Here it is again. The dramatic, Wisconsin November - bare branches etched against the cold gray sky. The Canadian geese have long since departed, having already started their southerly trek in August.
Today a migrating cardinal pecks at the compost in the back yard. It must be a little restaurant for them. I see a pair of them traveling through in earlier spring and later fall. And an occasional blue jay. Although there have been numerous frosts the parsley is still going strong. The little tomatillos (garden "volunteers") still hang on the tomato cages in their papery jackets looking a little forlorn.
Today I'm cooking some cranberry sauce and will make my own birthday cake. I dreamed up a chocolate cranberry cake last year for Townely's B Day in December. Despite speculation, it turned out great, especially with a chocolate/orange frosting. So it will be a gift I give myself and my friends for our little "cake time" tomorrow. It's lovely to have the oven on this time of year, warming up the place. Steam even collected on the windows of the studio when I gave a massage yesterday. Cold weather is good for business.
Other signs of the season - the squirrels ate the face off my Jack-O-Lantern (!!) and I dug out my black fur, Chinese pilot's hat and mittens. Aslan, my big, male, gray tiger-cat, has put on his winter coat. He is soft and very sleek with an extra layer of fur and insulating fat for his nightly forays into the neighborhood.
Strangely, I sit on the front porch swing these days as I sip my coffee in the morning in a sweatshirt, nightgown, bare legs and slippers. I barely feel a chill as bikers whiz by bundled against Jack Frost, pedaling fast to keep warm.
I guess I am truly a child of the fall.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Long Hair and Witchy Women
Monday, October 25, 2010
FASHION & STYLE | NY Times October 24, 2010
The Mirror: Why Can't Middle-Aged Women Have Long Hair?
By DOMINIQUE BROWNING
At a certain age, cutting your hair is considered the appropriate thing to do, as if being shorn is a way of releasing oneself from the locks of the past.
**************
One commenter said they think that long gray or white hair looks "witchy" on women - maybe this was a guy? What does this mean? That they are powerful, mysterious, dangerous or??? More power to the witchy women!
This NY Times article now has 1266 comments (the most I have ever seen on there, they usually cut comments off way before this point), so it seems like everyone has something to say about long hair on older women. It was interesting to read the comments made about women in the family and hair as something beautiful, something that many people had fond memories of. How women's hair was a big part of collective memory and individual identity.
Well, I have long hair because that is what feels the best to me. I had long hair since about the age of 11. My mom was always hounding me to "get a hair style" after I turned about 35. I did have it cut a jaw length and wore it that way for a few years, but after I went to Jamaica live in Jamaica when I was in my mid 40's, I just let it grow and it has now been halfway down my back for most of my life. Too bad that my hair is fine and thin as it is, but tho I am an "older woman" I am lucky that it hasn't gotten thinner as many people commented on in the article. It now needs a bit of a trim. My friends cut my hair which only takes a couple of minutes. After it is trimmed a few inches there is just a few tablespoons of hair as it thins out towards the bottom.
I started coloring my hair in the 60's. I was a teenager then when we lived in California and I wanted to be a "real" California girl. Tho I was only 14 I went ahead a did it myself without checking with mom, who rarely colored her hair. I used a do-it-yourself blond packet. (God knows that there were a million ads everywhere - Remember "If I only have one life let me live it as a bonde"). But after that I just used "sun in" which you just spritz on. It has always worked well for me and is fast, cheap and easy. Since I was a blonde as a kid, that type of coloring worked fine and looks pretty natural - or at least I think it does.
In the 50's the "pixie" hair cut was just the "thing" and my mom made my sister and I get one. I cried and didn't want my hair to be cut. I could take care of it myself and I tried to talk her out of it. No dice. But I did win honorable mention in a "Cute Kid" photo contest due to that hair cut - that and my chubby round face and pixie smile to match.
The last 3 years I stopped coloring my hair, but I am going to color it again in December. I did it last June for Isaac and Angie's wedding. Sister Chris was commenting on it - repeatedly. She goes to some stylist due to her thin hair and has spent a lot on color and cuts, but that era is coming to an end since she is retired and doesn't have that much to spend on what I would call a luxury. I have spent about $30 on my hair in the past 10 years (shampoo and conditioner excepted). For blonding this time I used Garnier "natural blonde," shampoo-in color for the wedding. It came out a little lighter than I wanted, but seems to have toned down to a kind of honey color which is generally what I hope for. The package said that the color would wash out in 4 weeks. It never did...hmmmm.
