Marie Mutsuki Mockett

I have very little experience with resorts.

What am I saying? I don't think I've ever stayed in a resort before, having always had a knee-jerk bias against them. And now I know why. A resort is pretty much designed to make you feel as though you haven't left home, except that the weather is better. And anyway, this version of home isn't one that I would choose for myself to begin with.

Note, for example, the photo above which came with my check at breakfast and informed all guests, regardless of country and language spoken, of the importance of leaving a tip.



This was then followed by a receipt which included the tip calculated for me at different percent levels since I, an imbecile, might not know to leave a tip or figure it out myself. I'll let you guess how much money I left. I won't eat there again.



I went to visit my father's old friend, Eddie Jose, who runs the conservation studio for the Honolulu Academy of Arts. I'd been in a funk all day, and seeing my father's friend and all the art pieces and the effort that was going into preserving paintings and screens on their last legs pretty much had me near tears the entire time. Some day maybe I'll figure out the right way to write about grief other than on a blog which is embarrassingly revealing. But, anyway, it was one of those days where I perpetually felt sick.

Eddie never did pose for a photo. He's sly and careful and charmingly subversive in that way I recognize a certain kind of non-white person to be. I enjoyed his company.



Despite my useless emotional state, I did manage to focus enough to see what Eddie and his team were doing--part of my novel concerns art restoration after all. Here, someone demonstrated a stencil pattern which would be used to decorate a piece of paper that will ultimately back a screen.



Here's the back of the screen. It was a nice rimpa style piece, but I got so involved in looking at the colors and textures, I forgot to take a photo. Ditto with the Sung dynasty painting hanging in the back. I kept forgetting to take pictures of all the things that I actually liked.



There was a period of my father's life where we were all absorbed by the question of how to find the perfect gold paper to repair the torn gold sections of standing screens. Dad tried unsuccessfully to blend gold paints together. I learned from visiting Eddie that the best way is to buy old gold screens--this one is a couple hundred years old--and just rip them up. Gold squares are taken off and reused as patchwork. No one, he said, can paint anything to rival pilfered old material.



My father also wondered how to fade too-bright silks once a painting has been remounted. Eddie said that he often dyes silks by using vegetable dyes. He even let me eat some of his ingredients--a clove, which I had to spit out while he giggled at me and passed me the trash can.



I asked Eddie where I could go to find good sushi. I was skeptical of all the recommendations I'd received so far; one restaurant was known for "attracting celebrities," which is not exactly criteria I would follow for food. Eddie said that Honolulu doesn't have a great many sushi joints, except for Mitch's. He warned me; Mitch's is a hole in the wall, but the fish would be good. So it was that in the evening we piled into a cab and found ourselves under an expressway and wedged in between car dealerships to enter a small room blasting Japanese pop tunes. Two Japanese sushi chefs were behind the counter, and Japanese tourists already gnawing on raw lobster.





It was really, really good. A top sushi experience. I may go again tomorrow.



I visited the Iolani Palace, where the last Hawaiian Kings and Queens lived. We had to cover our feet with these little booties. I couldn't touch anything or take any photos, so sadly I have little to share. Except. I think it is interesting to visit places that still mourn sovereignty. My generation is so far removed from kings and queens and it is hard to imagine living in such a world where royalty was common. But I wonder if the founding fathers would look at certain dynastic families in politics with skepticism; they more than anyone would have understood the dangers of dynasties. I mean, I am finding it wonderful and fascinating to read about the early days of Obama and all that has happened and the enthusiasm so many of us have for him must be something like the thrill of watching a new king in action. We still desire to have these figures in our lives. And some people are naturally kingly.



I went off to Chinatown ostensibly to find Maui onions. They kept showing up on the menu--fresh Maui onions! with Maui onions! sweet Maui onions! I asked a bus driver about the onions and he said that they are special because of the soil in Maui. Food, he said, changes once it comes to the islands. The macadamia nut originally had prickles, but no more--in paradise, prickles aeren't needed. The Maui onion, originally from Brazil, has evolved due to the volcanic soil. My hunt for Maui onions was on. But, said the bus driver, don't go to Safeway. They just carry food from the island--a shame when so much of what is grown on the islands is superior to the imports.



