A mind lively and at ease

Look book - duds for dudes - mixing patterns

2012-01-28T18:05:00.000-08:00

Many a fashion guru stated over the years that mixing patterns is not to be tolerated in the art of looking classy. "Not so!" says the Seymour-Kuroshchepova household. You can mix patterns IF you do it right. The first thing to make certain is that the patterns and their colors do not compete with each other. You don't want to look as if you were dressed by a psychotic parrot.

Case in point. Here we have Gerry wearing not one, not two but THREE different patterns. However, he still looks classy and dashing. So, let's take this apart, shall we?

At first glance, it appears that he is wearing a basic gray suit with a blue shirt and a pattern tie. Ah, but it is not so! If you look closer, his suit is actually windowpane - but the difference is that the pattern is very small, and instead of competing with the very bold tie, all it does is create a subtle texture and depth to the fabric of the suit.

Thus, the colorful blue, black and yellow tie can stand out with that punch of color so many male outfits lack these days, while being boosted and complimented by the suit, rather than battling with it for supremacy. The same can be said about the shirt. It doesn't have a pattern per se, but it does have a rather pronounced weave. However, instead of creating a clash with the patterns of the suit and the tie, it simply has a bit more dimension - is all.

The last but not the least is the pocket square, which combines some of the colors of the shirt and the tie, but introduces yet another - vertical - pattern. However, being separated from the tie by two subtler fabrics - that of the shirt and of the jacket - it serves not to compete but rather to punch up the blue.

To summarize:

- Patterns can be worn together as long as they do not clash and compete.
- Pick one dominant pattern, then build around it.
- The largest garment need not be the one to carry the dominant pattern. In fact, it is better if it isn't. Otherwise things might get a bit garish.

Women in books - "Violets" by Alexander Kuprin, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-22T13:55:00.000-08:00

I started this series with Kuprin and I want to end it with Kuprin as well. The encounter from the short story Violets is one of the most breathtakingly romantic scenes I have ever read. Such experiences are rare - many people never get the chance in their lifetime. Whenever I read this, I always wonder whether this is something from the author's own life or something he wished he had experienced during his younger years. In either case, it is a gem.

The beautiful painting Woman in the Garden by Frederick Carl Frieseke seemed fitting.

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When he climbs back to the path half overgrown with grass, an impossible enchanting vision makes him stop in wordless delight, nearly in fear. A woman is moving directly toward him right down the middle of the alley, slowly, as if floating through the air, her feet never touching the ground. She is dressed in white and, against the backdrop of dark greenery, she is akin to a marble statue that miraculously came alive and stepped down from its pedestal. She is moving closer and closer, like an approaching sweet and awe-inspiring wonder. She is tall, graceful and slender, and her blossoming face is beautiful. Her arms are lowered by her sides with an easy grace. The heavy golden braids are arranged like a crown on her head, and someone invisible is showering her white figure with fluttering golden petals from above. She is merely two paces away... Every feature of her fresh young face is pure, noble and simple, like a melody created by a genius. The gaze of her wide eyes is uncommonly kind, clear and joyous. Their color resembles the flowers, now clutched and trembling in the boy's hand.

She finally stops, smiling gloriously. Her full, deep voice sounds like a cello, "What charming violets... Did you find them here? ...So many of them and so sweet."

"Here..." an alien voice replies from cadet Kazakov's mouth. And it isn't he, but someone else, enveloped in pink fog, holds out the flowers and utters, "Please, take them if you like them... I shall..."

The cadet's throat constricts with anxiety. His heart beats madly. His eyes are ready to fill with tears. And the fairy tale princess understands. Her face lights up with a gentle smile and blushes slightly. She says sweetly, "Thank you," and these simple words sound like the angels' choir. In one elegant gesture she pins the modest little bouquet of violets to the neckline of her dress, where her body glows lightly through the delicate cream lace. She holds out her sweet warm hand to Kazakov, and shakes his hand firmly, yet gently and kindly. The scent of violets is joined in the boy's mind by some new, silky, warm, sweet fragrance.

The talk of trifling things, which Kazakov will never remember again. Only scraps of it remain in his memory: she annually visits the Christmas dances at the college Kazakov wants to attend after graduating the cadet school; she is traveling abroad this very evening. She asks his name, and the name Dmitry sounds like a harmonious song from her lips.

She is the first to let him go. She glances at a small gold watch, then holds out her divine hand again and says, "Till next time. I very much enjoyed meeting you." Yes, yes, yes! She says, "Till next time"! The she vanishes, like a fairy tale, around the bend.

Women in books - "Between two chairs" by Eugene Kluev, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-20T12:50:00.000-08:00

Before we wrap up this series of posts, let us venture one more time into the realm of the ridiculous with the help of Eugene Kluev and his characters. Not only does he introduce another mind-boggling female figure - he also brings up a very interesting philosophical concept.

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"My dear sir, mind your attic!"

Peter-Pail came to, but almost fainted again at the sight of his hostess. She consisted of two clearly defined halves - left and right, and these halves had to have belonged to two different people. The left side was undoubtedly borrowed from a beauty: golden curls, a sweet gray eye with long thick eyelashes, a half of delicate nose and flawlessly outlined crimson lips, a half of chin with a half of a dimple, a half of chiseled neck, a seductive shoulder, beautifully sculpted arm, waist and hip, a slender leg - one could easily fall madly in love with it all, had it not been for the right side. Strands of tangled whitish hair hung over a slanted eye, followed by a half of flat and apparently broken nose, a corner of thick flappy lips, a wrinkled neck, multiple chins, a powerful male-like shoulder... and so on to the ground. The vertical seam on her dress connected a lacy sundress with a heavy wool robe, the small left foot was dressed in a silver slipper, and the right - in a black rubber boot. The shoes were prominently different in size.

Having noticed Peter-Paul, the hostess also appeared surprised and immediately apologized in a very odd manner, "Do forgive me: I thought it was the Sanctimonious Knight [a play off Pushkin's "Parsimonious Knight"], and I'm about ready to puke from him!"

Peter-Paul was struck by the entire thing - the insane combination of the two halves, the strange linguistic contrasts, not to mention the voice that somehow combined two different octaves - that he not only forgot to apologize, but didn't even say hello.

"Splice Queen [play off Andersen's "Ice Queen"]," the hostess smiled charmingly-revoltingly and not having received an answer, suggested, "Please do come in, or get lost!"

Peter-Paul couldn't seem to sort out his options and continued sitting on the ground.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, or did you just whack your head something awful? Or are you retarded?" the Splice Queen inquired.

Having checked his head for bumps, Peter-Paul got up and bowed: it was all he was capable of at the moment. The Splice Queen shrugged the two different shoulders and returned into the house. Peter-Paul followed her, as if mesmerized. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he sensed a light push, as if the house lifted off. So it was: the dwelling's only, albeit vast, room became incredibly drafty, because all four walls had an impossible number of doorways with no doors, with the exception of the front door. It felt very much like a gazebo open to the winds. "I might fall out!" Peter-Paul thought with some concern, as he tried to get comfortable. However, there was no furniture in the room except for an enormous throne made of red wood: it stood in the middle. The Splice Queen settled onto it and hung a simple but carefully made tablet around her neck. The tablet read "The Splice Queen". "It's my nametag," she explained. Peter-Paul nodded.

"May I suggest that you lie down on the floor?" she asked pleasantly and added, "Or else you'll get scared shitless. You must be an earthworm or something."

The house tilted and Peter-Paul reluctantly stretched out on the floor.

"Do you always hitchhike?" the Splice Queen waited for an answer as long as she could and then became angry, "I don't get it. What kind of passenger are you?! Spill it for Pete's sake! Cat got your tongue?!"

Peter-Paul shook his head and asked out of the blue, "Why do you keep cussing?"

"Me? Cussing?" she was surprised, "First of all, slang is not the same as cussing. And second, what is considered slang or even a cussword today, might become a popular high society term tomorrow."

"I'm going to Elephug [play off Krylov's fable about an elephant and a pug]. Where are we flying?" Peter-Paul mumbled.

"Must you bug me with your questions?" the Splice Queen said with some disappointment, "Actually, I don't give a crap where we are flying. In any case, it's not as if you could get off right at the moment."

Peter-Paul sighed and inquired, glancing at the doorways, "Why is it so open around here?"

"You see, it's a spliced room - I am totally into that!"

"Spliced with what?"

"None of your damn business, if you please," she winked disgustingly-sweetly and explained magnanimously, "Spliced with the entire world! It's kind of hard to dig from the start, but it's a hell of a buzz!" The Splice Queen squinted her left eye suspiciously, "Perhaps you don't like the idea of spliceness? Or don't you get it?"

"I don't get it yet," Peter-Paul ventured, "Spliceness, pardon me, of what with what?"

"Spliceness, if you will, of everything with everything! It is a highly seductive idea - that of spliceness, I am totally all over it!"

The stylistic changes in the lady's speech, the wealth of facial expressions and gestures between the two seemingly unconnected sides made it very difficult to focus.

"The cool part is," the Splice Queen continued, "that I am the embodiment of spliceness myself. I am the transition from what is to what it ought to be... Or vise versa. The Sanctimonious Knight (he's my gentleman), like totally loses it at the sight of me. I can really go over the bend sometimes! In the meantime, even if he attempted to comprehend all of me, he never could. And you never could," she warned, "Don't even try, you schmuck!"

"I had no intention of comprehending all if you!"

"That's freaking disappointing..." his companion noted inconsistently, "For example... What do you think I rule as the Splice Queen?"

Peter-Paul became afraid of the responsibility of giving an answer and kept mum, while the lady concluded, "In general, you are a bit of a dork. I even feel sorry for you."

Peter-Paul didn't know what being a dork meant, but thought it appropriate to become upset, "You are out of line!.."

"Did I offend you? She-e-esh! I didn't mean to offend you!"

"Well, what else did you mean to do? Flatter me?"

"Flatter you? You knock me out! No - I was merely stating the obvious. Would you make a fuss if I said you were a brunet?"

"No, of course not," Peter-Paul bowed gallantly, "Especially considering that I am blond."

"Oh, little blondie! Goldilocks!" the Splice Queen pressed her hands to her chest, "But it doesn't matter. What really matters is spliceness. There is nothing cooler in the world than spliceness. You are being like the Sanctimonious Knight: he doesn't get it either when I pontificate about spliceness." She became bored and tucked a cute golden curl behind her little left ear with her stumpy right hand, "You, for instance, don't understand what I rule. I rule nothing! Is that cool or what? I couldn't be buggered to rule. The difference between me and the Queen of England is that I have no England!" and she laughed nauseatingly-infectiously.

"Then why are you considered a queen at all?"

"You, my dear sir, are bugging me with your tediousness!.. The awesome part of it is to be on the border with both sides in your field of vision at the same time: two countries, two ideas, represented by one image in your mind - one! - the image of the boundary itself."

Women in books - "Thais of Athens" by Ivan Yefremov, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

The fact that beauty is a highly subjective notion has been acknowledged and accepted since the dawn of time. Sadly, the modern beauty standards appear to be increasingly standardized, and the human kind is poorer for it. Here is a wonderful little scene by Ivan Yefremov, demonstrating that beauty can be found in the most unexpected and illogical forms.

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Two girls appeared from behind a hidden door between the statues of two elephants. The dancers wore identical metallic jewelry on their dark smooth bodies including wide, slanting gold sashes, necklaces, anklets, large round earrings and tiaras with glittering rubies in their short coarse hair. Their faces were as motionless as masks. With their narrow, slanting eyes, short noses and wide, full mouths, the two looked like twins. The peculiar build of their bodies was also much alike. They had narrow shoulders, slender arms, small pert breasts and thin torsos. This nearly maidenly fragility was in sharp contrast to the lower portion of the body. They were massive, with wide, thick hips and muscular legs, falling just short of giving the impression of brute force. From explanations made by the elder priest, the Helenians derived that these girls were from the distant eastern mountains beyond the River of Sands. They embodied most clearly the duality of people with their ethereally light upper bodies and massive lower halves, filled with earthy power.

Thais questioned whether they could dance. “Women of small height are always more agile than those akin to coras and imperious statues. I know nothing of these people from the distant eastern mountains and steppes that were never reached by Alexander’s scouts.”