In Jamaica fair hair is prized, as it is in Turkey, thus so MANY bottled blondes there. And when the Turks see someone that they suspect has natural blonde hair, that is really something to stare at. (Staring is considered "normal" there.) What they expect is "true" blond is apparently truly "exotic"...
At Madison's Willy St Fair in September I saw so much beautiful, blonde, generally long hair on women or all ages (probably 90% of it colored) that was shining in the sun. I decided I would "do it" again this winter before my trip to Jamaica. I am going to try to avoid my white forelock, which I love. It was one reason not to color my hair recently, since my hair is now such a dark "ash blonde" that there is a good contrast that makes it more noticeable. In my 20's a friend's mom had a white forelock that I thought was so cool. I didn't think I would "get one" as neither of my parents had one, so was very happy when that came in a few years ago.
Of course hair is considered a woman's "crowning glory." In the late 60's or early 70's my mom grew her hair long - almost down to her waist. She was about 50 at that time. You could see the progression of the gray from top to bottom that was very noticeable as she was a brunette. I have a picture of us out in the garden with me holding out her hair out in a cascade for the photo. I think she got tired of taking care of it after a few years and went back to her shorter hair style.
I cut my mom's hair many times, she said I did a better job than a stylist. She cut the family's hair on the "old days" as a cost - cutting - measure. I learned how to do it by watching her and also from watching stylists cut my hair when I did have a "style" for a few years. Now I cut my friend Antonio's hair. Once many years ago I cut five, or more, family member's in succession one Thanksgiving while the turkey was roasting. The last head to be cut was my nephew Isaac's golden locks - he was about 2 and it was his first haircut. We have a photo of it somewhere. He cried the whole time.
Well, let's hear it for the witchy women, and hair as an object of memory, beauty and identity!
FASHION & STYLE | NY Times October 24, 2010
The Mirror: Why Can't Middle-Aged Women Have Long Hair?
By DOMINIQUE BROWNING
At a certain age, cutting your hair is considered the appropriate thing to do, as if being shorn is a way of releasing oneself from the locks of the past.
**************
One commenter said they think that long gray or white hair looks "witchy" on women - maybe this was a guy? What does this mean? That they are powerful, mysterious, dangerous or??? More power to the witchy women!
This NY Times article now has 1266 comments (the most I have ever seen on there, they usually cut comments off way before this point), so it seems like everyone has something to say about long hair on older women. It was interesting to read the comments made about women in the family and hair as something beautiful, something that many people had fond memories of. How women's hair was a big part of collective memory and individual identity.
Well, I have long hair because that is what feels the best to me. I had long hair since about the age of 11. My mom was always hounding me to "get a hair style" after I turned about 35. I did have it cut a jaw length and wore it that way for a few years, but after I went to Jamaica live in Jamaica when I was in my mid 40's, I just let it grow and it has now been halfway down my back for most of my life. Too bad that my hair is fine and thin as it is, but tho I am an "older woman" I am lucky that it hasn't gotten thinner as many people commented on in the article. It now needs a bit of a trim. My friends cut my hair which only takes a couple of minutes. After it is trimmed a few inches there is just a few tablespoons of hair as it thins out towards the bottom.
I started coloring my hair in the 60's. I was a teenager then when we lived in California and I wanted to be a "real" California girl. Tho I was only 14 I went ahead a did it myself without checking with mom, who rarely colored her hair. I used a do-it-yourself blond packet. (God knows that there were a million ads everywhere - Remember "If I only have one life let me live it as a bonde"). But after that I just used "sun in" which you just spritz on. It has always worked well for me and is fast, cheap and easy. Since I was a blonde as a kid, that type of coloring worked fine and looks pretty natural - or at least I think it does.
In the 50's the "pixie" hair cut was just the "thing" and my mom made my sister and I get one. I cried and didn't want my hair to be cut. I could take care of it myself and I tried to talk her out of it. No dice. But I did win honorable mention in a "Cute Kid" photo contest due to that hair cut - that and my chubby round face and pixie smile to match.
