Kramblings has a new home!

Thanks to the wizardry of my good friend Tony, Kramblings has found a new home! Come visit at www.kristinpedroja.com.

Poetry Tuesday

I loved this poem so much as a child that I wrote a story about living inside a lion. My only recurring nightmare as a child was being chased by a lion into our family bathroom, me cowering in the tub as the lion roared at the window. Coincidence?

One of the great Shel Silverstein's finest.

It's Dark In Here I am writing these poems From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here. So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear. But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near. And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here.

Gaga oooh lala

On Sunday night, BBC3 showed a live Lady Gaga performance from their Radio 1-sponsored One Big Weekend festival. As I don't see Gaga gracing Inverness with her jams anytime soon, I watched. And was entranced.

See, I quite like Gaga. There. It's public now.

When she dropped her first single that soon became required music at every store in greater Scotland I didn't rate her beyond a poptart Madonna wannabe. But then I read some interviews where she gave props to many musicians I admire - including jazz and blues greats - and started getting press for her weird and wonderful costumes (love the bubble dress/bubble perspex piano). What she lacks in vocal prowess she makes up for in piano skills - she can rock the ivories in 2" fingernails. She inspires positivity in nontraditional communities, and she donates her time and cash to gay rights organizations and people who make sure kids get to experience music despite their lack of school music classes. Indeed, she gave a great shout-out to the band and choir geeks in her performance on Sunday - take that, cheerleaders!

I've been a pop music junkie all my life. I like the simplicity of a well-written pop song. I like that sudden realization that I've been unconsciously moving to a beat. Gaga writes good pop. The soaring chorus of "Poker Face" is delicious. Some of her songs irritatingly stick in the brain for hours. But that's not why I like her.

She's interesting. She's outspoken. She's creative. She has become an icon in a very short space of time - even my dad knows who she is. The misfits of the world have embraced her as their own, and she has revelled in their love. She's a huge force for the LGBT community in America and around the world and is on the list of Forbes' World's Most Powerful Women. Her achievements should be celebrated.

Oh, and she's 25. It must be so tiring to be Gaga.

Yes, the Haus of Gaga's ethos is to attract attention, and Gaga admits she wants to singlehandedly change the face of pop music. I think she already has. I delight in her bizarreness. So yeah, I quite like Gaga. My intellectual mates might grill me for it, but I think she serves a purpose - to entertain.

verse versus

I've been kidnapped by work! But did find the time last weekend to go to the Ullapool Book Festival in my favourite Highland village with some friends who came up from Glasgow. After a lovely day by the sea and a dinner at the excellent Ceilidh Place, we retired to the cozy Parlour Bar for a poetry reading. My husband and friends were good sports, reading their provided poems with gusto. And on Sunday morning I went to hear my friend and colleague Chris Powici read from his chapbook as the sun streamed through the windows of the Ullapool Village Hall.

Sometimes I forget about poetry. I'm so buried in my editing work and my own prose that I don't remember how moving and powerful words can be when stripped down to the core meaning, or to their many, often conflicting meanings. Poetry forces us to pause, reflect, and think. Poetry pushes forward an image and challenges the reader to a dual that you are surely to lose.

I feel poetry is very much alive, if only as lyrics. I count Jay-Z and Eminem as postmodern poets who are just as sociologically important as the bards of the past few centuries. Liz Lochhead and Carol Ann Duffy can wrench readers so deeply into their words that reality slips away. I don't read enough poetry, and as a voracious reader, I would guess that nobody reads enough poetry.

I found this link to Poetry Tuesday and thought it fitting. Poetry Tuesday is a good goal: a poem, every Tuesday, to fall into with vigour.

 The woman who first captured my lyrical world was Emily Dickinson. I did a report on her at age 9 and soon was swooned by her entire catalogue and, of course, by her story. Her world was words, and for many moments in my young life, her words were my world, too.

This is one of the most sorrowful, heartbreaking poems. I think it still retains that youthful naivete that Emily had when writing it. Enjoy. Thanks, Emily.

HEART, we will forget him!

You and I, to-night!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

 I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,

That I my thoughts may dim; 

Haste! lest while you're lagging,

I may remember him!

