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Dear Betty,

You win.  (Okay, Pete helped.)  Rather nasty trick, there, invoking the Boss's name.  You know I am powerless against the Co-Dictators of the Universe.

My entry to the current Clarity of Night contest is here.  Or you can read it in the postscript.  I keep hoping for one of those magical epiphanies that write themselves, 250 words of such depth and perfection that it reduces Parrish to tears.  Sadly, no such epiphany occurred for this contest.  I will jump cartwheels if only I can stay in the Forties Club (do not even dare to suggest that has anything to do with my age).

I've read but not commented on all the entries.  Some, like this one, are way too profound for my summertime brain.  Some (like Tessa's, and Sarah's are poetry: I stink at appreciating poetry.   

Quite a few of my peeps entered: Merry, Ello, Chris, Aniket, wolfie, Paul, Pete, Parrish, J.C., Precie, Angelique, Dottie, Sandra, Absolute Vanilla, Surly Writer, Whirlochre. Am I well-connected or what? (Yes, I hobnob.)

My current favorites are da Boss's and Sylvia's and Tre'von's.  I think.  At least right now.

Not only is my Clarity entry not to the level I'd hoped, my word counts on the WIPs are lagging.  McKoala's going to claw me soon, I'm afraid.  I know your own poetry and Rumpelstiltskin writing is going well, even if I haven't left comments.  I'm all-knowing that way.

I hope that your home ownership and kitchen remodelling are going well.  You will certainly need to get ahead of things in order to fill the Boss's shoes when he's on leave.  First thing you can do is raise my salary.  Royalty needs bling, you know.

Do give my best to Mrs. Betty and to Zora.

Cordially,
the Queen

PS - I haven't mailed your books yet, but I also haven't forgotten.

PPS - Here's my entry:

Presage
by Aerin Rose


Twenty-two hours from San Francisco to Kathmandu. Four hours until the layover in Hong Kong. Caelin will have finished grading papers by then. She arches her back, stretching, then wiggles her toes, and catches the eye of the flight attendant.

“More, please.” She indicates the travel-sized wineglass. The remaining ruby droplets glisten in the spotlight of her reading lamp. The attendant nods from the galley.

“You realize that’s basically grape juice?” Chloe peers around the headrest as her business class bed reverts to its upright position.

“It’s a second growth Bordeaux and you know it, O Queen Food Critic,” Caelin retorts. “How’d you sleep?”

“Not well. Looks like fourteen bottles of questionable Bordeaux didn’t help you sleep, either.”

“Excited?”

“And nervous. What if she hates us?”

“Sweetheart.” Caelin strokes her wife’s cheek as Chloe unfolds the passport she’s been clutching. A little girl with dark eyes and copper skin gazes at them, unsmiling and unafraid. “She liked us well enough before. Any kid will hate her parents at some point. Let’s just focus on getting her home.”

The flight attendant materializes with the bottle of Château Cos-d'Estournel 1989, which streams like scarlet silk into the stemware.

“Like the orphanage is going to let her come home when you show up drunk,” Chloe teases, leaning close. Caelin smiles into her spouse’s black curls. Points of light play on the surface of her wine, casting images against the back of the seat in a rosy haze.

Happy birthday, Stephen!

Surprise, surprise! A little birdie came and whispered in my ear. Stephen is one of my blogging buddies and if you've never checked out his blog, do visit. Don't be fooled by those tear-jerking Hallmark commercials Stephen posts--he also tears into politics and other controversial subjects and he does not back away from being specific! You might be uncomfortable; you might disagree; but you will definitely be made to think!

Plus, he plays with Barbies!

Annecy Báez. My Daughter’s Eyes and Other Stories. Willimantic CT: 2007.

Such a tightly knit story, I wonder what leads Annecy Báez to her subtitle for her 2007 “My Daughter’s Eyes and Other Stories”? Maybe a woman's life is an assemblage of chapters that, put together, eventually form a coherent body, but one at a time, each event is what it is.