The last 3 years I stopped coloring my hair, but I am going to color it again in December. I did it last June for Isaac and Angie's wedding. Sister Chris was commenting on it - repeatedly. She goes to some stylist due to her thin hair and has spent a lot on color and cuts, but that era is coming to an end since she is retired and doesn't have that much to spend on what I would call a luxury. I have spent about $30 on my hair in the past 10 years (shampoo and conditioner excepted). For blonding this time I used Garnier "natural blonde," shampoo-in color for the wedding. It came out a little lighter than I wanted, but seems to have toned down to a kind of honey color which is generally what I hope for. The package said that the color would wash out in 4 weeks. It never did...hmmmm.
In Jamaica fair hair is prized, as it is in Turkey, thus so MANY bottled blondes there. And when the Turks see someone that they suspect has natural blonde hair, that is really something to stare at. (Staring is considered "normal" there.) What they expect is "true" blond is apparently truly "exotic"...
At Madison's Willy St Fair in September I saw so much beautiful, blonde, generally long hair on women or all ages (probably 90% of it colored) that was shining in the sun. I decided I would "do it" again this winter before my trip to Jamaica. I am going to try to avoid my white forelock, which I love. It was one reason not to color my hair recently, since my hair is now such a dark "ash blonde" that there is a good contrast that makes it more noticeable. In my 20's a friend's mom had a white forelock that I thought was so cool. I didn't think I would "get one" as neither of my parents had one, so was very happy when that came in a few years ago.
Of course hair is considered a woman's "crowning glory." In the late 60's or early 70's my mom grew her hair long - almost down to her waist. She was about 50 at that time. You could see the progression of the gray from top to bottom that was very noticeable as she was a brunette. I have a picture of us out in the garden with me holding out her hair out in a cascade for the photo. I think she got tired of taking care of it after a few years and went back to her shorter hair style.
I cut my mom's hair many times, she said I did a better job than a stylist. She cut the family's hair on the "old days" as a cost - cutting - measure. I learned how to do it by watching her and also from watching stylists cut my hair when I did have a "style" for a few years. Now I cut my friend Antonio's hair. Once many years ago I cut five, or more, family member's in succession one Thanksgiving while the turkey was roasting. The last head to be cut was my nephew Isaac's golden locks - he was about 2 and it was his first haircut. We have a photo of it somewhere. He cried the whole time.
Well, let's hear it for the witchy women, and hair as an object of memory, beauty and identity!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Hail Storm - Sept 18
September night - 4am.
We awoke to thunder crackling over head as lightning split the sky.
Amirs' suitcase was out on the front porch where it had been sunning. The rain started pounding down as we raced to the Midwestern porch. As we opened the door, down came the hail - beating a tinny, hard rhythm on the air conditioner still in the living room window. Aslan, our gray tiger, beat it to the safety of the basement.
We stood out there loving the hail bouncing off the sidewalk and street. Down came the leaves, ripped off the big ash tree on the parkway. The ground was completely covered. Lovely!
I rushed and grabbed my camera. I was in my night gown and slippers. I tried to get a photo but the screen showed black. I turned on the flash and edged out onto the steps, but it was pouring and I didn't want to get my camera wet. I managed one photo of a little hail and some leaves on the porch steps. Disappointing.
In the morning the storm sewer on the street was filled with leaves and the ground and street were covered with them. I checked out the back yard and the flannel backed cloth on the table out there was pocked with holes cut by the hail, even the zucchini on the ground and had been pierced! The squash plants had all but been flattened.
Happily some leaves remained on the trees. The ash turns a beautiful shade of dull purple in the fall.
We awoke to thunder crackling over head as lightning split the sky.
Amirs' suitcase was out on the front porch where it had been sunning. The rain started pounding down as we raced to the Midwestern porch. As we opened the door, down came the hail - beating a tinny, hard rhythm on the air conditioner still in the living room window. Aslan, our gray tiger, beat it to the safety of the basement.
We stood out there loving the hail bouncing off the sidewalk and street. Down came the leaves, ripped off the big ash tree on the parkway. The ground was completely covered. Lovely!