Girls are giggles with freckles all over them. - anon.

Today is Harper Corley Barnes's second birthday. This is her Curious George cake, from her party last weekend.

A few days before my wedding in 2009, I was a stress case. I was getting over a bout with swine flu and was entertaining dozens of people who came from around the world to celebrate, and I was running on pure adrenaline. I grabbed the mail on my way out to do a million errands and there was a wee note, in my dear friend Ashby's handwriting. Inside were the sweetest, loveliest, most wonderful words. I stopped in the middle of the street and cried for a good ten minutes - two people even stopped to see if I was okay. From that moment I got to add a definition to my name: Fairy Godmother.

Why fairy? As Harper lives in Nashville, I'll always be flying in and out of her life. But knowing Ashby as I do, I know he also meant giving Harper magic. Inspiring her to be the best she can be. Encouraging her to strive and question and forgive. Turning up with glass slippers when they are needed most.

I get to meet Harper in August, and I can't wait. It's a good time - she'll be exactly the same age as I was when my little brother was born, incidentally my first memory. I would love for Harper's first clear memory to be meeting me - though it may well be hearing the noise of Matt on the bagpipes.

Happy birthday, my darling Harper.

Ghosts of Easters Past

Easter always reminds me of Prague; my first visit back after leaving was in 2003, when I escaped Lisbon for a long weekend of frolicking at the Easter markets and seeing friends. And the Easters of my childhood; Mom created a beautiful set of cloth-covered plastic eggs, which the elusive Bunny hid throughout the house with treats inside. And I'd get a new dress and maybe even new shoes. Happy Easter, wherever you are, and happy spring.

As I fell victim to a horrible flu bug on Wednesday I found myself having a little cry about the end of the Gatsby house. Gatsby is one of those books that I read every year with more and more delight, and this house is exactly what I had in my mind when reading it for the first time, when I was 14. I'm a little heartbroken that I will never be able to see it.

Of course, then the yang burst onto the scene, and I saw that Beverly Cleary turned 95 last week. Cleary was my first author obsession, even before Judy Blume. I tore through every Ramona book and could probably still recite Ramona Quimby, Age 8, which I read dozens of times. I am so grateful to her stories for encouraging my reading, and even more grateful to my mom. Spending the day at a library or at the bookstore was a common weekend activity. Or even weeknight activity - the B. Dalton in the mall didn't shut til 9pm and I remember closing that store down frequently. I'd have to choose two from my pile of books, and it was just so difficult. Ramona Quimby, Age 8 was one of those books, the last purchase of the day, and I stayed up all night reading it.

So my final sick day was spent reminiscing about my favorite choldhood books - Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume, Laura Ingalls Wilder, the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and of course the Choose Your Own Adventure books. I still sometimes look at big life choices as a 'CYOA' book: what will be the consequence?

Happy belated birthday, Beverly Cleary. What childhood books still lurk in your minds?

feeling groovy

Yesterday was a good day.

I've worked hard to get the Highland Literary Salon on the map, and it took 18 months to get a mention in the local paper. But yesterday we went viral. The Culture Cafe, a weekly Radio Scotland show, featured readings and our event, which was quite exciting. I spoke to the producer in the morning, saw the inner workings of how the BBC magic happens, and sat in a real live soundproof room. UK listeners can hear this until next Tuesday here.

It was a cramped room for three of us - with two sets of headphones and one microphone - and much juggling happened as I realized I had to speak again at the end of the readings. And talking of viral, the niggling cold I've had since Sunday - my first all year - decided to kick into cough mode and I found myself choking to death during the first reading. So pardon the huge frog in throat at the end. The whole thing was rather surreal, but great fun.

The occasion was a celebration of the Hi-Arts New Writing Sampler, which was put together last November and was recently sent to publishers and agents. I'm honored to be a part of it, especially among other writers with exceptional talent. Orla Broderick and Richard Neath each read some of their work, and I got to chat a bit about the Salon and how there are now events in Stornoway and Skye happening, too. This network of Highland-based writers is really starting to happen, and I'm so glad it's happening now so I can see the potential before I go away for awhile.