This mystery fruit fascinated me.



Later I cracked it open and ate it--it was like a lychee. (Gordon thought the pit was the nut and ate that too).



I found lots of wholesale florists hawking cheap leis. I didn't buy the cheapest one because I couldn't pass up the chance to wear one with tuberose. I think that tuberose might be my favorite fragrance as these things go.



At last! Maui onions!



I love the fruit stands. Here Honolulu reminded me of a tropical Berkeley--slightly disheveled, colorful and quirky.



My favorite friend followed me around.



For Gordon's birthday dinner, we went to a fancy place called Elua, which cooks Italian and French food, but using local ingredients--an important thing, if we want to support local farmers. He was happy with his card and his necklace and his present waiting back home--an out of print copy of Vogue French Cookery which I found via AbeBooks.



I like the banyan trees.

Edited to add: It occurs to me that I'm being disingenuous when I say I have little experience with resorts. I have lots of experience. I worked in them. Summer after summer I earned money to use while in college by taking cocktail orders and filling in for the bartender when his cocaine habit beckoned. I grew up in a resort town. I know what it is to wait on people . . . like me! I was befriended by the Mexican and Phillipino workers who came to my part of the California expressly to work in a resort, and to send their kids to decent schools. That's probably part of why the whole resort-in-Hawaii thing freaked me out. It's weird to be on the other side of the table or bar or hotel counter.

The vegetation and birdlife on Hawaii are unlike anything I've seen anywhere else--which makes walking around a lot of fun. I was startled by this gorgeous little bird on my hike yesterday and spent a lot of time trying to take his photo and wondering who he was.



Eventually, a sign displaying nature information gave me the answer.



I also love the ubiquitous and adorable zebra dove.



I'm pretty sure this is a papaya tree. Before coming to Hawaii, I anticipated eating pineapple every day. And, yes, I am eating pineapple every day. But I've also discovered just how good fresh papaya is--and I mean truly fresh and ripe and sweet and soft. We do not get such good papaya on the mainland.

Below, various flowers I've snapped while walking along. I know I'll see more as the week goes by.

I gave up the chance to upgrade my seat on the plane because I would lose my window. As we circled over Waikiki and a hush came over the cabin, I was so glad to be able to take this picture.




And this one, of the western side of the island.



I am sort of mystified by how warm it is here. And light. We have an extra hour of sunshine. I can't say I really like Waikiki all that much. But I think I am going to be very happy once out on the island and exploring.



It can be difficult to get Gordon on a plane (even on a work-related conference to Hawaii). But there is no one else I would rather travel with. The good thing is that once he is in a new location, he's a wonderful and enthusiastic traveler who buries his nose in the guidebook and begins to plan the day. I have a series of "Gordon and guidebook" photos taken around the world. Later in the day, after hiking around, his face turned quite red. He will not be this pale again for a few weeks.



I've long had an idea for a novel set partly in Hawaii. So it was that we set off for the Pearl Harbor Memorial, which I would encourage anyone to go and see. This shrine/memorial structure is placed over the sunken USS Arizona, where the remains of hundreds of soliders still lie.



A ferry takes out a pre-determined number of guests. Inside, there is information about the Arizona and how it lies on the ocean floor. Fish swim without concern through the water, which is still soaked with oil seeping out of the wreck.



The inside of the shrine lists the names of the dead. In some cases, survivors have asked to be buried along with their crew-mates. Their names are listed as well. Having lived through 9/11, I can see how surviving Pearl Harbor would be a life-changing and life-determining event.



I would imagine that the museum displays have changed over time. While the narration does not leave out who the attackers were (the Japanese), and certainly does not shy away from making clear who the victims were, the exhibits also do a good job, I think, of showing the complexities of war. The Japanese general Isoroku Yamamoto, for example, did not want war with the US because he knew it would cost his country, and that Japan would ultimately lose. What a terrible thing to truly be so caught up in events you cannot control, when your intuition warns you of danger.