I rushed and grabbed my camera. I was in my night gown and slippers. I tried to get a photo but the screen showed black. I turned on the flash and edged out onto the steps, but it was pouring and I didn't want to get my camera wet. I managed one photo of a little hail and some leaves on the porch steps. Disappointing.
In the morning the storm sewer on the street was filled with leaves and the ground and street were covered with them. I checked out the back yard and the flannel backed cloth on the table out there was pocked with holes cut by the hail, even the zucchini on the ground and had been pierced! The squash plants had all but been flattened.
Happily some leaves remained on the trees. The ash turns a beautiful shade of dull purple in the fall.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Amir's Galant Rescue
Dec 9, 2012 On Monday evening Amir and I rescued two raccoon cubs from the overflowing storm sewer on our parkway here on the Near East Side of Maidson, WI, just after a huge cloud burst. He jerked the two huge heavy iron parkway grates out with two hammers that we hastily dug out of the basement. It was a super human feat as each weighed at least 100#~!
And just in time, as flooding water had filled them to the top and the just little raccoon noses were sticking out - they were otherwise submerged. The mom had been crying out, and it is a haunting sound! She was chest high in the water where the storm drain empties by the curb. Then she was clawing on the horizontal parkway grates which tipped us off that there was something in there. Then the civil defense siren went off and scared her so she ran away.
I grabbed them with a towel as they hung onto the grate and put them in our cat cage on the porch that we use for Aslan (my cat) in the daytime. We covered them up with a towel as they were soaked to the skin and shivering maybe from the shock of their ordeal. One just hid under the towel but the other one was more adventurous and watched us with curiosity. We gave them some apple slices but they seemed to be too scared to care much about eating. We got a couple of photos.
After the downpour we were able to reunite them with their mom when we put the cage out on the parkway with the door open. They didn't venture out on their own but were happy to nose out when mom arrived just as it got dark. I'm afraid many other animals must have suffered in the heavy rain. Several streets here on in Madison were flooded and a few were even closed.
More "heavy weather" is forecast and it has been storming every day at some point, the summer Midwestern weather pattern it seems. This is great to cool things off but the humidity now is killing!
And just in time, as flooding water had filled them to the top and the just little raccoon noses were sticking out - they were otherwise submerged. The mom had been crying out, and it is a haunting sound! She was chest high in the water where the storm drain empties by the curb. Then she was clawing on the horizontal parkway grates which tipped us off that there was something in there. Then the civil defense siren went off and scared her so she ran away.
I grabbed them with a towel as they hung onto the grate and put them in our cat cage on the porch that we use for Aslan (my cat) in the daytime. We covered them up with a towel as they were soaked to the skin and shivering maybe from the shock of their ordeal. One just hid under the towel but the other one was more adventurous and watched us with curiosity. We gave them some apple slices but they seemed to be too scared to care much about eating. We got a couple of photos.
After the downpour we were able to reunite them with their mom when we put the cage out on the parkway with the door open. They didn't venture out on their own but were happy to nose out when mom arrived just as it got dark. I'm afraid many other animals must have suffered in the heavy rain. Several streets here on in Madison were flooded and a few were even closed.
More "heavy weather" is forecast and it has been storming every day at some point, the summer Midwestern weather pattern it seems. This is great to cool things off but the humidity now is killing!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Phlox Everywhere
2012
A sea of phlox is blooming in the back yard. Lavender, white and pink. Some is standing almost five feet tall. It is lovely in the morning light.
The phlox has migrated into the part of the garden bed that was newly turned over last year, bordered by stones. What a mystery. How did it travel there? By wind or water?
In the evening its fairy breath surrounds you with its spicy-sweet carnation like scent. True it is a "common weed," familiar of meadows and immigrant of country roads and highways. I cut some and elevated it to bouquet status in a tall vase. It is resilient, lasting for days.
I decided to let the bountiful phlox have its week or two in the spring sun, coloring my world. Soon most of it will be in a pile next to the compost, making room for the utilitarian tomatoes and a few poetic herbs. But a few plants will survive at the back of the garden, preparing for next spring's debut.
The phlox has migrated into the part of the garden bed that was newly turned over last year, bordered by stones. What a mystery. How did it travel there? By wind or water?