After our radio show, we were all buzzing, so we went for lunch and a drink and had a buzzy chat about linking our Salons and utilizing authors' time better when we brought them up. The dream is a four-day stint, with workshops and Salon events in three or four locations - great for our writers and great for authors to connect with a new audience.

The evening event went by without a hitch. I helped give a workshop on social media for writers (notes can be found here) and didn't confuse people too much. Then Orla, Richard and I got to read a bit. I read from Saudade, which I'm revising (I know, again, but I had an epiphany), which is about a woman who finds herself back in a place where she experienced a heartbreaking tragedy a decade ago; Orla read from her novel in progress, The January Flower, a fresh, sassy book verging on the erotica; and Richard read from his work-in-progress, Breakfast Will Do, a harrowing tale of a man, a dead body, and a journey. Three very different stories and very different writers, but it worked really well. And gosh, it's good to read to an audience who has never heard your work and to see and hear the reactions.

So thanks to those who came along and humored us.

Image from design*sponge, quote by H. Jackson Brown Jr.

Matthew Shepard

In 1998, Matt Shepard was kidnapped, beaten, and left for dead on a fencepost in the middle of the Wyoming countryside. It's a desolate, unfriendly place on the sunniest of days; it's harrowing to think of how menacing that flat, dry land would be in the last gasping moments of life.

Matt was gay. His murderers tried to claim 'temporary insanity' as a defense, then tried to say they were driven to do it because Matt came on to them. Their girlfriends told police that they wanted to rob a gay man, so yeah, it was probably premeditated. The murderers are locked up for life, as they should be, but it took until 2009 for the US to sign The Matthew Shepard Act into law (and not without many years of scornful Republican backlash - one even called the hate crime labelling of Shepard's death 'a hoax'). If there is one silvery-sheened lining, it is that hate crimes are now illegal in America.

In 1995, Matt Shepard graduated from TASIS, the Swiss school that I've worked with off and on since 2002. Some of the people I've met at TASIS knew Matt, and remember a creative, joyful, kind soul. One of these friends is working on a documentary about Matt's life and legacy.

Michele Josue is a gifted filmmaker - she also does freelance work for TASIS, and you can see her charming short films on the website - and I was intrigued when I first learned of this project. She posted a blog the other night that, after watching the film teaser, had me in fits of tears. Michele has set up a Kickstarter fundraising website and a Facebook page for those keen to support the final stages of this project.

This is an important film and I so admire Michele, Liam, and Chad's commitment to making it happen.

Image above by Alfred Hawkins.

too much too soon

I had to go to London on Tuesday to drop paperwork at the Swiss embassy. This seems slightly out of character for the Swiss, as they have a consulate in Edinburgh and a staunch respect for the post office, both of which would be far a far more logical way to hand in paperwork, yet I paid the £215 to the orange plane for a 40-hour trip down south. 

What do you do with one day in London? Try and get everything done that needs done before returning to the Highlands. My £10 underground and overground ticket got a workout - West Norwood to Whitehall to Oxford Circus to Covent Garden to London Bridge and back to Covent Garden - and for the first time ever, I was exhausted, even without the normal overindulgence activities with friends. For the first time I understood why the BBC produces the show Escape to the Country and why the press always hankers on about 'green space' and 'south-facing gardens'. I get it now, people. A day full of bouncing between armpits and boobs on the trains (I'm 5'2") and darting around babbling teenagers on spring break and gawking tourists was enough.

My friend Jayne concurs; we were speaking yesterday about how spoiled we've been to live in a place where there just aren't many people. We can go for walks and not see a soul. We pass a few people on the way to the corner shop, rather than dozens. Inverness has ruined me for crowds.

of Hadley Hemingway

I know he treated women atrociously; I know he was a drunk; I know he was depressed enough to shoot himself in the head. I also know that growing up in Wichita, I knew Hemingway as a guy who worked for the Kansas City Star - practically makes him family - and he was a guy who escaped to Paris and wrote beautiful stories. After countless book reports on the guy, and knowing that his first wife was crucial to developing his writing style, I decided that if I ever had a little girl, I'd name her Hadley (after Hemingway's enigmatic first wife) and if I had a second, she'd be called Brett (after Miss Ashley, of course). 

