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The life and times of ToddleFly
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| I rise with my red hair |
[Dec. 22nd, 2009|08:22 pm] |
I'm in Invercargill, which is the bottom of the South Island, and thus as far south as most people are likely to ever get. My father and I visited my grandfather today, and I picked up a book in his living room, yellow and spotted. It's The Penguin Book of Contemporary Verse, where "contemporary" means 1960.
As I always do when picking up a modern poetry anthology, I checked how many women were in the list (quite a few, as it happened) and then flicked to see what had been included by Sylvia Plath. Two very minor poems: "Frog Autumn" and "Metaphors".
No "Daddy", no "Lady Lazarus", no "Ariel", no "Tulips".
"Of course not," I thought, and my skin went cold and tight. "They hadn't been published yet. She was still alive when this book came out."
The delightfully pompous editor, Kenneth Allot, wrote of her, "Sylvia Plath's poetic gift is a civilized one without being at all weak or precious," and reading it, I nearly laughed out loud. I hope he got a shock when he read the Ariel poems; sharp and bright and raging, contained in controlled stanzas, polished until they gleamed like knives, anything but civilised.
But precious, oh yes, and not in the prissy lady poet way he means. The Ariel poems mean so much to many feminists, then and now. They are very precious to me.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.
Oh, not civilised at all. Civilisation was the smug, wheedling voice of "The Applicant", and it wanted to sell her to the highest bidder.
She was 30 years old. She was depressed and angry. She wrote the Ariel poems. And one day, she went downstairs, turned on the gas, and put her head in the oven. No one who knows can ever read those last poems without remembering it.
My modern poetry lecturer once opined, with unusual forthrightness, that her husband Ted Hughes hounded her to her death because she was a better poet than him, and he couldn't stand it. I think the lecturer was only partly right. Sylvia Plath was the one responsible for putting her head in that oven, but unless Ted Hughes hid a masterpiece in a drawer somewhere, to be discovered by later biographers, I think her poetry will now always be better than his.
The thing that disturbs me most about that horrible ending to her brilliant, messy life, is that she put wet towels against the door to the room her sleeping children were in, so that the gas that killed her could not harm them. I imagine she hurt them badly by refusing to live any longer, but she determined not to hurt them in the manner of her dying.
It's so stark, like all suicides, and it frightens me a little. I wonder, if she loved them enough to do that, even in her despair, couldn't she have lived for them also? But is it right to consider if she should have? How much of ourselves can we ethically trade for the happiness of others?
Sylvia Plath certainly can't tell me. After she put her head in the oven, she had no more words for anyone. |
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| Home |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|05:55 pm] |
How YOU doin'? |
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| A Story Sad To Tell |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|10:05 am] |
Yesterday readers of my twitter (@kehealey) saw the following:
Twitter, this day, okay, THIS DAY, you would not believe it.
I am going to have to destroy a priceless object or something JUST to pay this day back what it deserves in its offenses against me.
Something as precious and irreplacable as my SOUL, which this day has, if not destroyed, considerably mangled.
Small children in the airport are shying from my dour mien! RUN, children, run, lest this day wipe off on you!
Some time later, I tweeted:
Day improved. Now have wine. Tomorrow I will tell you ALL about it, and you shall laugh at my misfortunes, as is entirely appropriate.
Gather, dear readers, and Spinster Aunt Karen will tell you a story.
It is the story of a young woman journeying to her really rather distant homeland* from her current abode via that miracle of engineering, the aeroplane. She began the journey right on time and high of spirit, wafting through the check-in and security lines with ease, for her heart was pure (and her skin was pale).
The peril, though she did not recognise it, began when she was seated at the very back of the plane, beside a windowless wall. "Sorry," the charming and efficient stewardess said. "We'll try and put you somewhere else if there's space."
There was not! Instead, a young man of the hippy persuasion came and sat beside the young woman. The young woman had no objections to hippies, nor, indeed, to a principled rejection of chemical deodorants, but she rather wished the young hippy had employed some other agent to disguise his rank scent, or that he had washed. And kept his shoes on.
The flight began, and the young woman found it most disconcerting not being able to see even a glimpse of the world outside the plane.
She found it especially so when the turbulence began.
Dear readers! The young woman was a seasoned traveller, accustomed to international travel several times a year for the last half-decade, and she had never in her life encountered such an airy buffeting. The plane shuddered, swooped, and dived, battling the winds and causing sounds of dismay to issue ceaselessly from its passengers. When even the charming and efficient stewardess looked over her shoulder at her colleagues, her lips pressed tightly in ill-concealed alarm, the young woman felt her heart grow faint.
"If I am to die in this barren tube, with never another glance at the world I have loved so well, then I will die as I have lived," she reasoned. Accordingly, she opened the book clutched in her hands, which was Death Before Wicket, by the lovely Kerry Greenwood, and concentrated fiercely upon each refreshing sentence.