In other exhibits, we are shown the distress inflicted on ethnic Japanese stuck in Japan during the war, or those who grew up in Hawaii, but ended up fighting on the Japanese side. Questions like this--identity, loyalty, love and the near madness that descends when someone isn't able to see clearly through all these things--have the makings of great fiction.



Later we hiked up Diamond Head Crater for a spectacular view of the city.



Since I've been here, people have assumed I am from the islands. One man spoke to me in Hawaiian and ended with the word "Hapa" so I smiled and said yes. He then told me a bunch of places to eat. I asked him where we could take my husband to eat good food and hear good slack guitar, and he sent us to Chai's Bistro, which was wonderful. He also told me to take some bus and to sit in the bus until the driver just turns off the engine. "Then you get out with him, and go see where he eats. That will be real Hawaiian food." I think I might try this, vague as his directions were.

I've long had fantasies about going to Hawaii, and not just because it is supposedly a place where so many people look like me--it's from Hawaii that the term "hapa" originated, after all. When my husband invited me to tag along with him to Waikiki for a conference, I couldn't exactly resist.



For a number of years, flights to Japan always refueled in Honolulu. As my mother spirited me off to her magical country, I wanted badly to stop off in this place that kids in school were always bragging they had visited. In school, conversations generally took the form of an argument over which island was superior, while those of us who had never been to Hawaii stood and watched.

Once, while my mother and I waited in the airport lobby of Honolulu airport to be allowed back on the plane as it was getting gassed up, my mother found a tour group lining up to exit the terminal and board a bus (security was much more lax back then). She put me in line with her, and we both received leis, before ducking out of the line. She was thrilled--a free lei--and I begged to be allowed to join the tourists on their way to the beach. "We are going to Japan," she said firmly. I don't think I really believed she could have changed our itinerary, but then adults seem capable of nearly anything when you are small. The leis went with us all the way to Tokyo. I don't remember their ultimate fate, but I'm sure I was exhausted and unreasonable by the time we actually made it to Japan, and resisted being parted from the lei.



My father had visited Hawaii plenty as a child and young adult, and always spoke of Kuaii. He said he would take us some day. In the interim, I read up about Hawaii and what women wore, and went through my mother's closet trying to assemble the closest thing I could to a Hawaiian skirt. I went to the library, and read about flora and fauna, and constructed "Hawaiian flowers" out of paper and taped them to the hallway. I made my own jungle. My parents had a dinner party in the middle of my project, and I dressed up as "a Hawaiian" and explained that I had brought Hawaii into the house.

The closest I really came to visiting Hawaii was the "Joban Hawaiian Center" in Yumoto, Japan, a theme park built in an old coal mining town utilizing natural hot springs to recreate "Hawaii." I remember being in awe of the place, with its pools and flowers and ukelele music, though it was probably very kitschy. A film, Hula Girls, was filmed at the Center, and tells the story of two girls in the small coal mining town trained to dance the hula.

I've a Kaytie-annotated guidebook, the internet and a week to explore Hawaii. It's the first time in quite a while that I'll be somewhere new. I love going somewhere new.

I only had time to pull out my iPhone to take this picture, and while I love my iPhone, it isn't really blessed with the best camera. Still, you can sort of make out what I saw as I flew out of JFK: a blue-black sky, the dark water, dark red from the approaching sun, a new moon and the land scarred with neon.

I've started reading Francine Prose's book: The Lives of the Artists: Nine Muses and the Artists They Inspired which examines the relationship between Suzanne Farrell and Balanchine, Lou Salome and Freud, Rilke and Nietschze and other artist/muse combos. Prose's tone suggests she's a bit put off by the notion that a woman would subject herself to a man's creative process; early on she raises the point that a muse today is more likely to be a place--New York City, the wild west, the Sahara--than a person. Still, she notes that the actual genesis of creative material still contains a touch of mystery; it's much easier, for example, to explain how a magic trick is performed than it is to pinpoint from whence a piece of music flows. We can read and read about Alice Lidell and her relationship to Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll), but that still doesn't explain how Dodgson took the first step to building his Wonderland--and it doesn't really tell us how others can and will succeed in doing the same.