After a brief order, one of the girls sat on the floor with her legs crossed and started rhythmically clapping her hands, her glittering bracelets ringing loudly. The other girl started dancing with the kind of expressiveness that only came from talent refined by years of training. Unlike the dances of the West, the legs took little part in the movement, but arms, head and torso performed astonishingly graceful undulations, and fingers opened akin to flowers.

Thais burst into applause. The dancers stopped, then vanished after a sign from the priest.

“They are so singular, these girls,” Thais said. “But I do not understand their allure. There is no harmony, no likeness to the Kharitas.”

“Ah, I understand,” Lysippus suddenly said. “You see, a man knows that these women combine two opposing powers of Eros.”

“Do you agree, teacher?” Thais doubted it. “Then why do you always follow perfection in your art?”

“In the art of beauty, yes,” Lysippus replied. “But the laws of Eros are different.”

Women in books - "The Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-16T15:32:00.000-08:00

Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita is one of the most complex multi-faceted works of Russian literature. And I am not just saying that, because it happens to be my favorite book. If you have ever read it, you know what I mean.

One of the distinguishing features of this narrative is that the title characters appear very late in the story: the Master - well into part one and Margarita - at the beginning of part two. The book has many climactic points, and the first meeting between the title characters, as narrated by the Master to his room mate at a mental institution, is one of them. It is a rather subdued scene, but there is no question about its pivotal role in the book.

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"Pontius Pilate was approaching the end and I already knew that the last words of my novel would be 'the fifth Prefect of Judaea, horseman Pontius Pilate'. Naturally, I went for walks. A hundred thousand rubles is an enormous amount, and I had a beautiful gray suit. Sometimes I went to dine at some inexpensive restaurant. There used to be a wonderful restaurant on Arbat, I don't know if it's still there."

The visitor's eyes opened wide and he continued whispering while gazing at the moon, "She had in her hands the disgusting disturbing yellow flowers. Hell knows what they are called, but they are always the first to appear in Moscow in spring. The flowers stood out prominently against her black spring coat. She was carrying yellow flowers! It's not a good color. She turned from Tverskaya into a side lane and glanced back. Do you know Tverskaya? Thousands of people were walking down Tverskaya, but I swear to you, that she saw only me and looked at me not even anxiously, but almost painfully. And I was struck not as much by her beauty, as by the incredible unprecedented loneliness in her eyes!

"Following the yellow spot, I too turned into the lane and followed in her tracks. We were walking down a crooked boring lane silently - me on one side of the street, she on the other. And imagine that, there wasn't a single soul in that lane. I was torn, because I felt I needed to talk to her, and was afraid that I couldn't say a single word, and she would leave and I would never see her again... And imagine, suddenly she spoke to me, 'Do you like my flowers?'

"I remember clearly the sound of her voice, which was rather deep but with an edge to it, and, as silly as it may sound, I imagined an echo hitting the lane and reflecting off the dirty yellow wall. I quickly crossed the street to her side and replied as I approached her, 'No.'

"She looked at me in surprise, and I realized suddenly and completely unexpectedly that I have loved this very woman all my life! Isn't it something? You must think I'm crazy."

"I think no such thing," Ivan exclaimed and added, "Please, keep going!"

The guest continued, "Yes, she looked at me in surprise and then asked, 'Do you not like flowers at all?'

"There seemed to be a kind of animosity in her voice. I was walking next to her, trying to match her steps, and much to my surprise felt no awkwardness whatsoever.

"'No, I do love flowers, but not these,' I said.

"'Which ones then?'

"'I like roses.'

"Then I regretted saying it because she smiled guiltily and tossed her flowers into a ditch. Somewhat at a loss, I picked them up and handed them to her, but she chuckled and pushed them away, and I carried them.

"We walked silently for some time until she took the flowers away from me, tossed them on the sidewalk, then put her arm in a wide black glove through mine, and we walked together."

"And then?" Ivan said, "And please, don't skip anything."

"And then?" the guest asked, "Well, you could figure out on your own what happened then." He wiped a sudden tear with his right sleeve and continued, "Love appeared before us seemingly from nowhere, like a murderer in a dark alley, and struck us both simultaneously! It was like lightning, like being stabbed with a knife!

"She did say later that it wasn't so, that we have loved each other a long time ago, not knowing each other, never having seen each other, and that she lived with another man, and I was... with... what's her name..."

"With whom?" Homeless asked.

"With that...that..., well..." the guest replied and snapped his fingers.

"You were married?"

"Yes, that's why I'm snapping... to... Varen'ka, Manechka... no Varen'ka... in a striped dress... from the museum... although, I can't remember.

"In any case, she said that she walked out with the yellow flowers that day so that I could finally find her, and that had it not happened, she would have killed herself, because her life was empty.

"Yes, love struck us instantaneously. I knew it that very day, in an hour, when we ended up near the Kremlin wall at the river, not noticing the city around us.

"We talked as if we'd only parted yesterday, as if we'd known each other many years. We agreed to meet the next day at the same spot near the Moscow river and so we did. May sun was shining upon us. And soon, very soon this woman became my secret wife.

"She came to me every day, but I began waiting for her in the morning. My way of waiting was to move around the objects on my table. Ten minutes before her arrival I sat down near the little window and started listening for the knocking of the dilapidated garden gate. It was so curious: before I met her, very few people visited my little courtyard, nobody ever came, and now I felt as if the entire city was stopping by. The gate knocked and my heart knocked, and then someone's dirty boots would appear in my window level with my face. A grinder. Who needs a grinder in our house? What is there to grind? Kitchen knives?

"She walked through the gate only once, but my heart rose and fell at least ten times. It's the truth. And then when her time came and the clock showed noon, my heart kept beating wildly until her shoes with black suede bows and steel clasps silently appeared behind my window.

"Sometimes she felt mischievous and, pausing near the second window, knocked on it with her toe. I dashed to it that very second, but the shoe was already gone, the black silk no longer obscured the light, and I went to open the door."

Women in books - "The Waverunner" by Alexander Grin, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-14T13:47:00.000-08:00

Some encounters carry with them such strong feeling of un-reality, that we treat them as impossible, even if they did actually happen. Alexander Grin takes this concept and nudges it even further by placing ordinary people into extraordinary situations or impossible people into commonplace surroundings. Below is an example of just such a meeting between the protagonist of the novel The Waverunner Thomas Garvey and a woman who, by all rights, should not exist.

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I put the oars through the rowlocks but continued sitting there with a kind of involuntary pointless expectation. Suddenly the deck was filled with exclamations, shouts, arguments and noise – so sudden and loud that I couldn’t figure out what the matter was. Finally I heard a demanding female voice that said sharply and coldly, “It is my business, Captain Gez! It ought to be sufficient that this is what I want!”

Everything I heard after that was filled with incredulity and rage. Gez shouted, “Hey, you, in the boat! Come and get her!” He added, addressing someone, “I don’t know where he was hiding her!”

He addressed me again and again – not mentioning my name, “Hey, you in the boat!” I didn’t honor him with an answer.

“Tell him yourself, dammit!” Gez yelled.

“Garvey!” a fresh and seemingly familiar voice of an unknown woman called out, “Take the boat to the ladder, it will be lowered right away. I am coming with you.”
Completely puzzled, I judged by the voice that she couldn’t have been a part of Gez’s party. I didn’t hesitate, as one could only prefer a boat to the safety of a ship under intolerable, possibly life-threatening circumstances. The ladder clanged; it slid down and touched the water surface. I moved the boat closer and grabbed the bottom of the ladder, looking up till my eyes hurt but still not being able to see anyone.

“Take your girlfriend!” Gez said, “I see you are a prankster.”

“I’ll be damned if I know how he managed this!” Synchright exclaimed.

I couldn’t hear any footsteps. A slender figure wrapped in a cape appeared at the bottom of the ladder, waived her hand and hopped into the boat in one precise movement. The boat was lit up better than the deck of the ship. Glancing at me, the woman shifted her hands under the cape that was hiding her and sat down on a bench next to mine. I couldn’t see her face, hidden by the lace trim of the hood, except her glittering black eyes. She turned away, looking at the shop. I was still holding onto the ladder.

“How did this happen?” I said, completely lost in amazement.

“He's got some nerve!” Gez said from above, “Go wherever you want and I sincerely wish you to feed the sharks!”

“Murderer!” I shouted back, “You will answer for this double outrage! I wish you a bullet through the head as soon as possible!”

“He will get a bullet,” the unknown woman said calmly, almost absentmindedly, and I jumped. Her appearance was beginning to torment me – especially her firm carefree gaze.

“Let us away from the ship!” she said suddenly and turned to me, “Push away with an oar.”

I pushed away and we were picked up by a wave. A shower of jokes flew at us from the deck. They were too shallow to be repeated here. The voices and the ship’s lights moved away. I rowed automatically, as the ship’s sails went up and took it away. Soon its lights diminished, looking like a row of sparks.

Wind blew at my back. By my calculations dawn was a couple of hours away. Glancing at the luminous face of my watch I saw that I was right – it was five minutes to four. Mild waves presented no danger. I hoped that this adventure would end well, because the earlier conversations on The Waverunner told me that this part of the ocean between Gariba and the peninsula was fairly well-traveled. Most of all, however, I was concerned with the question, who was in the boat with me this wild night.

In the meantime, I could see a bit more clearly. The waves glistened like dark glass. I was just about to address her with an entire series of natural and lawful questions, when the woman said, “How do you feel now, Garvey?”

“Do you know me?"

“I know your name and I shall tell you mine – Frasie Grant.”

“I should be the one asking you,” I said, amazed again by her calm tone, “yes, asking you how you feel after your fearless act landing you in this damn boat in the middle of the ocean. I was shocked; now I am astonished as well. I never saw you on the ship. Might I assume that you were being held against your will?”

“Against my will?!” she said, laughing quietly and mischievously, “Oh, no, no! Nobody could ever hold me anywhere against my will, wherever it might be. Haven’t you heard what they shouted at you from the deck? They think you are a cunning prankster who hid me in the hold or somewhere else, and that I didn’t want to abandon you.”

“I cannot force you to tell me anything about yourself. You will tell me when you wish to do so.”

“Oh, that is unavoidable, Garvey. But let us wait. Alright?”

Assuming that she was anxious, although in amazing control of herself, I offered her a little wine I had in one of my bags to calm her down.

“No,” she said, “I do not need it. But you, of course, want to see who is this uninvited stranger sitting here with you. There is a lantern here.”

She leaned back and pulled a lantern with a candle inside from a small cubbyhole. I was rarely as anxious as at that moment when I handed her the matches and waited for the light.

While she was setting up the lantern, I saw a delicate hand and the metal grate of the lantern, coming alive from inside. Shadows fluttered and ran across the boat. Then Frasie Grant closed the lantern, placed it between us and threw off her cape. I shall never forget her – the way I saw her at that moment.

There was a glow around her that faded away among the waves. Her regular, almost round face with a beautiful gentle smile was filled with charming nervous movement, expressing at the moment that she was amused by my growing astonishment. But there was a motionless point in her black eyes; those eyes, upon a closer look, bore an impression of ominous and tiresome persistence, inexplicable strain and silence – more so than the silence of her lips. Pearl combs glittered in her raven hair. The gown of ivory lace, leaving open her delicate shoulders that were as flawlessly white as her face, folded around her form like a broad overturned fan, from under which peeked a small foot in a gilded shoe. She sat with her arms spread, her hands resting on the deck of the stern, leaning toward me slightly as if wanting to give me a better look of her sudden beauty. It seemed that this wondrous figure was sitting not in the midst of the dangerous ocean night, but in a distant nook of a palace, having gotten tired from music and crowds.

I gazed, surprised that I was not looking for an explanation. Everything moved and changed inside me, and while my feelings were appropriate for my actions, their intensity overcame my thoughts. I heard the beating of the heart in my chest, neck and temples; it beat faster and softer, faster and softer. I was suddenly overcome by fear; it pulled at me and vanished.