Hadley is big news now, as a book called The Paris Wife has just been released. Reviews have been mixed; the Times wasn't so great, NPR was suitably noncommittal, but my favorite review was written by one of my favorite Guardian writers, Hadley Freeman. I'd always wondered if she was named for Mrs. Hemingway - Freeman confirms this: I was not named after someone, I was named after someone's wife. A Wag, in other words, with a name that makes me sound like an investment bank, and not even an investment bank wants to sound like one these days.  But she loved it; since I read Hadley often, and trust we have similar temperaments, I'll read it.

I'd already chosen this as a blog topic today when I heard Mary Chapin Carpenter on Radio Scotland this afternoon. She was talking about her new record, which includes a song called Mrs. Hemingway (hear it here). It's a heartbreaking song, gentle and rich in story. They played it and the lyrics are exactly how I imagined their lives were:

Living in Paris, in attics and garrets 
Where the coal merchants climb every stair
The dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whores
And the music floats up through the air
There's Sancerre and oysters, and Notre Dame's cloisters
And time with it's unerring aim
For now we can say we were lucky most days
And throw a rose into the Seine

There's something quite beautiful about this woman, who died in 1979, having a little renaissance in 2011. 

Babies babies babies

2011 is the Year of the Babes. Again. As I'm thirty-(ahem) it's happened before, but this is the first time I've really paid attention, probably because the new mums number be in the twenties by July. In half-a-dozen countries and a dozen states.

Baby-dom and motherhood has always scared the daylights out of me, but thanks to my good friend Jayne (and the brilliant nearly-3-year-old Esme) I'm not quite as flummoxed by the whole thing as I once was. And Erik, whose postings about wee Nora make me giggle, and John, who used to blog more regularly before he had his second. And because I'm watching so many friends blossom into their new roles. I admire parents so much, especially those who can continue to keep their identity when their worlds often revolve around Peppa Pig, Disney films and Justin Bieber.

Creative types often use the term 'baby' to describe their oeuvre - understandably, with the time commitment, passion, learning curve, etc. More importantly, when either baby is let loose on the world, the creator loses all control, and the baby becomes open to criticism, praise, loathing, accolades. All affect the creator to the core.

I let a baby go last week. After a few good chats with authors I admire, and a few better chats with myself, I cast aside the novel I was (failing at) revising. It's not me. It was me years ago, but it's not me now. I've gone back to something else, that I've let sit for a year or so, and it's soaring. I'm back in control and no longer balancing more than one baby. Whilst lassoing the ideas for other babies and shutting them into a box with a tight lid.

What's been nice about resurrecting the book is I'm going back to the original story, before I had the input of others. The WIP critique pointed out problems that are all solved by cutting the crap and focusing on the story I wanted to tell when I first started this book, years ago. Thanks, Kamal, for reminding me of the story I loved. Onward, baby. Adolescence awaits.

Before I die I want to

I've always found those 'things to do before you die' books, tv programs, etc. bemusing - as if we're being bullied into doing something we might never do because we are going to die. Of course we're going to die. But a better marketing ploy might be 'things to do while you're still alive'.

But this one is fascinating. The brilliant DesignMilk blog put me onto Candy Chang's installation Before I die, which took an abandoned New Orleans house and turned it into a public profession of hope, wishes, and potential.

Before I die I want to...
see an African sunset - dance the samba in Brazil - snowboard in Aspen - get a book deal - have a home on Lake Como - get to know Paris - see a kangaroo in its habitat - read all of Hemingway's books again - take an art history class - host a massive party for everyone I know - this could go on, reminding me of what I yet want to do. So how do you filter all your dreams into one sentence? Is there one thing you must do before you die?

Empty

Driech is one of the most useful Scots words, especially when you live in the Highlands where vitamin D is not prevalent for months at a time. The fire and tea helps, as do red tulips.