Once upon a time, Prose says, the muse was actually the Muses (there were nine and each one inspired a different art form).




Homer's The Illiad starts off (as every Columbia grad knows):

"Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy."

Shakespeare starts Henry VI thus:

Chorus: O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!

And so on. The Muses have had many contracts throughout history. But, says Prose, when the pagans fell, and Christianity took over, the Muses went away, chased off by the monotheists, and the troubadours had to find something new on which to pin all their creative anxiety. Enter the Perfect Woman. Dante, anyone? Or maybe, the not-so-perfect woman. Writers are always meeting fascinating people, and retelling and refracting these experiences through fiction.



But, asks Prose--and she asks the same thing I did--does a female artist have a Muse? Do we girls go off in search of inspiration and find it in a person? So far she doesn't seem to think so, though I don't see why we wouldn't.

I was thinking about this today, and remembered Robertson Davies's novel "What's Bred in Bone" in which the eccentric painter, Francis Cornish, lives out his life under the observation of a personal daimon and an angel. Daemons are described as many things: demigods whose power has been diluted since the rise of Christianity, intermediaries between the worlds of humans and the gods, and an inspiring spirit (Socrates claimed he had one).

In Davies' novel, the daimon gives the character Francis plenty of hardship along the way, because he believes that difficutly is what forces his subjects to grow. Throw in some personal tragedy and heartbreak and Francis will be an artist, says the daimon. Taken in this light, I'd say that the daimon, as Davies views him, is a kind of Muse, but one that doesn't blow inspiration in a writer's ear, but puts him through some heartbreaking paces. More recently, the term daimon or daemon was used by Philip Pullman in his Dark Materials trilogy. Here, a daemon represents the personality, and the inner life of a character.




Muse or daimon, I don't know which one I would rather have, frankly. A muse sounds like a much more pleasant experience, but a daimon more realistic. Speaking objectively, I'd say that my life has had more daemons than muses, and they've come at critical moments--even if I have not wanted them to be there.

Such peaceful coexistence has never happened before. Admittedly, this morning they were fighting again. But that was because I made them wait too long for breakfast.

From the LA Times, the speech as a graphic, with the most frequently mentioned words appearing in large type.

Erica Alexander's inaugural poem will be available for sale on February 6th.

Despite my inherent objection to the idea that Obama's election makes me a better person more deserving of respect, the theme that we should act from courage and love and not fear strikes a nerve.

"in today's sharp sparkle... anything can be made, any sentence begun"

Edited to add: EdAss writes a letter and demonstrates why I adore her.

At a dinner I attended last year with some writers, we spoke about the impending Obama administration. All at the table agreed that it would now be much more pleasant to go abroad; only the insensitive could have traveled overseas and not noticed how despised the Bush administration has been.

But, I said, it bothered me that people were suddenly visibly nicer. I mean, does Obama's election mean that I am suddenly a better person and more worthy of kindness and good manners?

Having just returned from the UK, I can say that it is very, very nice to go to a country and to see how excited others are by our new president. But! (to employ an internet phrase). Have I suddenly become a better person? Should people now be nicer to me because of who my president will be?

See, this is my problem. I am the same person I have always been. I haven't changed at all, even if my president has, and even if the way you view my country has. I am not my country. I am a product of my environment, and my culture to be sure, and I love the US for reasons which you, a stranger, might not know. But I am no different than before. Certainly I feel the optimism of the new administration. I identify with this president of mixed race. I like that he repeatedly asked and asks us to access our better natures. But does this mean that we are all better people? Has this changed all of us?

I am working on my marketing questionnaire (yes, for those of you waiting for me to turn it in; I'm really working). I am struggling to describe my book, as all writers do. I asked a couple of friends for help.

One of my closest writer friends, known for being funny and shrewd, said that my book is about the following:

"Displacement, identity, and obsession.

Also, weed. Lots and lots and lots of serious weed smoking and all of the stoner hijinks that go along with smoking the weed."

This is not how I would describe my book. I'm not even sure this is a book I could write. I'm not even sure it's a book I would read-or would I? Maybe I would. Still. I wonder if he has a point.