“Do not be afraid,” she said. Her voice changed, I recognized it and remembered when I heard it, “I shall leave you, but listen to what I say. At dawn, go south and row as quickly as you can. At sunrise you will meet a sail ship, and it will take pick you up. The ship is sailing to Gel-Gyu and we shall meet again, when you get there. Nobody must know that I was with you – except for her, who has yet to come to you. You want to see Biche Saniel very much and you will see her, but remember that you mustn’t tell her about me. I was with you, so that you wouldn’t be frightened and lonely.”

“The night is dark,” I said, moving my eyes with difficulty as I was getting tired of gazing, “There are waves, nothing but waves all around!”

She rose and placed a hand on my head. It glowed in the light like marble.

“Out there,” the answer came quietly, “there are only waves for me, and there is an island among them; it glows brighter and further away. I am in a rush, I must hurry; I shall see it at dawn. Farewell! Are you still making your wreath? Are the flowers still bright? Are you lonely on this dark road?”

“What can I tell you?” I replied, “You are here, and this is my answer. Where is the island you speak of? Why are you alone? What threatens you? What protects you?”

“Oh,” she said sadly, “do not dwell upon the darkness. I obey myself and I know what I want. But I cannot speak of it.”

The flame from the candle shone brightly; it’s glow was so bright, that I had to look away. I saw black fins crossing the water like buoys; their predatory movement around the boat, their restless shuttling to and fro smelled of danger.

“Who is that?” I said, “Who are these monsters around us?”

“Do not mind them and do not fear for me,” she replied, “Whoever they might be in their greedy hopes, they cannot touch or harm me anymore.”

I looked up as she said that.

“Frasie Grant!” I shouted with despair, because sorrow came over me, “Come back!..”

She stood on water not far away to the right and was slowly carried away by the waves. She was moving away, half-turned toward me with her hand raised, peering as if walking away from the bed of someone asleep and not wishing to wake him up by a careless movement. Seeing that I was watching her, she nodded and smiled.

I could barely see as she turned and ran swiftly and lightly, as if she was running across an enormous dark ballroom.

Right away, the devilish fins of the sharks or some other nerve-shattering creatures, that looked like cuts made by a black blade, turned in the same direction, where Frasie Grant – the waverunner – vanished, and gliding away in abrupt tugs, disappeared as well.

Women in books - "Boule de Suif" by Guy de Maupassant, translated by Classic Reader

2011-12-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

The woman at the center of Maupassant's Boule de Suif would not have been popular in modern America. Nonetheless, it is clear that even though the author does not sugar-coat her appearance, he is fond of his heroine and is on her side throughout the story.

I love this photo of the Russian actress Galina Sergeyeva as Boule de Suif in the old silent movie made in 1934.

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The woman, who belonged to the courtesan class, was celebrated for an embonpoint unusual for her age, which had earned her the sobriquet of "Boule de Suif" (Tallow Ball). She was short and round, fat as a pig, with puffy fingers constricted at the joints, looking like rows of short sausages. With her shiny, tightly-stretched skin and an enormous bust filling out the bodice of her dress, she was yet attractive and much sought after, owing to her fresh and pleasing appearance. Her face was like a crimson apple, a peony-bud just bursting into bloom; she had magnificent dark eyes, fringed with thick, heavy lashes, which cast a shadow into their depths; her mouth was small, ripe, kissable, and was furnished with the tiniest white teeth.

As soon as she was recognized, the respectable matrons of the party began to whisper among themselves, and the words "hussy" and "public scandal" were uttered so loudly that Boule de Suif raised her head. She forthwith cast such a challenging, bold look at her neighbors that a sudden silence fell on the company, and all lowered their eyes, with the exception of Loiseau, who watched her with evident interest.

Women in books - "Between two chairs" by Eugene Kluev, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-10T10:47:00.000-08:00

After staying on the serious side of literary female portraits, I'd like to take a moment and pop over to the ridiculous side.

Eugene Kluev's Between Two Chairs was inspired by Edward Lear's Book of Nonsense and by Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. Sadly, only parts of it are translatable because much of the word play only works in Russian. So, it is with no small pleasure that I present to you one such segment: the meeting between the book's protagonist - a very serious young name by the name of Peter-Paul (because the author could not remember whether his name was Peter or Paul) and one of the strange inhabitants of an even stranger country he finds himself in.

I am purposely not providing an illustration to this, because I think the author would have wanted you to ride this one out on sheer power of your own imagination.

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The smoke took its time dissipating, but once it did, Peter-Paul caught a glimpse of a horseman dashing across the room on his steed. Peter-Paul had a feeling that the horseman had more than one head. It was difficult to determine how many heads he had: Peter-Paul realized he may have been mistaken as to the number, but he was prepared to swear under oath that there was some sort of misunderstanding about the horseman's upper body. This incident left him with an ill first impression. Peter-Paul made to follow the horseman, but then realized that chasing a horseman not having a horse of your own would be stupid and returned to his previous spot. The spot turned out to be occupied. A colorfully dressed young woman was hugging and kissing a man old enough to be her father, grandfather and great-grandfather, all the while telling him how much she loved him and how this was the first time this ever happened to her. Peter-Paul was very embarrassed to have walked in on such a tender and significant moment in a relationship of two strangers. He stepped back and even tried mumbling some sort of apology, but didn't get enough time, because the girl suddenly stopped hugging and kissing her love and, having jumped over to Peter-Paul, started hugging and kissing him. Embraces and kisses were mixed with words, "Oh, my love, I have waited for you so long! I fell in love with you suddenly - strongly and passionately: it's the first time this ever happened to me!"

It all happened so quickly, that Peter-Paul didn't even realize that he'd heard the same lines before: a red rose swung back and forth before his eyes, his head was spinning and beginning to hurt. Kissed nearly to death in the matter of moments he felt weak and barely breathed out, "Do we know each other?"

"We were made for each other!" the girl exclaimed passionately and followed her affirmation with an embrace that felt like an attempted homicide. Peter-Paul shrieked, while his tormentor continued, "Do you want my life? Take it, take it, it's yours! What do I need it for now, that I have met you, my love!"

Peter-Paul did not need the life he'd been offered, especially considering that his own was clearly in danger, but he didn't answer, having fainted from yet another embrace and completely lost his ability to think.

When his temporarily extinguished consciousness had finally returned, the first person Peter-Paul remembered was the man old enough to be the girl's father, grandfather and great-grandfather. Still showered with kisses, Peter-Paul grasp at the first coherent thought about him, which went something like this, "He will kill me." It was impossible to focus even on that simple thought: the rose continued to swing before his eyes and confuse him. Peter-Paul managed to sneak a glance at the girl's former lover, whom he expected to see with a dagger in hand. The man himself, however, was smiling blissfully and crossing himself as he gazed upon them. He appeared to be thrilled about being set free. "He won't kill me," Peter-Paul realized sadly: he could no longer count on someone else to rescue him. He had to help himself. It wasn't easy: his arms and legs refused to obey. All he managed to do was get rid of the rose: Peter-Paul was able to twist and pull it out of his tormentor's fanciful coif. Having tossed the rose as far as he could, he succumbed to his fate and anxiously awaited death. It was clearly hopeless to wait for mercy.

Over a short period of time Peter-Paul became completely disheveled and almost missed the magic words suddenly uttered by the girl.

"I don't love you anymore!" she exclaimed and with a rebel yell "Oh, my love!" ran off somewhere. The familiar horseman appeared before Peter-Paul, and the girl jumped into the saddle in front of him. "I have waited for you so long! I fell in love with you suddenly - strongly and pa..." he heard from the distance.

Peter-Paul shuddered and became caught in a disturbing and terrible dream. The only difference between dream and reality was that there was an unimaginable quantity of roses in the strange girl's hair, and Peter-Paul kept pulling them out from her coif.

"Don't sleep, you'll go bonkers," he heard someone's voice through the nightmare and felt something fall on his face. Peter-Paul applied his will power and stopped the dream with the roses.

"Who was that?" he asked. The girl's former lover was sitting next to him eating fried fish.

"That? the man lobbed yet another fish bone at Peter-Paul, "That was Charmen. Spanish, you know... Love is like a winged bird and all that... Want some fish?"

Peter-Paul shook his head.

"What's wrong with her... that Charmen? She stormed in like a hurricane..."

"She fell in love," the man spread his hands, "What's there to do? It happens. She's an interesting character by the way, crazy! She falls in love with everyone she meets and loves him until she sees someone else: then she falls in love with the next one, and forgets the previous one. And when she meets a forgotten lover sometime later, she falls in love with him all over again. What a temper!"

Women in books - "Garnet Bracelet" by Alexander Kuprin, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-08T16:38:00.000-08:00

Here we have yet another observation by the author - an observation of a meeting between two sisters, as unlike each other as they could be and yet very fond of each other despite, or perhaps because, of their differences.

Please note: Unfortunately, I haven't done any illustrations for this story, even though I love it very much. I was able to find a still from the wonderful Russian movie version of the story, with the stunning and regal Ariadne Shengelaya as Vera.

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The two sisters happily exchanged kisses. Since very early childhood they were attached to each other with a warm and caring friendship. In their appearance they were strangely different. Vera, the eldest, took after their mother, a beautiful Englishwoman, with her tall graceful figure, delicate but cold and proud face, rather large but beautifully shaped hands and that charming slope to her shoulders one could find in the antique miniature portraits. Anna, the youngest, inherited the Mongol blood of their father, the Tatar prince, whose grandfather became a Christian only at the beginning of the XIX century, and whose ancient family traced back to Tamerlan himself, or Lang-Temir as their father called him proudly in the Tatar fashion, with great admiration for that great slaughterer. She was about six inches shorter than her sister, somewhat broad around the shoulders, very lively and carefree, with a penchant for teasing. Her face was of a very Mongol type, with pronounced cheekbones, narrow eyes, which she tended to squint due to her nearsightedness, with a small, sensual, arrogantly set mouth, especially due to its somewhat pouty full lower lip. This face, however, enchanted one with some kind of elusive incomprehensible charm, hidden perhaps in the smile, perhaps in the profound femininity of all its features, or perhaps in its piquant coquettishly playful movements. Her graceful homeliness excited and attracted men's attention much more frequently and stronger than the aristocratic beauty of her sister.

She was married to a very wealthy and a very stupid man, who did absolutely nothing, but was assigned to some charitable organization and had a title. She couldn't stand her husband but bore him two children nevertheless - a boy and a girl; she decided not to have any more children and did not have them. As for Vera - she passionately wanted children and the more the better, but could not have them for some reason, and she passionately and painfully adored the pretty fragile children of her younger sister, always well-behaved and obedient, with chalk-pale faces and doll-like curled fair hair.

Anna consisted entirely of cheerful carelessness and sweet, sometimes strange contradictions. She had frequently engaged in the most risky flirtation in all of Europe's capitals and resorts, but she never cheated her husband, whom she made fun of derisively both to his face and behind his back; she was a terrible spender, adored games of chance, balls, strong impressions and exciting spectacles, attended places of questionable repute while abroad, but at the same time was generously kind and deeply, sincerely religious (the latter having resulted in her secretly becoming a Catholic). She had remarkably beautiful back, bosom and shoulders. When attending large formal balls, she showed off a lot more skin than was appropriate or fashionable, but the rumor had it she wore a hairshirt under her low-cut gowns.

Vera was sternly direct, coolly and somewhat haughtily polite to all, independent and majestically aloof.

Women in books - "The Glittering World" by Alexander Grin, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-06T15:13:00.000-08:00

This excerpt is a little different, because the moment of observation here takes place not between two characters in the story, but rather between the author and his heroine during her rare moment of stillness.

Alexander Grin have always created interesting female characters, frequently in pairs and connected to the same male character to bring confusion and contradiction into his life.

Tavi Toom of The Glittering World is one half of just such a female duo, and clearly the author's favorite.

Note: Unlike in my previous posts from this series, this illustration is not one of mine. I had a copy for a long time from a very old edition of this book. I have drawn Tavi many times, but could never capture her quite right, and have always liked this version of her much better than my own attempts.

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She was cleaning the room, wiping away dust with the dust rag, noisily moving chairs, washing and drying the dishes, and gradually her delicate cheeks became flushed from all this fussing about. Sensing that her face was burning, Tavi walked up to the mirror, sneezing and snorting.