In the evening its fairy breath surrounds you with its spicy-sweet carnation like scent. True it is a "common weed," familiar of meadows and immigrant of country roads and highways. I cut some and elevated it to bouquet status in a tall vase. It is resilient, lasting for days.
I decided to let the bountiful phlox have its week or two in the spring sun, coloring my world. Soon most of it will be in a pile next to the compost, making room for the utilitarian tomatoes and a few poetic herbs. But a few plants will survive at the back of the garden, preparing for next spring's debut.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Blessed by a Spider
2012
It's spring here now in the northland, but still quite cool at night. My windows are cracked in the daytime for air but the screens have not been pulled down yet.
I was going to open the lace half curtains in the kitchen to let in the morning light when I saw her. A bunched up brown black wonder, sleeping upside down with her legs pulled together on the top hem of the curtain.
I LOVE spiders. To me they are magical creatures (sacred to Native Americans) and good luck charms! I admired her dark, compact symmetry. I grabbed a jar and took a pencil to nudge her gently into it. This was pretty easy since she was still asleep. Some of these spiders are leapers, so I was slightly on guard. Once she fell into the jar she was on alert and scrambling around looking for an out. I enjoyed looking at her marvelous, extended legs. Since it had warmed up some I spoke to her gently and took her out to the garden in back releasing her onto a warm buff colored stone.
Since it got down to freezing the last few nights I hope she found a likely place to shelter.
Blessed by the encounter.
I was going to open the lace half curtains in the kitchen to let in the morning light when I saw her. A bunched up brown black wonder, sleeping upside down with her legs pulled together on the top hem of the curtain.
I LOVE spiders. To me they are magical creatures (sacred to Native Americans) and good luck charms! I admired her dark, compact symmetry. I grabbed a jar and took a pencil to nudge her gently into it. This was pretty easy since she was still asleep. Some of these spiders are leapers, so I was slightly on guard. Once she fell into the jar she was on alert and scrambling around looking for an out. I enjoyed looking at her marvelous, extended legs. Since it had warmed up some I spoke to her gently and took her out to the garden in back releasing her onto a warm buff colored stone.
Since it got down to freezing the last few nights I hope she found a likely place to shelter.
Blessed by the encounter.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
A Conversation with Orhan
A Conversation with Orhan
March 2010
I was laying on a couch at the back of the books store paging through “Istanbul – Memories and the City," a memoir by Orhan Pamuk. One minute I was enjoying the photos of Old Istanbul, and the next thing, I just woke up. The beleaguered store girl must have closed up in a rush without looking back here.
I saw him before he saw me – a trim man in a dark raincoat wandering down an aisle. Just the two of us in the deserted store.
Since the best defense is offense I half shouted, “Hey.”
“Are you speaking to me?” the shadow replied, turning in my direction.
“Do you see anyone else in here?” I asked, jumping up and standing very tall.
He came slowly toward me. “What am I doing here?” he asked.
“That's just what I was going to ask.”
“Well, one minute it was evening and I was sitting in a park enjoying the lights on the water from the Bosporus Bridge, and now, here I am inside a closed book store!”
“You look kind of familiar,” I said.
“My picture was on the back of my recent publication, 'The Museum of Innocence.'
Disarmed, I recognized him. “Orhan Pamuk – amazing to meet you like this; I DO recognize you from that very photo.”
“Yes, it IS pretty amazing,” he said looking around. “I'd love a glass of tea.”
“Sorry, you're not in Turkey now. This is America , and as you can see, this isn't my living room. I've heard post modern literature sometimes deals with a non rational approach to time, but didn't think it could spill over into this world and apply to space as well!”
“Call it whatever you want, apparently I'm here.” We both sat down on the couch in the rosy light of the Exit sign.
“Well Orhan, if I may call you that...” Up close he looked something like a fox with his long pointy nosed and large greenish eyes.
“Yes, you can Miss...”
“Danu.”
“Miss Danu, then.”
“I finally finished your recent novel and although it was quite a feat, I had some problems with it. So I looked at some reviews and post modern literature was mentioned. This helped some. I hate to critique you - being a Nobel Prize laureate and all – and I loved your book, “ Istanbul .” By the way, could you sign this copy for me?”