Yesterday, my beloved friends Isao and Nono called me from Japan. I struggled to speak with them, my Japanese rusty from disuse. We were going to try to meet up in February, but despite all the planning, couldn't find a way to connect on either coast. February, after all, is tax time and taxes will be a particularly pleasant experience this year due to the estate matters in which I am mired.

A funny thing happened, though. I am suddenly craving a trip to Japan. It's a feeling I haven't had since my father passed away. Suddenly I want to be there, to go to an onsen, to eat the food day after day, to hear the language, to move my body in that particular way, to be embraced by that grace, to laugh at all the things that are funny there but no one understands here.

After my father died, I found myself mostly immersed in his world, his interests, and certainly his businesses. I know this is natural. I began to go over all the things that connect me to him: the farm, my grandmother's magical mansion, the antiques, the convictions about music and art. My novel and its themes and emphasis on Japan seemed almost trivial. I would think about Japan or picture it in my head and feel . . . nothing. I would think to myself: was I ever that person who felt comfortable in that other world and its particular beauty?

This is a little bit odd, when I consider that it was Nono and Isao who rushed from Japan to be by our side after my father passed away, and my mother went into the hospital. Isao arrived with his magical cooking ingredients in an attempt to get my mother to eat. I can't think of a greater gesture of friendship than that.

My mother is taking off for Japan today. In her email to me, she said she couldn't wait to be on her native soil, with her friends, and in a Japanese bath. And that's how I feel right now.

Maybe I will go back to being that person I was before--somehow--or, as my friend Lisa would say, reintegrating that person again. It would be nice.

A couple of years ago, my friend Lisa and I sat on the floor of the Green Apple and created two piles: fiction and poetry. We were exchanging favorites. We work in different mediums, but our tastes, interests and pursuits often overlap and I always pay attention to anything she wants me to read. Among the books she recommended:

Jack Gilbert: "The Great Fire"
Jorie Graham: "Dream of the Unified Field"
Louise Gluck: "Wild Iris"

At the end of last year, and the start of this one, I found myself reading a lot of poetry. Maybe "reading" isn't the right word. I was seeking out poetry. I wanted to find something that encapsulated what I was feeling. A novel wasn't going to help. Music wasn't literal enough. Psychology too reductive. I wanted poetry that had been written for me. Occasionally, I would come across something that resonated with me: Atwood's "Variations on the Word Sleep," which spoke to me of love and grief, and Plath's "The Rival" which also made me think about strange and hungry way that grief seems to stalk us. I've also been reading and enjoying Linda Gregg, and Jeffrey Yang's debut collection, Aquarium.

Poetry, like music, is able to distill a complicated emotion, but refer to it at an angle, the way that a clinical definition cannot. Poetry is also very dependent on word choice, and as such, requires a kind of concentration that is very different from reading a novel.

I asked Lisa who the young poets today are who are working with emotional language, and what she thought of the old guard poets we'd been reading. I told her that I liked Plath, but had difficulty relating to everything she wrote. I said that I wanted poetry that spoke to the heart, but didn't become embarrassingly maudlin. I said that I don't like the way our society tries to corral difficult emotions into a safe package: that if you just do A, B and C, you will be guaranteed happiness. People are more complex than this. I said I didn't want to read poems that were brain-teasers. I didn't want to read 50 year old poetry that was a reaction to an older and more formal aesthetic. I didn't want to read anything that made me feel my failure to understand must be mine. I wanted something human and intelligent.

"Oh," she said, "That's what I want too and it's what I'm working on." And of course, it dawned on me that this is why I'm so wild about Lisa's poems. It is also the kind of material I'm drawn to, and working with too. And I was reminded again of how wonderful it is to have friends who can understand you--and challenge you.

Lisa went ahead and dictated a list of new poetry books for me to read, and I hopped onto Amazon and ordered a few. I'm now awaiting:

Richard Siken: "Crush"
Charles Wright: Black Zodiac
Brenda Hillman: Loose Sugar.

It's been a while since I anticipated a shipment from Amazon the way I am today. I'm particularly curious about Siken. There are snippets of his work online. Here are a few lines:

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
Until they forget that they are horses.