"Yuck, ugh! I am like a witch or a chimneysweep, I'm no better than a Saracen!"

True, her nose was covered in dust, a soot smear marked her cheek, and her neck was gray from dust. Tavi was just about to grab a towel and wipe her face, but then lowered her hand, shaking her head with a sigh, "I've no one to make pretty for just now, I am good enough as I am."

Yes, truly, she was good enough as she was.

There isn't a more convenient moment to describe a woman, when she thinks about it herself; to catch an opportunity to describe her, so to speak. Once the opportunity is there, it would be wrong to miss it and then wait for another one. A perceptive reader would notice that, when we emphasize the words "she was good enough as she was" - that is still lovely, despite her little face being smeared with dust and soot, we don't mean the classical harmony of features. The latter kind of beauty absolutely cannot be touched by soot, because a smudge of soot would immediately disfigure it. Try conducting an experiment with a statue, having soiled its beautiful features, deprived of any expression save for one of conditional perfection, with something dark, like the very same soot we were talking about - the enchantment will vanish instantly. A stain or a smudge will inflict a destructive feature upon the serenity of perfect marble form, just as mercilessly destroying its completeness, as an ink blot on a white sheet of paper suddenly makes the entire page look untidy. Similarly, a beauty who is perfect from head to toe, a woman of classical and flawless splendor loses it all if some dust gets onto her nose, or her cheek is disgraced with an ink stain; such is the nature of any perfection, as powerful, as it is helpless once it is infringed upon somehow.

However, a lively and cheerful girl with an irregular, yet sweet and gentle face, with a gaze that is luminous and warm, like a quiet bell toll, the gaze whose expression is endlessly variable; a girl constantly weaving around herself an invisible trace of light and carefree movements; slender yet shapely, with clear and open voice, with a smile fluttering like summer leaves, - a girl like that can get dirty and dusty all she wants without any harm to herself; her smile-inducing charm will defeat the black drag of soot because she has more devices for it than a motionless statue or a living goddess with a slow tempo of projected impressions. Can the latter jump up, laughing out loud and slapping herself on the sides? No. But any regular lovely girl can do it quite easily without caring about how such an experiment might look.

Women in books - "Thais of Athens" by Ivan Yefremov, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-04T15:51:00.000-08:00

Russian paleontologist and writer Ivan Yefremov was known for his reverent attitude toward women. It is no great surprise that his books are full to the brim with strong female characters.

This excerpt from Thais of Athens describes the first meeting between Ptolemy - a close friend and associate of Alexander the Great (who is but an exiled Macedonian prince at this point in the book) - and the Greek hetaera Thais, already an Athenian celebrity at seventeen.

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The wave scattered with a deafening roar, tossing him farther onto the sand than an ordinary wave would have. Temporarily blinded and deafened, Ptolemy wiggled and crawled a few pekises, carefully struggled to his knees, then finally stood. He rocked back and forth on unsteady legs and rubbed his aching head. The waves seemed to pummel him even here on earth.

He stood straighter, hearing a sound that did not belong. He listened carefully and heard a brief giggle needle through the noise of the surf. Ptolemy turned around so quickly that he lost his balance and fell to his knees again. The laughter rang again, quite nearby.

He looked up and saw a slender young girl of no great height standing before him. She had obviously just emerged from the sea. Water still sluiced down her smooth body, dark with a coppery tan, running in rivers off the mass of her raven black hair. The swimmer tipped her head to the side as she squeezed water out of her wavy tresses.

Ptolemy rose to his full height and set his feet firmly in the sand. He looked the girl straight in her brave and merry gray eyes, which appeared dark blue in reflection of the sea and the sky. Her long black lashes did not lower or flutter under the passionate and imperious gaze of the son of Lag, even though, at only twenty-four years of age, he was already a well known heartbreaker in Pella, the capital of Macedonia.

Ptolemy could not take his eyes off the girl. She had appeared from the foam and thunder of the sea like a goddess and her coppery face, gray eyes and raven black hair were unusual for an Athenian. Later he realized the girl’s copper skin meant she did not fear the sun, the rays of which were the bane of so many Athenian ladies of fashion. Athenian women tanned too thickly, turning purplish bronze like the Ethiopians. For that reason they avoided appearing outdoors without cover. But this girl was like the copper-bodied Circe, or one of the legendary daughters of Minos with blood of sunlight, and she stood before him with all the dignity of a priestess.

No, of course she was not a goddess or a priestess, this small, young girl. In Attica, as in most of Hellas, priestesses were chosen from the tallest, fair-haired beauties. But from where did this girl’s calm assurance come? She stood regally, as if she were in a temple and not standing naked before him on an empty shore. He wondered vaguely if she, too, had left her clothing at the distant Phoont Cape. Kharitas, who bestowed magical allure upon women, frequently appeared as girls, but they were an inseparable threesome. This girl was alone.

Women in books - "The Star of Solomon" by Alexander Kuprin, translated by Maria K.

2011-12-02T18:37:00.001-08:00

A friend had recently related an incident of meeting a woman who just took his breath away. To put it into context, he is a happily married man, madly in love with his wife. But it was one of those experiences, when an incredibly beautiful person passed across his radar screen seemingly from somewhere other than this world, and momentarily caused him to lose all capacity to breathe, speak and think. I am sure many of us have had such experiences regardless of gender and sexual orientation.

As I pondered this story, I realized that I've been reading and translating a lot of books lately, where these kinds of encounters took place. The more I thought about it, the more I was struck by how much variety of image and emotion different authors were able to put into their descriptions of these meetings. And so I decided to pull together a little collection of excerpts from different books and stories that capture the moment that only happens once in any relationship: the first sight of each other. And, because I am a woman, I want to begin with the impressions of women through the eyes of men who see them for the first time.

I begin with my current translation project - The Star of Solomon by Alexander Kuprin. Not only is it one of my favorite stories of all times, it also has one of my favorite meeting scenes.

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Ivan Stepanovich entered the car. The window in his compartment was closed. As he lowered it, Tsvet noticed directly across, in an open window of another train, merely three steps away, a charming female figure. The dark backdrop softly and clearly, as if in a picture, set off her dressy white spring bonnet with pink flowers, pale-gray silk coat, her flushed delicate enchanting face and an enormous bouquet of fresh lilac, barely open, probably picked just that morning.

“How lovely!” Tsvet thought, never taking his delighted eyes away from her, “So much tenderness, purity, intelligence, kindness and elegance. There isn't another one like her in the entire world! There are many beauties but she is the only one, unlike anyone else, incomparable. Ah, she is smiling!”

It was true. She was smiling, but just barely, with her eyes, and this delicate smile was filled with innocent flirtation, gentleness, the joy at her own wellbeing and at the spring day, and youthful mischievous merriment. She lowered her nose, lips and chin into the clusters of flowers, from time to time, as if accidentally meeting Ivan Stepanovich's admiring eyes with her own dark and lively ones.

Tsvet's train started moving slowly to the right. In a moment, it became clear that it was only an illusion, so common for railway stations: it was the beautiful woman's train that was moving, while his train was still standing. “Oh, if only I could get one flower!” Tsvet exclaimed in his mind. At that moment, the woman tossed the bouquet directly into Tsvet's open window with astonishing swiftness and incredible agility. He managed to catch it and even had time enough to peek out the window and demonstratively press it against his lips. The beauty laughed, her teeth glittering in the glow of spring afternoon, nodded as the sign of farewell and quickly vanished behind the window. Then her car flickered, darkened, merged with other cars and disappeared.

Parents, busy people, and what I am tired of telling them

2011-11-14T15:02:00.000-08:00

A few days ago during our wedding anniversary vacation in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, I was at one of many non-chain clothing stores along Main Street and saw a young mom, who was shopping there with her friend and her baby. The woman was in her early to mid-twenties and dressed comfortably and warm (the weather was sunny but with the wickedest wind), yet very stylishly. No, it was not all designer labels and stiletto heels and a multi-hundred dollar bag. Not at all. In fact, the store we were at is known for catering to the younger career crowd with not a whole lot of disposable income. Yet, she looked great. The baby was snug in a light sling carrier on her back - also warmly and comfortably dressed and looking not in the least deprived by the fact that mom took time to dress herself in the morning and was presently enjoying some time shopping with her friend. I approached the woman and complimented her on how great she looked.

Incidents like that frequently make me notice related examples among my surroundings. As I wandered around Main Street, Blowing Rock I noticed many young moms and dads with various quantities of children of various ages. Yes, many wore the most basic of outfits: t-shirt, jeans, sweater, jacket, boots. But they were fitted t-shirts, non-sloppy jeans, trim sweaters, shapely jackets, comfortable, flat boots - the kind that look good but allow you just as much freedom to run around with the kids as a pair of sneakers. Their children were healthy and happy - running around the playground at the park, enjoying their sandwiches and ice cream, and forming an excitedly giggling crowd around an elderly gentlemen with an enormous black and white Newfoundland of very sweet disposition, neither minding the kids' desire to pet the dog and shake its huge furry paw.

You know what all this means? "I haven't bought anything for myself because my children need me" is bullshit. ...So is "What's the sense in dressing up, I spend all day chasing and cleaning up after the kids." ...So is, "I don't have a full-length mirror at my house because appearances are superficial. And my kids get all the new stuff anyway." ...So is, "Oh, I might do this someday, when my kids are grown." ...And so is every single variation on the theme. Closely following that group of bullshit is another group under the heading "Your life is easier than mine because you don't have kids". Closing the bullshit procession is the third all-time favorite "Wow, you are so lucky to afford these things. Must be nice having all that money."

Let's start with Bullshit Number One. You weren't born a parent. You spent a very long time developing you as YOU. Not you as a spouse, not you as a parent, but you as an individual. What makes you think that you are supposed to sacrifice yourself because you have children? They don't want it! Your kids are NOT happier because you dress them up but you yourself look like a tired dishrag. They are NOT happier because you agonize all day what to feed them for dinner, yet never take a couple of hours to go out to eat with your friends or with your spouse. Your denying yourself everything for their sake, but ending up sulking about it constantly does NOT improve your children's quality of life.

Nor does it improve your marriage - if that is indeed still in the picture. Your spouse fell in love with you first as YOU. You may qualify for the Parent of the Year award, but when was the last time you have done anything more romantic than sitting on the couch in front of the TV together? Do your sweats and baggy jeans and t-shirts make your spouse howl with lust? Didn't think so...

My parents had to bring me up in the former Soviet Union. I was sickly and attended two schools, and they both had full-time jobs with lots of travel. Yes, having grandparents on hand helped. But I still had plenty of time with my parents and, in fact, never tired of hanging out with them. I never understood my classmates who were embarrassed to be seen with my parents - I couldn't think of anyone else I'd rather be seen with. We didn't always have hot water and electricity, and did laundry by hand. We had no supermarkets or giant malls, so my mom taught herself how to use a sewing machine and knitting needles, so that she could duplicate all the couture she wanted. Somehow my parents and I were always neat, clean, pressed and looking good, whether we were staying in or going out.

I know a stay-at-home dad, who remembered that he was still a man and a husband and started taking time to work out - for himself and to look good for his wife. I am pretty sure his teenage daughter was right there cheering him on as he was sweating it out on a stationary bike, and I am equally sure his wife is not complaining.

I know a mom who has two toddlers, who had quit her job, started her own business as a life coach and is presently getting back into triathlons. She is gorgeous and intelligent and very talented. The has bad days, like everyone else. She has good days too. Her kids get to watch her and learn. They are learning to pick themselves up and get going. They are learning to take risks in order to build their own happiness. They are learning the balance between their inner and outer selves, and that the two are inseparable. They are learning a whole bunch of other stuff from their incredible mother.

Tell me, what are your kids learning from your dismissal of yourself, your sullenness, your denial and your hiding from the rest of the world? What kind of parents will they grow up to be, if the message they are getting is, "Once you have kids, your life is over."?

The place where we stayed in Blowing Rock was called The Inn at the Ragged Gardens - a beautiful old bed and breakfast that started as a boarding house over a hundred years ago. Among many great features, the inn has a lovely tradition: serving wine and hot hors d'oeuvres from five till seven in the evening. The tenants welcome this event with open arms, because it's a great time for everyone to relax, meet their inn neighbors and talk. Our neighbors were all couples, who were also parents of multiple children (two to three per family) of various ages (none of college age).