Covering the period between 1972 when the narrator, Mia, is thirteen, and 2000, when Mia’s own daughter is thirteen and a half, seventeen stories trace her life as Mia stumbles her way to sexuality and coming of age, loving her child’s father, and watching her own daughter approach the age when Mia’s life bent its way.

Little Mia has no strong reason to resist the impassioned entreaties of teenaged lothario, Pito. But for at least one story, Mia doesn’t yield to her own curiosity nor Pito’s sales pitch. A few years later, Mia and her mother suffer a huge public blowout over a pair of sexy shoes for Mia’s 15th birthday. Báez begins to weave a cyclic theme here suggested in the title, the world as seen by the daughter through her mother’s eyes. Vice versa can prove as devastating to reader comfort with such intimate looks into this girl's growing up. The mother genuinely fears red shoes will lead to a daughter’s downfall to sins of the flesh. Much of her fear grows from frenzied coital flashbacks competing for the mother’s attention while she’s coming to terms with her daughter’s emergence. The dissonance between the daughter’s hopeful innocence and the heat of the mother's recent passion grows so tremendous, the woman faints. This story closes with a dapper Samaritan closing in on mother and her lithe daughter.

I tell a more lurid version, perhaps it’s the male reader of me. Annecy Báez develops the story of the women in Mia’s family with more subtlety, and a deft woman’s touch. These are the types of stories little girls should read as cautionary tales for certain inevitabilities of their next few years development as women. These are the types of stories little boys should read to walk away with keener insight into the way girls think. Some lessons here would be excellent preparation for the hurdles of courtship rituals. Then there are the assholes. Mix in the efforts of a good class discussion, and reading My Daughter’s Eyes might be one of the best reading experiences in a middle school or high school kid’s so-called life.

Báez’ compelling collection ends on a hopeful note, thankfully. Parental and sexual abuse permeate the story and there’s a suggestion of a ceaseless pattern and ritualized ignorance. But by 2000, a mother has learned her lessons. Her choices have been her choices; leave it to the reader to say they were bad ones. This mother has determined to deal levelheaded with her daughter, aware that a mother’s past need not define the changes a daughter must go through. This mother welcomes such changes, not shuns them. At only 176 pages, some readers will want to read it twice to let some of the points sink in.

My Daughter’s Eyes and Other Stories won the 2007 Marmol Award for First Fiction. Publication of this work, and a cash advance against royalties, recognize Annecy Báez’ accomplishment in joining previous winners include Sylvia Torti - The Scorpion's Tail, 2005, 2004: Mary Helen Lagasse - The Fifth Sun; 2003: Carla Trujillo - What Night Brings; 2002: Lorraine Lopez - Soy La Avon Lady and Other Stories. Marmol did not have a 2006 winner.


Sun., Jan. 13, 2008 2:30 pm
Griots in the Gallery: Aztec Stories
Experience the world of the Mexica/Aztecs through poetry, oral tradition stories, and ballads. Storyteller Michael Heralda shares the history, language, foods, and arts from an indigenous perspective. His performance is enhanced by traditional instruments made by hand, including Mayan Bubalek Gourd Water Drums and numerous flutes, shakers, and rattles,
offering plenty of opportunities for audience participation.

New Review in El Paso paper.
La Bloga friend, poet and critic Rigoberto Gonzalez reviews Grove Press' new release of Francisco Goldman's political title, The bishop's murder. Gonzalez concludes in his 1/6/08 El Paso Times review:

Goldman's skillful and energetic prose gives this exhausting real-life narrative a necessary push. The supplementary sources such as the index, chronology of events and "dramatis personae" are essential for keeping track of the multiple threads explored in this confounding investigation.

"The Art of Political Murder" is also the art of investigative reporting. Goldman works hard to examine even the smallest of details that contributed to this high-profile case, which became a defining moment in reconnecting a wartorn country to its long-threatened notion of justice.