Of his work, it has been written:

Although he is quick to point out that his book is not autobiographical, and he is not the speaker, he does allow that the 1991 death of his boyfriend influenced his work. “It made the book a little more about elegy,” he says, “and I guess a little more desperate because everything seemed fragile and temporary.”

I guess this is what I am seeking right now: something frantic, and soaked through with the sense that life is terribly fragile and temporary. You can buy the book here. I also randomly stumbled across an Irish poet named Meirion Jordan. Alas, his collection doesn't come out in the US until April.

Just read my first earthshatteringly great novel for 2009 and am sitting here still in a daze. My friend Kaytie, with whom I was chatting online, said to me: "It has been a long time since you have been so moved by fiction."

I want very much to say what I have read, but am not sure I can since it hasn't officially been published, and the ARC I received was a loan. But I'm feeling all agitated and desperate to share because the book is that good. It's violent and beautiful and raw. And it contained a very, very complicated love story that I didn't expect.

On the phone today with my friend Maud, I said: "I don't think of myself as a girly girl reader. And yet, I completly fell for this love story." She agreed. And I was reminded again of how, when something is done well--anything--it becomes interesting.

What's more, the novel was written by a man, from a woman's point of view. And it succeeds scarily well. Over and over I read the "woman's point of view written by a man" book, and it fails. This did not.

I find myself dreaming about the book, thinking it would make a fine opera or ballet. I envy everyone who will be able to read this book for the first time, and wish I could go back in time and read it anew.

Edited to add: Maud has outed me. The novel is The Book of Night Women by Marlon James.

Tonight I saw an extraordinary piece of theater. Parsons, the dance company, collaborated with musical group EVOC (East Village Opera Company) to create a piece titled "Remember Me" which fuses modern dance and rock opera. Favorites like "Che Gelida Manina" and "O Mio Babino Caro" are given a makeover and set to electric guitar and bass and used to convey general moods on the themes of love and betrayal. You could feel the expectation in the theater before the performance began (late, with tech guys wandering around looking concerned) because all around me, people seemed to be getting into arguments over seating. This was a show that people wanted to see.

The plot of "Remember Me" is constructed around a love triangle and features a woman named Marie (ha!) and her two would be suitors, Artemis and Gintus. In what must be one of the most amazing expressions of ecstatic love, Marie is suspended from a harness, spins through the air, and flies--but this is not Peter Pan. The choreography is exhilarating and frightening, like the risk of love itself. Two singers give the dancers their "voices." It can be strange to watch voiceless dancers acting out parts, with no human voice added to music. In Remember Me, that artifice is removed, and the singers carefully integrated; it can be tricky to pair non-dancers with the lithe, but Parsons managed to fuse the two. I was completely captivated, particularly by the male singer, Tyley Ross.

In another scene, Gintus drags Marie off the stage in a fit of possessive jealousy. Behind, other dancers mirror her plight as they too are yanked across the floor. And though the effect is of people struggling--a really graphic display of what wrestling and possessiveness feel like--the choreography and timing are so seamless, I was just left with an impression of terror. I want to see the show again to see how it was done. And that's how much of the program made me feel as an audience member; I was so busy being dazzled, I couldn't see how anything was done, which is a relief after having watched so many programs which make me think: aha. It's that move again.

There isn't a norm to how Parsons does anything; there is no needless repetition. In one piece, dancers hurl themselves at each other so you feel what it is like to collide with another personality. It's very, very hard to do (said the dilettante dancer who needs to go back to class pronto), but it looks effortless. And no motion is wasted. Sometimes this season at the Joyce, I saw companies whose dancers were certainly beautiful and proficient . . . but the choreography was verbose. Not so with Parsons.

Also, Parsons seems to have a flawless understanding of how to mix theatricality with dance; the lighting, the use of curtains, the way in which men in black crept up and "stole" Marie, hoisting her up under a stark white light while she trembled, would have seemed like cheap tricks if they hadn't been so effortlessly integrated. How, I thought, is it that one group can use so many of what is known in theater as "specials," and make it work? That's genius. In another segment, Marie is trapped in a jail and a chorus of dancers lock arms, forming a chain or perhaps more accurately, prison bars. Their image is then filmed and projected on the back wall and as they undulate, the real and celluloid dancers fuse, and you have the feeling that Marie is trapped inside the music itself and that you are watching its rhythms.