They told us that precisely because being parents is so demanding, they made a point of saving up for a kid-free trip twice a year, finding someone to watch the young ones (siblings, friends, grandparents, parents of their kids' school sleepover friends, etc.), and going off for a short while - at least for an extended weekend. Not only were their children fine with this arrangement, they were glad that mommy and daddy went off to chill just as they were beginning to reach the boiling point at home.

Notice, these people are not independently wealthy and they don't just take off on a moment's notice. They work. They have to arrange for time off. They schedule these outings months in advance. They save up for them. In fact, setting money aside for this sort of thing is a part of their necessities expense. They understand the necessity of fun, the importance of pleasure and a benefit of taking time off from being a parent.

Interestingly, I never hear the Bullshit Number Two from parents, who take time for themselves and who refuse to wrap themselves in the shroud of false martyrdom on the altar they themselves have constructed. It is usually the parents that wear their parenthood suffering like a badge of honor that stick it into my face that my life must be oh-so-carefree because I don't have kids.

I implore you, parents, not to do this. I am not talking about hanging on to "friends who need losing" - people with truly skewed priorities and dubious reasoning. I don't like those myself. No, I am talking about real friends, with jobs, with their own troubles and their own challenges, who are afraid to tell you anything because you'll just turn around and tell them their lives are a walk in the park, because they are not parents.

We, childless people, enjoy hearing that from you just about as much as you enjoy hearing, "Well, it's easy for you to say - you are married!" or, "It's easy for you to say - you have children." or, "It's easy for you to say - you don't have to work full time."

There is an entire group of people who enjoy trying to make others feel guilty by starting their list of excuses with "It's easy for you to say". Self-ignoring parents and workaholics seem to make up the majority of that group. I am tempted to put them all into one room and see who gets sick of whom first. They could take turns. "It's easy for you to say - you only have one kid, and I have three." "It's easy for you to say - you haven't met my boss." "It's easy for you to say - you can afford to pay someone to clean your house." Blah, blah, blah... It's always someone else's fault. It's always easier for other people to lead their lives than for you to lead yours.

Have you ever considered the fact that it is, in fact, your life? Somehow you got where you are today - good, bad or indifferent. There may have been circumstances outside of your control, like disease, assault, or a natural disaster. There may have been bad decisions on your part. It's no use rehashing what it was that landed you wherever you are now. But if you are not happy about it, how about figuring out what you can do to get out of whatever it is, instead of insulting other people by telling them they have it easy? It's none of your business how they have it. Take care of your own damn life, and maybe you won't have to focus quite so much on what other people have or have not.

...Which leads us nicely to Bullshit Number Three. As someone who does statistics for a living, I can tell you: there is no such thing as luck. It doesn't exist. It's all a bunch of probabilities. Some things are more likely to happen than others. Some people are more attuned to what will happen when and how. They are not lucky, they are just more skilled or are better at paying attention. And that's all there is to it.

So, don't turn to me or to anyone else for that matter and say, "You are so lucky to have this, that and the other thing." You may want to consider how we got where we are, because judging one's position without taking into account the entire journey to said position is not smart. I got where I am today via being mutated by Chernobyl fallout at eleven, losing my mother at fourteen, losing more people at sixteen, and moving to a strange country alone with $300 in my pocket at the age of nineteen. I also got here via having amazing parents, an incredible friendship with my maternal grandfather, and a brutal, yet very comprehensive early education. I wouldn't trade my life for anything, but I won't deny that I sometimes wish there was an easier way. Yet, when I wish that, I don't go to someone else and tell them how they have something I don't, implying all the while that they got it easier or that they are less deserving.

There is no luck. We are all born naked, wrinkly and screaming - and everything after that is between probabilities and our own decisions. The older you are, the more power you have to shift control of your life away from the probabilities and toward the decisions. Realize it and get your head on straight already! The bad things that happen to you are not punishments. The good things that happen to other people before they happen to you are not there to make you mad and/or miserable. It's just life. Allow yourself to grieve through the tragedies and cheer the others on through their successes, and that will leave you more time to recognize the opportunities and build your own happiness. And when you have, you'll know that luck had nothing to do with it, but rather it was you and what you did with your own brain and your own two hands. ...Which is so much better than luck, that you'll want to do it again.

Writer interview - Andrew Meek

2011-11-03T08:31:00.000-07:00

Writer and philosopher Andrew meek recently released his first big novel Quintessence, which is an accomplishment within its own right. In addition, he regularly sparks lively discussion among his Facebook friends and followers by posting intelligent and thought-provoking videos on a variety of topics from friendship to madness to the origins of the Universe.

I sat down with Andrew to get a glimpse into the workings of his incredible mind.

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What is your favourite virtue? Generosity of spirit. I like people who give of themselves to others, their time, their patience, their understanding, their talents, and do so willingly; without an ulterior motive. Often rare it seems, which is why it is such a wonderful thing to find. It makes a person shine.

What are your favourite qualities in a man? Thoughtfulness. Honesty of intention... integrity. Consideration of others. A free thinker.

What are your favourite qualities in a woman? Openness. Kindness. A gentle spirit. A poetic heart. And a free thinker.

What is your chief characteristic? Romantic curiosity: I like to think that I am a deep thinker, (sounds strange put like that... well, to me anyways.) Why romantic? Because understanding the science of ‘how things are’ means not much until we put it back together with ‘us’; our human qualities, then it takes on a whole new dimension: It’s like looking at a beautiful painting, or listening to a wonderful piece of music; when you know more you can be ‘in’ the painting, the music, it becomes not just an external thing you experience; you are part of it, and it you. I feel like that about the universe around me, and all it contains... so I feel like that about everything. And if at first I do not feel that way about something, its because I don’t yet understand it: so off I go again on another adventure! And if, in time, I find nothing of any great value to humanity (and there are many cultural ideas that serve us very badly indeed) I discard it and go in search of something new.

What do you appreciate most in friends? Understanding. That they will be there for me even if they do not always know why I may need them to be there. And sometimes, just to drag me out of myself and loose myself in something they want me to do, or see, or feel.

What is your main fault? Romantic curiosity: Being a deep thinker requires one to ask many questions (mostly of, in the first instance, your own motivations for doing/thinking things). This puts you at odds with perceived wisdom and preconceived ideas, and that makes people like me very unpopular: I push things to see if they will break, (Just like a scientist). Most people never do this, even if they often argue that they do. Because if they did, they would not hold the views that they do and then feel the need to defend them so aggressively: because they too would be filled with, not answers and dogmas, but questions and knowledge that goes beyond human experience. Like I said before; (and is a mantra of mine), first one must look beyond the human to understand things, then come back to the human and during the journey you will find the questions changed, and even, sometimes, you will have some answers to some of your questions. But mostly you will have more questions, which is a good thing, and should not be feared - as it often is. Most human thought about life the universe and everything is based upon human cultural ideas that put as at the top of the pile and work out from there. (This is why all our gods have human qualities.) So the first step to real understanding is to escape from human centred cultural ideas – only that way can we then place ourselves back into the picture and begin to have an idea of our true place. And even the small slice I have of it now, make it an awe-inspiring, wonderful place beyond the wildest dreams of the ancients some seem to hark back to so much in search of ‘wisdom’.

What is your favourite occupation? I was going to say writing, but no; it's thinking. That and researching. Then writing it all down, seeing if I can make the ideas in my head make sense to someone else.

What is your idea of happiness? Getting lost in the moment and forgetting that time exists (debatable anyway, but that’s another story for another day). But a feeling of timelessness - a single moment not constructed of seconds and minutes and hours... just ‘being’ in the world. It can be finding myself before a beautiful scene, or while listening to music, or reading poetry, or just being with someone I care for – loosing yourself – your sense of ‘self’ to what is, who is, before you.

What is your idea of misery? Being isolated in thought – not being understood. Worse still: ignored; not considered worthy of consideration. Childhood memories make these things hurt deep inside of me. A desperate loneliness.

If not yourself who would you be? Difficult question for me; I have seen and felt and come to understand so many wonderful things, that to give all that up would be difficult... but, if I had to choose; Einstein. To have thought his thoughts, known what he knew, and knowing that no one else had ever thought those thoughts before, and to express them in a five symbols that carry more information, more power and understanding than hundreds of volumes of philosophy or literature: E=mc2.

Where would you like to live? Anywhere on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Preferably a small island, maybe a Greek one. I adore the southern European laid-back lifestyle over the work orientated north. A simple life appeals to me. But most of all, its being warm, seeing the sun almost every single day. And swimming in warm waters. Winter in the north brings me down.

Your heroes in real life and in fiction and why? Real life is easy: All the great thinkers and scientists that have ever lived. The ones who stood up to perceived wisdom and religious dogma and dared to question. Religious apologists tend to get cross with me because they complain that I do not understand the times in which people like Galileo where persecuted, or Bruno burnt alive. I understand them only too well, and may of them would no doubt like us to return to such times when such religious ‘truths’ were protected by draconian laws. (Sorry restraining bolt came loose a second). Knowledge gives us freedom, dogma enslaves us. So all free thinkers are my heroes, even if I disagree with what they think, the fact that they dare to question is what makes them stand away from the herd. As for fiction? Well, I grew up without books around much. My parents never read to me. So my heroes where on the small and big screen, and the one form of reading I did have; American comic books. So my heroes of fiction are (starting at the top of the list) Superman, Captain Kirk, Spiderman, Doctor Who (the concept of the character - the scientist hero - not a particular actor), then every other comic book hero, like Sub-Mariner, Ironman, Batman, and so on and so on. I loved the artwork; its what I had instead of Greek gods, or The Famous Five, The Hobbit and so on. Growing up the way I did, its not surprising I have little in common with most other writers in my style and content – I was not exposed to the same source material.

What natural talent do you wish you had? Easy; that I could read music and play the piano. Not so I could play the ‘great’ works of others, no – so I could write my own music! I do not get the whole classical music world thing. Don’t get me wrong, I love the music, but consider it this way. In more popular styles playing someone else’s music is considered doing a ‘cover number’, but in the classical music world it is considered that the playing of music already played over and over and over before is a great thing. I love finding ‘new’ classical music rather than always getting stuck in the same cul-de-sac of the ‘classics’.... (I’m ranting aren’t I?). Okay, stopping. But music says so much more than words ever can – and that is the thing, the reason why. Music can conjure up a million different feelings and thoughts.... words? Words struggle by comparison. So I would be a composer of new music.

What is your present state of mind? Not good place to be at present – in my mind.

For what fault do you have the most tolerance? Doubt.

Your motto? This is one my wife likes, I wrote it down as part of a thought process I was undergoing at the time, (about 12 years ago) and it’s this: “Never use a thousand words when none will do.” Which, when you think about it, is not great for a writer, but perfect for a composer. But what it meant was, sometimes I should just shut up and say no more. Which is what I am now going to do.

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- Quintessence by Andrew Meek is available on Amazon Kindle.

- For more from and about Andrew, visit his blog.

3-Day chronicles: tricks of the trail

2011-11-01T06:37:00.000-07:00

The 3-Day event organizers do their damndest to keep participants well-informed as to what to bring and what to expect. Still, it is hard to anticipate everything. And besides, with the mass of e-mails we receive every day, a newsletter or two is bound to get lost. So, below is a long and rather rambling list of things I learned before, during and after the Atlanta event.

Bring at least two pairs of walking shoes. Both should be well broken-in and make one half a size bigger than you normally take. Both of mine were Acics, and they worked well, bit I did miss the memo on the larger size and ended up with my left foot nearly falling off from swelling and cramps. In general, Acics appeared to be the predominant shoe. Reasons:

- Have you ever smelled a pair of shoes after walking 20 miles in them? Don't. You'll die and your blood will be on my hands. You want them to breathe for a day, to air out, to get rid of all the yucky bacteria in there.

- The broken-in part should be obvious. You don't want to be surprised by where the shoe rubs your foot in the middle of the 60-mile walk.

- Your feet will swell. They will also acquire an assortment of blister patches, band-aids, bracing bandages, ankle wraps, etc. All that stuff still has to fit into the shoe.