We've been looking at our house from a holiday home point of view lately, taking photos of now-bare rooms and ironing bedsheets, and I've been musing on what makes a home. Not just the memories of happenings inside the walls, but the trinkets, the whisky bottles, the books - clutter? Yes. Definitely. But the hollow sound of a voice in a room empty of personality is lonely indeed. Driech, even.

Empty shelves. Only the necessities. Plates. Bowls. A kettle. A block of knives. A broom.

Red tulips.

I like a Highland friend who will stand by me, not only when I am in the right, but when I am a little in the wrong. - Sir Walter Scott

I've blethered about Moniack Mhor many times before, so I won't go into details about the eerie quiet of the croft house, the whispering pages of the northernmost branch of the Scottish Poetry Library (see above), the expanse of Highlands every which way. It's magic.

As my last hurrah as salonierre, I wanted to organize a weekend for some of the Highland Literary Salon members at Moniack. It worked. Seventeen of us were graced by the presence of Alan Bissett and Joan Lennon for two days of food, typing, chat, edits, and readings. One person wrote 10K words. One got extensive feedback on a story he'd been working on for months. And we all left a little bit inspired.

I can tell that I'm letting go of the Highlands with each event, each jog around the Islands, each seal I watch in the river.

There are two seasons in Scotland: June and Winter. - Billy Connoly

The other night, I agreed with an American friend that the weather had been nice lately - then we both burst out laughing, realizing that our standards had changed significantly since moving to the north of Scotland.

Once upon a time, my life consisted of hundred-degree Kansas summers. Years later, sunny Lisbon winters. I'm not a winter person unless it's sunny and I'm snowboarding. Yet I've lived in Seattle and Prague and Scotland. Voluntarily.

I can't remember the last time I felt the sun for longer than a ten-minute stint in the afternoon.

"Nice" now means "not raining". Temperature doesn't even come into it. Life is colder up here because of the moisture in the air, which is brilliant for the skin but frigid for the bones. Like the Eskimos and their words for 'snow', Britain has numerous words for 'rain', which the weather reporters use with vigor: drizzle, showers, precipitation, stormy, dampness, sprinkles. And my favorite: unsettled.

And up north, here where the air is so fresh I get light-headed sometimes, the skies give us millions of shades of grey. Right now is almost white, with a greenish hue. This morning had a yellow tinge, and the green grass looked fluorescent. I never knew that one cloudy day could be so different to the next.

Image above taken in the hall of the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. I love the map dress.

You are the music while the music lasts. - TS Eliot

Saw the glorious Mumford and Sons on Tuesday night. This was rather amazing for numerous reasons, not least that Inverness ain't exactly the hot spot for Grammy-calibre artists. First, I got up at 5:30am to stand in line - people had camped! - and I was still ticket number 361. How cool to limit tickets to 2 per person, £20 each, and no internet or phone sales? Old school, these guys - were they even born before the internet existed? Staging was simple: hanging lights and instruments. That's the light board in the photo - I actually *saw* them thanks to a step behind the lighting board box - this is amazing as my 5'1" self usually gets to see armpits and breasts at shows. Highlights were the keyboardist playing so hard that his keyboard shuffled and slid along the stage, the banjo and dobro player on his back with legs in the air like any good bluegrass player, and the guys switching instruments throughout. It's so refreshing to hear a band actually play, actually sing harmonies, and actually have a blast doing it - these guys are the real deal. For one night, Inverness felt like the center of the world.

M and I are rediscovering music after buying our new car - the poor Polo's stereo system was akin to a late-80s ghettoblaster - and one of our faves is Elbow. Their show with the BBC Concert Orchestra is stunning, and their new record Build a Rocket, Boys!, which came out this week, is fantastic. Great sweeping melodies and pretty instrumentals and lovely, soothing vocals. Delicious. Am also rocking Ellie Goulding and Tinie Tempah, who is the most articulate rapper I've ever heard interviewed.