I could nitpick. The lead female dancer had perhaps two facial expressions, and didn't project, but she's young and in time will mature. (I thought that the rival, Gintus, was gorgeous and why the hell didn't Marie pick him? He was a hell of a lot more interesting than the hero. But I would have chosen Mercutio over Romeo). I wasn't crazy about the text/poetry flashing on the back wall. I liked the ideas--didn't like the language. A piece like this could have benefited from stronger writing. But because the work overall is just so strong, I didn't care about any of the weaknesses.

At home, I couldn't wait to see what The New York Times had written about Remember Me. Surely we would agree. How else to explain all the anticipation in the audience? As it turns out, the reviewer and I disagree on nearly every point. I guess it happens. A purist might not like rock opera. Unsubtle emotions might seem trite. To some. I absolutely loved Remember Me and was floored by how well collaboration can work between artists when done well. I'm hoping to go again.

Edited to add: The negative review in the Times continued to bother me and so I decided to look up the reviewer in question. I am not the only one put off by her cynical and cold view of dance, which in many ways is the warmest of the arts.

In this post, Paul Ben-Itzak refers to Gia Kourlas' criticism as: "ignorant, vindictive, spiteful and above all cynical ravings."

He then goes on with this anecdote:

"As we all know by now, Kourlas does not confine her ignorant disrespect to entire art forms; what fun would that be? What she truly relishes is personal attacks which have no relation to legitimate, informed, and qualified criticism. In April, reviewing the group program "E-Moves," the target of her locker-room dagger was Flamenco artist Nelida Tirado who, Kourlas said, "seemed to have trouble remembering that she was sharing a program. As sharp as her footwork was, Ms. Tirado tested the patience of the hilariously vocal audience with a false ending or two in '37 anos.' One man, practically pleading, said, 'Work it out, work it out.'" Set aside that she seems to be the only person on the planet who doesn't know that in audience lingo "work it out" is the English translation of "Olé!," Gia Kourlas -- and by implication the once august journal that employs her -- seems to have trouble remembering, if indeed she ever knew, that jealous sniping is not criticism, but its inverse because it trades not in high art but base envies."

An apparent certainty in judgment--a bad review--can be misinterpreted as the truth. Young girls battling it out in cliques know all about this. I worry when a reviewer with no love for an art form begins to make judgments; there are those who will listen to her. But watching the reaction from the audience on Friday night, I'm pleased to see that New York is still a city full of people able to think for--and enjoy--themselves when presented with something so original and compelling.

I'm disinclined to make New Year resolutions; I generally find the practice empty and teetering too close to trendiness. When people ask me for my New Year's resolution, I generally say I don't have one. But of course, year after year, I have sat here perched atop early January with the whirlwind of the holidays behind me, wondering what changes I might bring to my life as it resumes its normal work patterns.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I was thinking this morning that this will be the first birthday since I was, oh, 21, in which I don't feel like a failure dreading the onslaught of time. It's also my first birthday without my father calling to sing "Happy Birthday" to me on the phone. It's hard not to think of these things as trade-offs the universe forced me to make.

You see, year after year, I have secretly been hoping that this would be the year in which I might make some creative progress. So all those times I said I had no New Year's resolution, I had in fact been making resolutions all along. Freed up from that pressure (though I'm starting to obsess over the new novel), I find myself thinking of other resolutions I might make.

Obviously, the usual ones apply. Enforced detox notwithstanding, I'd like to stay healthier and saner than I did this past year. I'd like to remain creative. I'd like to make my friends happy. I'd like the value the time we have; we don't have it forever.

And I'd really, really like to become a better reader.