Bring socks. Bring lots of socks. Two pairs per day is minimum, three is better. Stock up on socks early and wear them while training. Not every sock works well with every shoe. My purple Acics were more padded, so a thinner sock worked better with them, whereas the blue ones were a bit lighter, so I wore them with the cushioned REI walking sock.

The standard recommendation is to change your socks at lunch, which is roughly the half point of the route for each day. However, the folk wisdom is to change them as soon as you start seeing hot spots (baby blisters). This means that the sock is getting sweaty and beginning to rub you the wrong way. To absorb some of the sweat, bring foot or baby powder on the trail with you and sprinkle it generously into your socks before putting them on.

Lubrication is your friend. Oh, get your minds out of the gutter, all of you! Seriously, though, you want to minimize friction wherever possible: between your foot and your sock, between your sock and your shoe, between your blisters and your bandages.

One awesome and inexpensive trick I saw used a lot was using Glide deodorant on the foot soles. Glide is very inexpensive and you can get the small travel-size odorless one in any pharmacy. Apparently, it works very well to reduce the rubbing between the foot and the sock.

Another popular anti-rub solution was just your basic Vaseline - again, the kind you can get anywhere. Same principle - you scoop it up and slather it all over the tootsies.

Drugs of choice. Ah, but there were many! Ibuprofen - first and foremost. We all carried it, we gave it out, we took more from Medical, we ate it by a handful, especially by Day 3. Aleve - see Ibuprofen. About the same. Both were passed around at pit stops like a really lame cheap round. "Care for a hit of Aleve, my man?" "Don't mind if I do, mate! Cheers!"

Decongestant and non-prescription allergy medication - this was Atlanta, people, and it's fall. Ergo - seasonal allergies. Walking requires breathing, so it was best to keep those nostrils free and clear.

Band-Aids - lots of them. In all shapes and sizes. The big honking ones were best, because not only did they help cover blisters, they also kept pressure off the areas around blisters.

Moleskin - soft and fuzzy and cushy and fabulous for creating an additional layer between a sore spot and your sock and shoe.

All of the above was carried by walkers and resupplied regularly at the medical tents during each and every stop. Then there was the stuff that the Medical crew used to patch us up and send us on our way.

The least sophisticated yet effective remedy was ice. Ice in freezer bags, wrapped to people's arms, legs, feet, ankles, and knees using saran wrap. Some people kept their ice bundles and walked with them, sporting what looked like odd growths here and there.

Biofreeze. I brought my own, but some people didn't. The Medical must have stocked truckloads of it and gave them out by handfuls. The medical crew members carried pocketfuls of Biofreeze packets, because it was the most requested item after Ibuprofen. If you are not familiar with it, Biofreeze looks and smells like mint jelly and is from the same family as Icy Hot and other anti-ache substances. You slather it generously over your muscles and joints to control the soreness. In addition to using it on the trail, we all applied it religiously before bed time to let our legs heal overnight. Not entirely, but at least partially.

Triple antibiotic lotion. Like Neosporin. Absolutely vital. With so much walking , sweating and dust, this stuff was essential in keeping infection to a minimum.

ALCiS pain relief cream. Whoever invented that thing deserves a monument, a palace and a personal limo, complete with staff and a life-time supply of money to maintain it all. Seriously. It's like Aspecreme but better - lighter and without smell. Basically, it's like aspirin in cream form. You rub it into your feet and they feel a bit less like they are being cooked over a slow flame. And you can stand up and get back to the business of walking.

Skin-on-Skin. The person who invented this one deserves a palace too and all the other trimmings. It's a bit tricky to use, but it's absolutely awesome. Skin-on-Skin comes in the form of little squares in round plastic jars. Each square has a layer of film on each side - one blue, one clear, both transparent and damnably hard to get off. BUT, in the middle is the squishy soft deliciously cool substance you place on a blister or a scratch before you put a Band-Aid on top. Because it's so gel-like and wiggly, it takes away 95% of the pressure - a huge plus when you have a big raw open hole in your foot.

Heal thyself. The medical crew is wonderful. But things do get busy, especially around Day 2 when blisters start popping up in droves. While budding blisters should be taken to the medical tent to be lanced, as should serious sprains, limps and aches, there is a bunch of stuff you can take care of yourself.

Carry a small First Aid kit in your pack. The 3-Day web site gives you a very detailed list of what to include. You can restock at each and every pit stop - they have self-service medical tables with all sorts of stuff.

Learn how to dress and re-dress scratches and open blisters. Learn how to massage your own legs. This event is not for the squeamish - I can tell you that right now. You simply cannot afford to get queasy every time you see something bleeding or bruising.

If you have friends who hike a lot, ask them for some first aid advice, or better yet, ask them to take you with them on a few weekend hikes. They have to carry medical supplies too, and they know how to get the most use out of the least amount of stuff.

Learn to help others. People will stumble and fall next to you on the trail - it is bound to happen. Know the standard first aid questions to ask ("Do you feel dizzy?" "Can you hear me?" "Can you breathe ok?" "Can you sit up?", etc.) Sometimes as little as moving the injured person into the shade and placing a wet bandanna on his or her neck makes all the difference in the world.

Eat. Drink. Rest. And Pee. That was the mantra of the walk. After blisters, dehydration was the biggest problem on the trail. Many walkers did the same thing I did - had a waist pack that housed two bottles: one for water, one for Gatorade. Sipping regularly from both was the way to go. If your bladder was beginning to nudge you right as you reached the next pit stop (spaced about 2-3 miles), your fluid intake was adequate.

While food was provided regularly, we were still encouraged to carry snacks: trail mix, Power Bars and the like. A mix of protein and carb bars was the best. If you felt hungry, you popped a protein bar, if you felt tired, you ate a carb one. Some people insisted on waiting till they got to a pit stop. Yet others skipped meals because they thought they were too far behind. That was stupid. Never do that.

I think we all skimped on resting a little bit. Oh, it was glorious to sit down and take the shoes and socks off and just veg for a bit. Getting up, however? That was a whole other matter. So, many of us never sat down for fear of not being able to get up again. That, of course, was not very smart, because the feet needed the rest.

Watch your step! This is one thing you hear a lot on the trail. There are lots of steps, curbs, cracks in the sidewalk, etc. If you happen to be ahead of a group of other walkers, it is a courtesy to warn them by saying "Step!" or "Watch it!" or "Hole" or "Pole" or something equally eloquent. (People who put telephone poles in the middle of sidewalks, you are not my friends and I think you are ugly.)

We are all human. Even I am (contrary to popular opinion). After walking a number of miles (a large number of miles) our attention tends to waver just as we need it most. Do your best to keep your focus on the road under your feet. Many injuries occur due to something silly, like someone not noticing a step down from a curb or a big pot hole on a sidewalk. Keep your eyes peeled for yourself and your fellow walkers.

Looking good! Every one of the fourteen 3-Day walks had its own unique set of route and weather challenges. In Atlanta it was hills and a 30-degree temperature swing between each day's low and high. It was 45 degrees F when we started each morning. On Day 3, the high almost reached 80. What can I tell you...

Layer. Wear garments that can be easily put on and taken off and that pack small and can either be stashed in your pack or attached to it. Yes, you want to look good while you are walking, but comfort is key. This is not Paris Fashion Week. You won't draw an ounce of enjoyment out of looking like a Land's End or Territory Ahead centerfold, if everything pinches, chafes and itches.

You can always reinvent and express yourself sartorially once you reach camp. As I mentioned in one of the earlier post, the 3-Day event camp is much like a big pajama party. Anything goes, as long as you are not naked (although some people came close).

Follow your gut. Of course, chances are you won't have nearly as much of a gut after the walk as you did before. A 60-mile stroll tends to do that to you. Seriously, though, do not ignore your instincts.

When your gut tells you that you are thirsty - drink. If it tells you that you are hungry - eat. If it tells you that you need to sit your butt down and rest - do so. If your gut is screaming "Your foot hurts, you need to get onto a van!" discard your pride and flag down a sweep van. Believe me - there is no shame in that. By then, you will have already accomplished more in a day or two than most people ever do in their lifetime. Get help, get better, rest up, you get to walk another day. And that is all that matters.

3-Day chronicles: medicine in fun

2011-10-31T13:36:00.000-07:00

A wise man once said, "There isn't a whole lot of fun in medicine, but there is a lot of medicine in fun." During the Atlanta 3-Day For the Cure event, fun was definitely one of the primary drugs of choice on par with Biofreeze and Skin-on-Skin.

The walkers themselves made their best effort to infuse as much fun into a challenging 60-mile walk, as blisters, strained muscles and sore feet would allow. Many of the teams had truly fantastic and wacky costumes, and one couldn't help but smile just by looking at them.

Then there were the crew. Blessed be the crew people for we could not have survived this thing without them. They too wore costumes, they cracked jokes, they gave out hugs and kisses, they danced, they sang, they picked people up off the sidewalk, they rode up and down the route on their bicycles and their motorcycles in pink bras, tutus and angel wings, they served our meals, they picked up our trash. They gave up their weekend and volunteered their hands and their hearts to keep us going.

I didn't realize that there was a waiting list of people who wanted to offer up their vans as sweep vans - the vehicles that not only served as cheering wagons with their fabulous decorations, but also performed a very practical purpose of delivering the injured walkers to the nearest pit stop and into the hands of the medical team. But apparently it is a very popular way to volunteer. If you think a sweep van driver's job is easy, think again. They have to know the neighborhoods, through which the route goes, know where they can turn around, how to pick people up safely, how to get to the pit stops as quickly as possible. We were in Atlanta - the city known for its insane traffic. As far as I'm concerned, those van drivers are heroes.

There were designated cheering stations set up all around the city, plus there were tons of improvised ones, where people just showed up with posters, snacks and water. Many brought their kids and dogs. I swear I must have hugged at least one dog per each mile I walked and high-fived at least one kid. Many local businesses put tables next to the route with coffee, tea, water, cookies, food bars, fruit, bread and tons of other stuff.

When we passed by restaurants people sitting outside having their lunch stood up and applauded. When we passed by police and fire stations, the men on duty at the time lined up and saluted. Random drivers beeped, waived and cheered from their cars as they drove by.

One of my favorite series of cheering stations was set up by a group of teenagers - boys and girls. Up front were two kids with huge posters "Save second base!" and "Save boobs, kahunas, gozongas, melons, cones, tatas..." Sure this gave them an opportunity to talk about boobs endlessly in preparation for, during and after the event. And they probably enjoyed getting hugs and kisses from many women, fetchingly boosted up by their sport tops and bras. But who cares? We loved them anyway.

Of course, the sheer fun wasn't always enough. Sometimes, medicine was required along with it. The medical crew members were volunteers too: real doctors, nurses, physical therapists, and podiatrists who finished their work week and went right back to work along the 3-Day trail. I don't think I ever received better or more timely medical care with my health insurance.

I came to particularly appreciate the medical team during Day 3, when my only walking companion for the day was agonizing pain in my left foot. I went not from pit stop to pit stop but rather from one medical tent to the next. They iced me, cleaned me up, braced me, re-braced me, gave me pain killers and sent me on my way. During the last stop, to which I was brought by a medical van after nearly collapsing at one of the intersections, they recommended that I take the van to the Turner field where the closing ceremony was to be. I told them I would think about it. They knew I wanted to walk the last bit. So, they just did their job and let me make the decision.

If you ever do an event like this, please remember the value of fun and moral support. Joke with strangers, smile, make funny faces.

When I was adopted by the group of women during Day 2 who helped me hobble through, I repaid them the only way I knew how: I kept them in stitches as much as possible, feeding the my own brand of random geeky humor and covering mile after mile. I may have been a bit slow, but I hope I wasn't a burden.

If you are one of the fitter walkers and have energy, join the dancing crew during the lunch break. There was one group of younger people, including one guy, who joined the Zumba dancers, and boy did we love them for it! The young man who participated became so popular that during the next day's dancing session, people bodily dragged him out and asked him to shake it up again. This kind of stuff is priceless.