So, apparently Spotify is heading to America. This is brilliant, as it's a dream music streaming service that is also available via 3G on the iPhone for £10 or £5 per month - or free if you can handle the short ads between every 3 songs. You can share playlists with friends so there's a social networking element, and they've got 10 million tracks available. I can remember twice that I didn't find what I wanted to hear - one was the new Eminem record when it came out, (now available) and Adele's new record isn't on there yet - though her singles are. Good stuff.

just read The Essence of the Thing

My friend Hannah has yet to recommend a bad read. This is no different. After the assault of the Chinese Dictionary, I tumbled into this book and swam around for two delicious nights. Published in 1997, on the cusp of technology taking over our lives, this book focuses on the complex nuances between people, and the absence of iPhones and the internet is palpable, in a good way. The book is refreshingly modern, heartbreaking and uplifting, everything a good read should be. This was shortlisted for the Booker in 1997 and deservedly so.

100 Years of International Women's Day

My introduction to International Women's Day was nine years ago, when a few blushing students in Prague brought me flowers and thanked me for being their teacher. Since then I've learned that many countries, especially eastern European ones, revere Women's Day as a celebration and a challenge.

I'm lucky - I grew up in a family where my parents respected one another and treated each other as equals in a partnership. That's how my marriage is, too - we're a team. I am so grateful for this. And for my freedom to speak about the atrocities that happen to women each day. This article by the brilliant Mariella Frostrup is a necessary read on a day like today, but if you're pressed for time, here are some terrifying stats (see the article for citations): 75% of civilians killed in war are women and children. 64% of the world's illiterate adults are women. Conviction in rape cases hovers around 6.5%. Women hold 19% of the world's parliamentary seats. And no, it's not just stats from developing countries. We westerners are included here, too.

One hundred years of International Women's Day. We've made huge strides since then - the right to vote, to work, to drink, to own property, to control our pregnancies. But is it enough?

The video above is a simple, moving reminder of how far we have to go.

Just skimmed

I've just skimmed my fourth book since 2011 began. This one had a great premise: Chinese student comes to London to learn English and falls in love with an Englishman. I wanted this book to be a multi-layered insight into two cultures. I wanted the protagonist to rediscover herself as she became better in English (a reason I delighted in teaching ESL). I wanted the love to be real and true. I wanted the dictionary format to be a clever device rather than a gimmick. But it just didn't work.

The protagonist's voice didn't change in her year of language immersion; it remained simplistic and banal, other than a few pithy observations far beyond her presumed language ability. The 'love' between an obsessive twentysomething fresh outta China and a fortysomething bisexual man - come on, really? It was insulting and seemed forced. The protagonist's interpretation of London was cliche, not a uniquely Chinese perspective. And the random (token?) 'solo' European inter-railing 'adventure' was ridiculous - she just happened to immediately meet men in every port and just happened to have unnecessary non-sexual and sexual experiences with them. I knew how this was going to end by page 25. Of course they split up. Of course she goes back home. Of course she continues to obsess and the man moves on. And I'm left wondering what in the world this book was about, other than two selfish and unlikeable people who spend some time together and discover they're better apart.

Of course, as a writer, I can learn from this, but as a reader, how in the world did a novel like this get nominated for the Orange Prize in 2007 (alongside The Inheritance of Loss and Digging to America)? What is it about this book that received such accolades? Is it me?

It might be me. I have yet to make it past the first 10 pages of A Confederacy of Dunces - which some of my favorite people have firmly in their top 10 - and can't figure out what people like about Ian McEwan's writing style. What books have disappointed you?

Just read Super Sad True Love Story

Aye Write is next weekend in Glasgow, and I was delighted when I saw Gary Shteyngart on the schedule. This book has had huge press in America, and I've read some snarky, hilarious interviews with him. He doesn't take himself seriously, but takes his writing seriously. I always try to know the work of the people I go to see, and I'm so very glad I picked this book up.


It's a love story set in a dystopian America in the not-too-distant future, where technology is part of life thanks to everyone's äppäräti, which reveal everything from credit ratings to romantic history to the last film someone has watched. The fashion of the day is translucent jeans called 'onionskins', privacy is taboo, and youth is lionized. The story is a postmodern Romeo and Juliet but the setting is glorious, frightening, and completely believable. I can't stop thinking about this story, and wish I could discuss it with someone - it's that kind of book. Shteyngart's event next Saturday is sure to be a corker.