In 2008, I feel as though I became an incredibly sloppy reader. I was constantly dis-satisfied (though plenty of people have comforted me, saying that it's hard to read when you are in the middle of doing some serious editing and writing). I'd say this tendency first started in 2006 when book after book I had been eagerly anticipating simply let me down. It was an awful feeling--sort of the way you feel when a shade of color you have depended on to brighten your face suddenly fails to do so, or looks childish. Writers whose careers I'd followed no long really spoke to me.

And yet, every now and then something new just absolutely captured my imagination.

My friend Maud and I have talked about this--how the best fiction tickles you at the time, and then continues to leave an impression, even after you have forgotten all the intricate plot details. It leaves an imprint, like the very best music or a certain intense quality of light. I was taking a look at Blood Meridian, for example, which is still one of my very favorite books, and thinking how little of the details I actually remember. But I do remember how it made me feel, and I trust that feeling to mean that the book will dazzle me now--perhaps even more so since I'm older and theoretically will be able to mine even more out of my reading experience. The best books, in other words, always make me feel something that I remember, like all the best works of art. And I was thinking to myself how much in common all art forms share--the very best things, like the best people, linger in your mind.

Someone said to me recently that perhaps I have now read so much it is in fact going to be harder for me find so many books that are as exciting as when I was in my 20s, and reading was a newer thing. And if I were at heart a childish person, I'd say that fiction isn't as exciting as it used to be. But what I actually think it means is that I must try harder to seek out the new things I need to keep my imagination fresh. The onus is on me.

Kilmartin Glen has a large concentration of Neolithic and Bronze Age sites, including these larger "marker" rocks. It was here that I saw my first standing stone circle over a decade ago and learned of Gordon's superstitious nature. But it was May and quite bright then; the amber sunlight of winter made for an even eerier and more unsettling viewing this time around.



It's really hard not to wonder how you can make the stones "work."



The Temple Wood stone circle is also located here--actually, there are two stone circles, though one is more complete. I'd read that two of the rocks had etched "sun swirls" on their surfaces, and I spent no small amount of time trying to find the markings. I finally did, but they are difficult to photograph (particularly in a photo this small). In this case, you can make out the swirl in the lower left-hand corner of the standing stone--in the greenish area. Supposedly the larger swirl is located on the stone to the extreme northeast, so it must have had something to do with sun worship.



Evening was spent at the Ardanaiseig Hotel, located on Loch Awe. When we first decided to spend Christmas in Scotland, my husband put together a little pile of cards with activities in Scotland listed on each. My mother put them in the order in which she most wanted to do something; spending a night in a castle was at the top of the pile. Ardanaiseig while not technically a castle, became our choice to visit because of its rooms, its views, its award winning menu and general affordability.



We are now completely in love with the place and its grounds and its food.



Here is just a snapshot of what we ate for dinner--best end of lamb. Delicious. Gordon says that one day we may plan a special birthday party for yours truly in a castle in the Highlands. If we really do this, Ardanaiseig might be the place we choose.

While I lie here, trying to recuperate from whichever culprit was responsible for my body's complete abdication of digestive responsibility, I'm going to post a few more photos of Scottish adventures, all of which occurred before the New Year.



A few years ago, Gordon and I traveled to the Isle of Mull, gateway to Iona, of the famous abbey. Mull is also well known for its standing stone circle. The last time we visited, we had some difficulty finding the starting-out point; by the time we did, it was dusk and starting to snow and we had an interesting time crossing the field to reach the prehistoric site. This time, we arrived early enough to have some sunshine, and also had the foresight to pick up cheap Wellies.



To find the rocks, one is supposed to line up white rocks across a couple of fields, and follow the stones all the way to the stone circle. We missed this sign the first time we visited, and found the white rocks completely by accident.



In the distance, you can make out my mother and a white rock.



It's a very muddy field, with plenty of icy puddles. I liked this one, which looked to me like the profile of an old woman. I didn't step in this puddle.



It's lots of fun to look at the angles the shadows make and to wonder what it all might mean.



Gordon wasn't too thrilled about this photo--he's superstitious about standing stones. But he agreed to pose anyway, as long as I stopped photographing anything else. Maybe the stones are responsible for my terrible New Year's Eve--and the fact that Gordon was spared, while my mother was not (she did some kind of interpretive dance inside the perimeter).