3-Day chronicles: the camp

2011-10-29T09:42:00.000-07:00

The 3-Day event camp is a place as amazing as it is frustrating. The amazing part is getting there. And the pink tents. I really miss my little pink tent, I wish I could have kept it, but they are donated to charity after the event. The frustrating part is that after walking all those miles, you can't just collapse and do nothing. You have to keep walking.

On Day 1 you have to walk to find your luggage. Which is not that bad, the organizational system is pretty good, as long as your pack is clearly marked and has something on it that makes it easy for you to pick out. Mine had an obnoxiously pink luggage tag on it, with the picture of (naturally) pink shoes. Then you have to walk to get a tent, find your tent spot and pitch the tent. It's not the most complicated tent, and I have seen some mutants pull theirs up single-handedly. For the rest of us, mere mortals, it is better to assemble it with another person. Then, of course, you have to get all your stuff in and situated.

Thankfully, due to weather concerns and logistics, event organizers in some cities are sticking with a single camp site. So, you don't have to pack up and break camp on the morning of Day 2. Still, even with unpacking out of the way, there is still some walking to be done. To the shower trailers. Back to camp to drop off dirty clothes. To the buffet. To the dinner hall, where you can finally sit down and stretch your legs. Then, of course, you have to get back up and go back to your tent, by which point you are seriously wishing for a gurney.

During the Atlanta event, someone with a pedometer had tracked how much a walker actually walks from the moment she gets up to the moment she turns in for the evening. It turned out to be 25 miles. And that was on a day when our walking route was only 22.

Walking aside, camp is fun. It's kind of a huge pajama party, because once people get showered, they change into their pajamas and slippers right away, and just walk around that way. Nobody cares. It's all good.

Bill Engvall in his show Here Is Your Sign complained that his wife was in total denial about her snoring. She stated that women in general and she in particular just... didn't... snore. Oh, how vindicated he would have felt had he walked a 3-Day camp in the middle of the night.

Whenever I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, there would invariably be a couple more lonely heads bobbing between the roads of tents, heading in the same direction as I was. But the rest of the space was filled with... snoring. All kinds of snoring: high-pitched, low-pitched, basso profundo-pitched, patterned, random, all of it blending into one fabulous sea of sound. 95% of the event's participants are women, so you do the math. Some people complained that they had trouble sleeping? Me? Not a bit! All that lovely snoring worked better than any dream machine.

3-Day chronicles: the team

2011-10-27T09:12:00.000-07:00

I am not going to give you all the details of forming and training a team. All that is provided on the 3-Day For the Cure web site. I do, however, want to bring up certain aspects of walking with a team, some of them fairly obvious, some - perhaps less so.

A team is essential. Corny or not, it is vastly easier to walk with a team, or at least with a friend than by yourself. Many teams opt to have a theme. It's not mandatory, but it's fun. They have obviously put a lot of thought into their costumes and their tent decorations and had a lot of fun bringing it all about. That said, if you are considering costumes, keep in mind the fact of having to wear them for 60 miles. A tulle tutu worn with leggings is no problem. A tulle tutu worn with shorts, where it constantly rubs against your legs turns into a veritable nightmare by the end of day 3 if not sooner.

Agree on team walking strategy: are you going to let the team scatter depending on each individual's speed or are you going to stay together? I have seen some walkers who were left behind by their teams and were clearly disappointed by that. I have also seen a team of girls, with one of them larger and somewhat less fit than the others. She ruefully referred to herself as "the team's caboose", at which point her team mate turned to her and said, "Now stop that this minute. I am not leaving you." That was the attitude I liked to see most.

While staying together might feel like a bit of a drag on some of the fitter and faster team members, it has not only huge emotional advantages, but also simplifies supply distribution. When one team member carries nothing but medical supplies, the other one nothing but food bars, the next one carries Gatorade packets, and the next one - bandannas, rain ponchos and spare socks, the total stock is much greater than when each person tries to carry a little bit of everything. Besides, that way, everyone knows where everything is. There is no rummaging through one's pack trying to find that elusive chapstick or a band-aid. Need moleskin? Talk to the gal with the pink Camelback. Need a snack? The one with the blue Osprey pack has it. No muss, no fuss, no problem.

During Day 1 of the Atlanta event, I sort of bounced up and down the line of walkers, sometimes passing others, sometimes being passed, joining groups here and there. It was eminently less stressful physically and emotionally, when I had someone to talk to and to keep in step with.

Early in Day 2 I became adopted by a team of three young ladies. They were a bit fast for me, and I did have to push my envelope a bit, but that was nothing compared to their moral support and encouragement. Even if I never see them again, I will remember, bless and love them forever. (Gosh, I got tears in my eyes even as I write this.) This made a particular difference because Day 2 is the longest and - in the case of Atlanta event - the one with most hills. Someone keeping track told us afterward that we navigated over 26 hills that day - crazy!

Hills are not my strong suit, so the gals grabbed my hands and helped me up each and every slope. When I had to get onto a sweep van due to a cramping ankle, they waited for me at the next pit stop and we picked right back up. When we saw yet another lady struggling up yet another hill, I grabbed one hand, one of my gals grabbed another, two more attached themselves on each side and we all made it to the top. One of the women said that every time she came to a hill, she just thought of it as another boob saved - great attitude, that.

The end of the route on Day 2 was a real killer with an enormous humpbacked bridge between us and the entrance to our camp site. To add insult to injury there was a big sign "Hill ahead." Well, Sherlock Holmes! "If every hill is a boob," - I said, "I think this is a fake one. It definitely had implants." And then my ladies grabbed me by the arms and bodily dragged me up that sucker. When we got to the top, we all burst into tears.

Day 3 was the hardest. The ankle I injured the previous day was behaving deplorably, my blisters had blisters, and I didn't have a team. A group of ladies help me prep my feet before the start (more on that in subsequent posts), but that was about it. Being alone with agonizing pain made Day 3 the hardest for me, even though the distance was the shortest. I almost didn't make it. Lesson definitely learned.

3-Day chronicles: logistics

2011-10-25T08:29:00.000-07:00

In order to participate in a 3-Day For the Cure, one must raise minimum $2,300. Some may balk at this number. However, having seen what a tremendous undertaking the 60-mile walk is, I am not at all surprised that the bar is set as high as it is.

14 3-Day events take place in various cities in the United States through the course of the year. I suspect preparation for each one begins as soon as the registration is announced. Just as we have wrapped up the 2011 Atlanta walk, the organizers, I am quite certain, are already starting to lay out the plans for 2012.

The route has to be identified, and permits obtained from the city to walk 2,500 - 4,000 people through each neighborhood the route passes through. Signage is extensive and also requires permits. There are directional signs (like path flags along a hiking trail), motivational signs, cautionary signs (warning walkers of places with no sidewalk, uneven surface, etc.) and heads-up signs for pit stops.

Separate set of permits and agreements must be obtained for the pit stop sites, as all of them offer port-a-potties, food, beverages and medical assistance. Consider the fact that many cities and states have some very wacky laws about distributing food and medicine outside of restaurants, grocery stores and pharmacies, and yet more weird laws about doing any sort of activities on a Sunday, and you can see how this can get complicated very quickly.

Having had truly gut-wrenching experiences with bad weather and emergency camp relocation in the past, organizers in some cities are now opting to have indoor camps. That requires a building. A very large building. With lots of room for luggage, tents, a spot for shower trailers, a place for dinner hall, as well as an area to put promotional, medical and merchandise booths. Besides, there needs to be someplace where the walkers can stretch and line up in preparation for a day's march.

Speaking of which, Bank of America may be the spawn of hell in the news, but it made a huge difference as one of the three primary sponsors of the Atlanta 3-Day For the Cure event. Not only did this big evil corporation cover much of the cost of food and drinks for the pit stops, it also set up an internet cafe - complete with top-of-the-line laptops the walkers could use to post photos and connect with their loved ones during the walk. In addition, B of A provided - miracle of miracles! - a massage lounge with about a dozen massage chairs with leg cushions to soothe all manner of pains and aches for the exhausted walkers. That last one was really popular - there was always a line, for which chairs were thoughtfully provided so that people didn't have to stand while they waited.

Once a walker is at camp, everything is free, except for the merchandise at the Shop 3-Day store. The crew servicing the camp and the route largely consists of volunteers. But there still needs to be enough money to pay for the meals (hot breakfasts and dinners at camp, sandwich lunches on the trail), the tents and the seating fir several thousand people. Then there are other odds and ends: from the banners and decorations at camp and around the city to the pink command center trailer which is kind of like a small Pentagon on wheels.

Add up all this and consider that the event still has to make profit to contribute to the primary cause - breast cancer research - and suddenly $2,300 per person doesn't seem all that much at all. The amount breaks down to roughly $6.30 per day for a year. Some people spend more on Starbucks. If you are considering participating in a 3-Day event, consider how many friends you have who would be willing to give up coffee for a couple of days and help you raise the money instead.

3-Day countdown: the dress rehearsal

2011-10-18T17:08:00.000-07:00

"Just a modest little 4-mile stroll," - I tell myself. It is now three days before the 60-mile walk and I am having to familiarize myself with strange and exotic terms like "pacing" and "moderation". The natural impulse is to train till I drop, but that is precisely what I don't want to do, because it would overstrain the muscles right before I need them most.

So, I suck it up and settle on a short walk - just one circle around my Fletcher Community park route. To keep from feeling like a total slacker, I wear my waist pack as it will be during the walk - fully stocked, with both bottles full and with the rain jacket strapped to the back. Not that I need it - it's been a crystal-clear perfect fall day with golden, crimson and flame-colored leaves outlined prettily against the "Carolina blue" sky.

The mosquitos are out in force. Clouds of them. Swarms of them. Other walkers walk around looking like windmills with their arms swinging in every direction trying to keep the pesky insects away. The runners (damn mutants) don't care, as they develop enough of a speed to push the blood suckers away. No problem! I pull out my handy-dandy miniature container of insect repellent, slap it on and keep on marching.

My leg muscles are a bit on the crampy side after yesterday's elephant-lifting session at the Y, so it takes about a mile and a half to truly get into the swing of things. No biggie, it's happened before. Sometimes I don't find my walking groove until mile number four. Piece of cake.

Just as I get deep into the woods, to the point of my route that is the farthest removed from my car, it suddenly starts to rain. Hard. What the?... Did I mention we had a perfectly cloudless sunny day all day? I don't get to contemplate the fickle nature of weather in the mountains, for within moments I find myself pounded by two elements out of four from every direction. Three, if you include the fact that the hard fast rain causes bits of gravel from the path to jump up and sting me through my leggings. Ow.

I get to practice my "unstrap and unroll the jacket, put it on, button up and get the pack back on in under ten seconds" routine. Note to self: don't attempt to hang on to the pack by the bottle. While the bottle pockets are rather snug, the bottle will slip out and the pack will fall. Fortunately, there is nothing breakable in there. Right. I am in the woods. Like Frodo. Only female. With a ponytail. Dressed in a windbreaker and leggings and silver sneakers with purple stripes. And with no lembas bread. (For the record, my version of lembas bread this evening includes smoke oysters tossed with sauteed onion over pasta and cheese, with a side salad of beets and hearts of palm. Just saying.) There isn't a person around. All I can do is turn around and hoof it back. So, I hoof it.

As I reach the last fourth of my route, the rainy windy hell suddenly stops and reduces to a mere light drizzle. Naturally. I finish the walk. When I get home, I find a small UPS package at the door. It's my second 3-Day for the Cure t-shirt, which was on backorder. Cool beans, now I get to wear them both. The show goes on.

3-Day for the Cure countdown - gearing up

2011-10-17T11:27:00.000-07:00

Walking... It seems so simple. We do it all the time. Just putting one feet in front of the other. One does not appreciate the merits and complexity of walking unless (a) one is only just learning how to do it; (b) one used to be able to do it, but no longer can; and (c) one has to do a whole lot of it.

The 3-Day for the Cure walk organizers recommend beginning one's training no later than about 6-7 months prior to the event. Which is fine. If you stick to it religiously during those 6-7 months and increase the distances and the speeds exactly according to schedule. People like that do exist. But for the rest of us... I would recommend starting the training at least a year in advance, which is when people usually start signing up for big events like that.

