense him in the blood-ink lines of his verse,

A love-sick specter chained and tortured,

Begging you to be released from his coffin,

But you know you can’t let him out again.

My ghost will haunt you

Whenever you’re with him.

When he makes love to you,

When’s he’s nice and when he’s not,

My apparition left a trail of his past life with you,

Love tokens–books, songs, clothes, jewelry, scents.

My ghost is not malevolent,

Only heartbroken,

The most haunted kind.

The kind that never come back to life.