“Sure,” he said smiling and scrawling his signature on the title page.
“But,ummm, let me ask you some questions about the ' Museum of Innocence .' I read in the media that you proposed to actually create a museum with many thousands of objects that were mentioned in this novel, mementos of the love Kemal had for his cousin Fusun.”
“Yes all those lovely objects he collected while longing for his forbidden love. Since you read 'Istanbul' you must have observed how my character Kemal's life and my own life coincide. And how many things, including the old apartment of my mother's and some of the objects presented in that book, also appear in this one. This is the thing - if the museum happens, not only will art be imitating life, but will BE life that people can see and maybe even touch... What do you think of this concept?” he said, leaning closer.
“I think your technique of having Kemal compulsively gather, sometimes steal and then present throughout the story these mostly common, everyday objects to the reader that relate to his tortured relationship (9 years of happiness, sadness and longing) was an effective way to show his desperation and to evoke sympathy in the reader. He collects this stuff and puts it in the old, deserted family apartment which was the scene of their brief love affair. You show him over years idolizing, hugging, kissing and rubbing these things on his body for solace. He feels the objects have almost a magical power to evoke the past. This was a successful technique that demonstrates his sad, romantic vulnerability and his effort to console himself - bordering on the cuckoo.
What makes you think the literary set - or others - will be interested in touring an apartment/museum crammed with; dozens of stolen salt shakers, matchbooks, old movie tickets and posters, Fusun's white cotton panties and socks, her many barrettes, bracelets, other jewelry AND 4,213 cigarette butts squished this way and that (indicating her mood) and labeled with time and place and maybe some other details, along with thousands of other such items?” I asked.
“These objects are meaningful to the story, to Kemal, to me and hopefully to the reader. They represent a kind of metaphysics, some starting as real objects crossing over into the realm of literature, and others created within the book. With establishment of the museum they cross back over to this side of reality. Looking at it another way, and I hate to make it too easy for you, but haven't you heard of Theater of the Absurd?” he said.
“Yes I have, but you were quoted in the media recently saying that now that the museum is being scraped together, and I'm sure it hasn't been easy finding some of the objects you included in the novel since some of them are from 1975 or earlier, that you have been having second thoughts about completing the museum. You even said that it maybe wasn't such a good idea since you are a writer, not a museum curator.”
“It's true,” he said, slumping back on the couch. “Like so many things in life and in literature, what may seem like a fantastic idea at first often turns out to be a bad idea, or worse, comes to nothing at all.”
He rose slowly, wrapping his rain coat around him.
“Yes,” he continued, “it will be quite difficult now since so much time, effort and money have been spent in starting to bring the Museum of Innocence to life – so to speak. And there is still a long way to go. But you're right. What started out being mainly fictional objects created to enhance the story, to illustrate Kemal's plight and to evoke empathy in the reader, will be better left remaining in the reader's imagination. And this way I won’t have to make, count and label 4,213 cigarette butts! I feel better already! Now I understand why Chance, Fate, or Whatever transported me all the way over here to meet with you tonight. Tesekkur ederim (Thank you).”
He gave a little bow and turned toward the front of the store.
I watched as Orhan Pamuk dematerialized just as he reached the plate glass widow to the street.
March 2010
I was laying on a couch at the back of the books store paging through “Istanbul – Memories and the City," a memoir by Orhan Pamuk. One minute I was enjoying the photos of Old Istanbul, and the next thing, I just woke up. The beleaguered store girl must have closed up in a rush without looking back here.
I saw him before he saw me – a trim man in a dark raincoat wandering down an aisle. Just the two of us in the deserted store.
Since the best defense is offense I half shouted, “Hey.”
“Are you speaking to me?” the shadow replied, turning in my direction.
“Do you see anyone else in here?” I asked, jumping up and standing very tall.
He came slowly toward me. “What am I doing here?” he asked.
“That's just what I was going to ask.”
“Well, one minute it was evening and I was sitting in a park enjoying the lights on the water from the Bosporus Bridge, and now, here I am inside a closed book store!”
“You look kind of familiar,” I said.
“My picture was on the back of my recent publication, 'The Museum of Innocence.'