The gym is fabulous. I started at the gym - first with 20-30-minute warmups before my weight workout, then moving on to 1-1.5 hour stretches to work on my pace. And while modern treadmills have tons of settings and allow you to adjust speed and incline to your heart's content, eventually you have to take your training outside. A treadmill - no matter how sophisticated - cannot generate a variety of weather you need to experience, or the variety of surfaces you need to try out with your walking shoes on.

I was very fortunate to have discovered Fletcher Community park right after we moved to Hendersonville, NC - and right at that 6-7 month training mark recommended by the event organizers. I have been training actively by then, but not nearly enough of it outside. Here was this enormous stretch of land and forest with four different path surfaces (asphalt, concrete, mulch and gravel) and a variety of open and shaded stretches. And, much as during the walk event, there are lots of people around - on foot and on bikes, with children and dogs - so you kind of learn to pay attention.

I started with 2.5 mile-stretches at the park and gradually changed my path to include more and more, until I got it to roughly 9 miles. I have walked it in all kinds of temperatures and all kinds of weather, including 95 degree heat with 90% humidity and pouring rain with cold wind.

It is interesting, how your perception of distance changes with time and training. When I started 2.5 - 3 miles used to be the extent of my cardio. Now, 2,3, sometimes even 4 miles is, essentially, warm up. Finally, somewhere around mile #5 I manage to find my groove and get into the right walking shape with all the body parts working together as they ought.

Ancient Greeks did most of their fitness activities in the nude, including running and walking. Sadly, neither our norms nor our bodies, devolved from the sufficient fitness and resiliency levels, allow us to do so. Which means gear... Lots of it.

"Aw," you might say, "How much does it really take to equip one little woman for one long-ish walk?" About the same it takes to equip anyone regardless of gender, size and shape. The 3-Day for the Cure event lasts three days, during which the participants spend two nights at the event camp - pink tents and all. Therefor, all your stuff is split into two major groups: stuff for the camp and stuff for the walk.

Stuff for the camp has to fit into a reasonably-sized backpack and cannot exceed 35 pounds of weight, because it will be loaded and unloaded by nice volunteers and we don't want them to have to haul around equivalents of small elephants.

Camping gear includes:

- air pad (a miraculous device that is very easy to roll up into a thin tube for packing, but, when unrolled, automatically fills with air and provides a cushion for the sleeping bag)
- sleeping bag
- pillow
- extra walking shoes (must be broken in. Never, ever do the stupid thing of buying brand new walking shoes to show off at the event.)
- Walking clothes (t-shirts, sports bras, workout bottoms, water-resistant wind breaker, thermals)
- socks (lots of socks, minimum 2-3 pairs per day)
- camp/lounging/sleeping clothes
- shower shoes (communal showers - sorry, all exceptionally squeamish people)
- toiletries (including a small mirror)
- towels (although, for a couple of bucks a day you can buy the towel service, which gives you two large clean towels per day)
- flashlight (to get around the camp after lights-out)
- travel alarm clock
- prescription meds (if you have any)
- regular band-aids
- anti-blister band-aids
- moleskin (soft, fuzzy and cuddly pads used if you do get a blister despite all precautions)
- foot powder
- pain killer for muscle aches
- pain killer for all other aches
- stuff for any tummy issues
- insect repellent
- sunscreen
- lip balm

In addition to all of the above, half of the stuff - in miniaturized form - goes into a small daypack or waist pack you carry during the walk itself. So, the pain killers, the band-aids, the moleskin, the insect repellent, the foot powder and extra socks need to be separated into smaller containers to stock your waist pack every morning. The rain-proof poncho or jacket and the thermals need to be easily packable, so that you can take them off and stash them either inside the waist pack or strap them to the outside, should the temperatures go up steeply. Plus, you also carry:

- two bottles - one for water, one for Gatorade (dehydration and loss of electrolytes is the second worst problem during the event after blisters).
- wallet
- bandanas
- hat
- protein and carb bars (if you feel hungry - eat protein, if you feel tired - eat carbs)
- insect repellent
- sunscreen
- lip balm

The last but not the list, to capture the memories of the event, it is recommended to bring a camera, a journal, and a stash of business cards. Bringing any other gadgetry is not recommended as (a) it might get lost, stolen or broken and (b) there are no charging outlets at camp, so you'll only be able to canoodle with your beloved iPad for one day at most.

My husband and I spent about two hours getting together all my stuff and by the time we were done, I felt a bit like someone going on a space mission (only without a space suit) or on an Arctic exploration mission (minus the penguins). While all this may seem like a frightful amount of stuff, most of it is small, and not much different from what you would take along on a weekend hike - and you don't even need to bring a tent or to carry the big pack during the day. The idea behind all this preparation is that, if you have been training properly, you won't need most of it, but if something happens, at least it's there for you.

Manuela Dunn Mascetti on transition to patriarchal society [From "The Song of Eve"]

2011-10-17T08:21:00.000-07:00

When the time came in which the Goddess was no longer worshipped, the physical and spiritual aspects of the feminine were declared evil. Societies which had been matriarchal in focus, where agriculture and religion was the primary concerns of life, became patriarchal, led by men for whom commerce, expansion and war were the channels for creativity and for a new psychological imprint which preferred to risk life rather than produce it.

Change in cultural and societal values determined a profound change in religious attitude: man created a male God in his image and established a new doctrine which reflected his beliefs in male supremacy. The Goddess' temples dedicated to love and life were substituted by temples where mankind prepared itself for death and life eternal. Love and sexuality were separated from the body in order to attain spiritual life.

Mary, stripped of all her womanly connotations, became the holy vessel for the holy birth, an ideal all women had to incarnate. Mary may be adored but not worshipped, lest she should become a channel through which the worship of the Goddess may be re-established.

Short story teaser - The Elemental Mess by Maria K.

2011-10-11T08:02:00.000-07:00

The map was enormous. Placed somewhere on Earth, it would have taken up a medium-size stadium. Colorful dots hung at different heights above various locations on the map. Some areas had more dots, some – only a few. A small figure hovered over the map, sometimes moving to a specific portion of the map and adjusting the dots, sometimes going higher to survey the whole. A shimmering sphere followed the little creature like a devoted dog.

- Hey, Grinder, you want to... What in the world?! - Smirk popped out of nothing, expanded into a purple globe and was just about to coalesce into his gnome form when he saw the map.

- Why don't you finish assuming your form? - the female gnome said without even looking at him, - You always look funny when you freeze up like that – like a beach ball with big ears and nose.

She smiled and finally turned away from the colorful expanse. Smirk snapped into shape, the look of incredulity overtaking his face the moment it was fully formed.

- A beach ball? You know about beach balls? How do you know that?

- Megan told me.

- Megan? My Megan? Megan Buchanan?

Grinder floated closer, took Smirk's face between her hands and kissed him on the nose.

- Don't be jealous, - she said, - I went to see her for... some research I was doing. And we got to talking about other things and she told me about playing ball on the beach.

- You know we are not supposed to visit recruits once they have signed on, right? You know how Mr. B is about these things.

- It should be ok. I covered up pretty well. Watch.

Grinder put her hands around the glowing sphere that was still following her, then withdrew. The sphere pulsed brighter, then formed into a figure very much like Grinder herself. Up close, it was clearly a fake, but from a distance one would be hard pressed to tell the difference.

- What is that thing? - Smirk reached out to touch the pseudo-Grinder only to be zapped with a small shock.

- It's a pod I made. To help me with... things.

- Things.

- You know... Things I want to know.

Smirk was beginning to feel exasperated. He was very fond of Grinder, to be sure. But there were times when she irritated the Beelzebub out of him, and this was rapidly developing into one of those times. He knew she couldn't help it. It wasn't Grinder's fault that the Chief Water Elemental Poseidon mixed in some stray elemental matter when he made her. But the fact was: that little additive had rather unexpected effect upon Grinder's abilities and intellect, which made her rather frustrating to deal with at times.

Smirk made a valiant effort to summon his patience and rally his rather limited mental abilities.

- Grinder. We have jobs. We are crazy busy. All the time! I understand that you want to know things, but haven't you got enough stuff to do?

Her beautiful turquoise eyes (“the Aegean Sea at the end of summer” as Poseidon described them) became sad.

- I am bored, Smirk. It's the same thing all the time. Go to the assignment book. Get the page. Recruit. Then go back and do it all over again. I just have a few little projects. You know, just to have something fun to come home to.

The last statement caused Smirk's face to become even more mournful than it normally was, which Grinder noticed.

- I am sorry, - she said gently, - But you know and I know that even when I try to explain things to you, you don't always get them and either get bored or angry.

- It's just that you talk so fast, Grinder, and you talk about things nobody has ever heard of – nobody has ever thought of – before. I am scared for you, Grinder, because you always get into things we aren't meant to mess around with. Like... Like... Like this thing here. What is that anyway?

Grinder perked up considerably as she always did when working on something new.

- Oh, this is just a bit of fun – nothing dangerous. Come over, let me show you!

She grabbed Smirk by the hand and dragged him to where he could see the entire map, shimmering sphere still in tow.

- This is the map of Earth with as much detail as possible. I made it big so that I don't have to zoom in and out too much when I need to see something specific.

Smirk held up a hand.

- Wow, wow, wow! See, you are doing it again. You are going too fast – what is “zoom”?

- Oh, sorry... It's a term Megan taught me. It's to... see things up close or further away when you need to. So, when you zoom in, things appear bigger, and when you zoom out, they go back to being small again.

- And these... thingies floating all over? What are they for?

Grinder looked so pleased with herself she practically sparkled.

- These are time and place markers. Each dot marks a particular year and a particular place.

- Ok. So... Year and place for what? Grinder? Hey!

She became temporarily distracted when her pod floated up and nudged her, then flew over and pulsed near one of the dots. Grinder followed it, grabbed the dot and very slowly moved it up by a fraction of an inch.

- I am sorry, what were you saying, Smirk? Oh, right, what for... Superhero sightings, of course!

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The Elemental Mess is now available on

- Smashwords
- Amazon Kindle
- NOOK
- Lulu

Manuela Dunn Mascetti on the archetype of Eve

2011-10-11T07:41:00.000-07:00

In many Easter religious currents, man attains truth through the medium of a woman. In the Tantra vision, for instance, the teacher, the guru, is a woman. She leads the man away from reason and brings him through sexual ecstasy into true knowledge. This concept may seem alien to us, for Western women have been so conditioned into feeling guilty about the temptation which has been misunderstood and manipulated for centuries, that they cannot place the force of this archetype within them.

A piece of paper that made my day

2011-10-05T06:49:00.000-07:00

Gerry and I had no meetings or conference calls today, so we decided to go work at the Black Bear coffee shop in downtown Hendersonville. Incidentally, if you are ever in Hendersonville, that's like THE landmark around here on par with the Biltmore Estate and Grove Park Inn. If you haven't been to Black Bear you might as well not bother visiting at all.

Anyway, we took the table that has a place to plug in nearby and also happens to be next to the shop's book shelf. On the shelf next to me sat a small piece of paper with some strange and wondrous facts. I started reading and was laughing within five seconds. Upon further inspection, we discovered that the piece fell out of a very old and beat-up copy of The Complete Unabridged Super Trivia Encyclopedia. Considering the amount of fun a portion of a page had generated, I think we should get a copy and suggest you do the same. Here, for your perusal, is the piece that started it all.

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Lazarus - The man Jesus Christ raised from the dead. Portrayed by Michael Gwynn in 1962 movie Barabbas

Lazarus and Bummer - Emperor Norton's two dogs

Leap Frog - Theme song of Les Brown's orchestra

Leapin' Lizards - Little Orphan Annie's favorite expression

Leatherstocking - Natty Bumppo, hero of novels by James Fenimore Cooper.

The reverse side

Left handed U.S. Presidents - James A. Garfield, Harry S. Truman, Gerald Ford

Left or Right
Right - Eye over which Edgar Bergen's dummy Charlie McCarthy wears a monocle.

Left - Eye over which Rooster Cogburn (John Wayne) wears an eye patch in 1969 movie True Grit.

Left - Eye over which Richard Widmark wears a patch (1966 movie Alvarez Kelly)

Left - Side of face John Boy (Richard Thomas) has a mole (The Waltons)