Disarmed, I recognized him. “Orhan Pamuk – amazing to meet you like this; I DO recognize you from that very photo.”
“Yes, it IS pretty amazing,” he said looking around. “I'd love a glass of tea.”
“Sorry, you're not in Turkey now. This is America , and as you can see, this isn't my living room. I've heard post modern literature sometimes deals with a non rational approach to time, but didn't think it could spill over into this world and apply to space as well!”
“Call it whatever you want, apparently I'm here.” We both sat down on the couch in the rosy light of the Exit sign.
“Well Orhan, if I may call you that...” Up close he looked something like a fox with his long pointy nosed and large greenish eyes.
“Yes, you can Miss...”
“Danu.”
“Miss Danu, then.”
“I finally finished your recent novel and although it was quite a feat, I had some problems with it. So I looked at some reviews and post modern literature was mentioned. This helped some. I hate to critique you - being a Nobel Prize laureate and all – and I loved your book, “ Istanbul .” By the way, could you sign this copy for me?”
“Sure,” he said smiling and scrawling his signature on the title page.
“But,ummm, let me ask you some questions about the ' Museum of Innocence .' I read in the media that you proposed to actually create a museum with many thousands of objects that were mentioned in this novel, mementos of the love Kemal had for his cousin Fusun.”
“Yes all those lovely objects he collected while longing for his forbidden love. Since you read 'Istanbul' you must have observed how my character Kemal's life and my own life coincide. And how many things, including the old apartment of my mother's and some of the objects presented in that book, also appear in this one. This is the thing - if the museum happens, not only will art be imitating life, but will BE life that people can see and maybe even touch... What do you think of this concept?” he said, leaning closer.
“I think your technique of having Kemal compulsively gather, sometimes steal and then present throughout the story these mostly common, everyday objects to the reader that relate to his tortured relationship (9 years of happiness, sadness and longing) was an effective way to show his desperation and to evoke sympathy in the reader. He collects this stuff and puts it in the old, deserted family apartment which was the scene of their brief love affair. You show him over years idolizing, hugging, kissing and rubbing these things on his body for solace. He feels the objects have almost a magical power to evoke the past. This was a successful technique that demonstrates his sad, romantic vulnerability and his effort to console himself - bordering on the cuckoo.
What makes you think the literary set - or others - will be interested in touring an apartment/museum crammed with; dozens of stolen salt shakers, matchbooks, old movie tickets and posters, Fusun's white cotton panties and socks, her many barrettes, bracelets, other jewelry AND 4,213 cigarette butts squished this way and that (indicating her mood) and labeled with time and place and maybe some other details, along with thousands of other such items?” I asked.
“These objects are meaningful to the story, to Kemal, to me and hopefully to the reader. They represent a kind of metaphysics, some starting as real objects crossing over into the realm of literature, and others created within the book. With establishment of the museum they cross back over to this side of reality. Looking at it another way, and I hate to make it too easy for you, but haven't you heard of Theater of the Absurd?” he said.
“Yes I have, but you were quoted in the media recently saying that now that the museum is being scraped together, and I'm sure it hasn't been easy finding some of the objects you included in the novel since some of them are from 1975 or earlier, that you have been having second thoughts about completing the museum. You even said that it maybe wasn't such a good idea since you are a writer, not a museum curator.”
“It's true,” he said, slumping back on the couch. “Like so many things in life and in literature, what may seem like a fantastic idea at first often turns out to be a bad idea, or worse, comes to nothing at all.”
He rose slowly, wrapping his rain coat around him.
“Yes,” he continued, “it will be quite difficult now since so much time, effort and money have been spent in starting to bring the Museum of Innocence to life – so to speak. And there is still a long way to go. But you're right. What started out being mainly fictional objects created to enhance the story, to illustrate Kemal's plight and to evoke empathy in the reader, will be better left remaining in the reader's imagination. And this way I won’t have to make, count and label 4,213 cigarette butts! I feel better already! Now I understand why Chance, Fate, or Whatever transported me all the way over here to meet with you tonight. Tesekkur ederim (Thank you).”
He gave a little bow and turned toward the front of the store.
I watched as Orhan Pamuk dematerialized just as he reached the plate glass widow to the street.
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