Readers, it very nearly helped! The delights of a 1920s mystery made beautiful by cricket, Sydney University, and the divine Hon. Phryne Fisher did not destroy the young woman's fear, but they were able to greatly abate it.
Until the stench-ridden hippy, who was holding a book entitled The Book Of Life And Death, leaned over. "We're both reading a book with death in the title," he said, nodding at the motions of the bucking aircraft. "That's not a coincidence."
The young woman wished murder by venomous snakes upon the hippy, and fervently hoped that such a curse would not be rendered irrelevant.
And, lo! After an hour of terror, the gallant pilots found smoother air, the plane proceeded with only a few minor bangs, and the young woman joyously stepped through the arrival doors of Christchurch International Airport, waiting for the delighted cry of familial recognition.
It came not.
After much consternation, and imagining of road accidents and like catastrophes, and after enlisting the assistance of a noble and great-minded friend, the young woman was greeted by her mother at last.
"Hello!" the mother cried. "I'm sorry I'm late; I couldn't get away. I was hoping your plane might be delayed."
"FOR AN HOUR?" the young woman asked. "Madam, my nerves are as a scatter of dry beans dancing upon a drum! I shall never forgive you!"
"Would you like a diet coke?" her mother enquired.
"Welllll," the young woman conceded. "Yes."
AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
Except, we can hope, the hippy.
* Note for the geographically disinclined - Melbourne is four hours from Christchurch via plane. The Tasman is quite a big sea. |
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| Guardian Giveaway! |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|05:51 am] |
Readers, would you like a copy of Guardian of the Dead?
Of course you would! You have been saving your pennies like a squirrel saves whatever squirrels eat, or the way alligators stick food under a bank until it becomes nice and rotten!
But if you live in the US or Canada, you have a chance of getting Guardian for free simply by entering this contest.
Ho, hum, Karen, you say, contest schmontest WAIT. The THREE winners get FIVE upcoming Little, Brown books? Guardian of the Dead, Sisters Red, 13 Treasures, Ship Breaker, and the sequel to Prophecy of the Sisters: Guardian of the Gate? Madam, I will assay!
Yes, assay. Assay like anything! And give thanks unto the Book Smugglers, for they are delightful, and their contests mighty. |
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| Bittorrent Fandom |
[Dec. 14th, 2009|07:56 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Iskanderia - Natacha Atlas | ] |
Y'all, I have finished that dissertation chapter. Joy, joy and pizza!
Time for another round of Bittorrent Fandom, the game where you name a fandom I know nothing or little about*, and I tell you ALL about it.
First time I played. Second time I played.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) miggy: America's Next Top Model.
karenhealey: HOW BADLY DO YOU WANT TO BE A TOP MODEL? HOW BAD? NOT BAD ENOUGH! WANT IT MORE BADLY! NOW WE CUT OFF ALL YOUR HAIR! TIME FOR A SHOOT WHERE WE MAKE YOU POSE AS MURDER VICTIMS/PUT ON BLACKFACE/WEAR A SPIDER/PATRONISE HOMELESS PEOPLE. SMILE! WITH! YOUR! EYES! YOU WILL BE OKAY WITH THIS IF YOU WANT IT. WANT IT WANT IT MOOOOOORE.
karenhealey: CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL!
karenhealey: (NOW YOU ARE UNEMPLOYED)
* Last time, I got Forever Knight, responded with "LANCELOT IS A VAMPIRE" and turned out to be freakishly close.
( Fandoms already covered ) |
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| Stand Tall. |
[Dec. 13th, 2009|11:21 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Love's A Hard Game To Play - Stevie Nicks | ] |
Internets, I want to tell y'all, some time ago I thought it would be nice to get my PhD. I am a smart lady and I like doing thinky things. I had a terrific subject no one had done much on before, and could make an original contribution to scholarship. AND, most importantly, I would be able to force people to call me DOCTOR Healey.
I imagined this often.
"Table for two, Ms. Healey?" the waiter would say at my favourite swanky restaurant.
"It's actually DOCTOR Healey," I would say, and my imaginary date (who imaginarily looks a lot like Alec Hardison, only a little bit shorter and less larcenous) would be SO IMPRESSED.
"You're a doctor?" he would say. "A medical doctor?"
"Oh, no," I would reply airily. "I just completed my PhD. ON SUPERHERO COMICS."
And then he would gasp at my amazingness and buy me all the chocolate in the restaurant.
Internets, my imagination did not contemplate that I would be wrestling with my works cited list on Sunday nights or staring blankly at the screen while trying to put together a chapter conclusion. My imagination is obviously a little limited. And so far, reality has completely failed to deliver on any Alec Hardison-lookalikes, and I have no chocolate.
When imagination and reality both fail, there's nothing to do but sink into the swamp of despair!
Or, alternatively, sigh, have a nice bath, and promise oneself that one will finish this darn chapter conclusion in the morning. |
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| Agent Appreciation Day |
[Dec. 12th, 2009|01:41 am] |
| [ | music |
| | You Or Your Memory - The Mountain Goats | ] |
Agent Appreciation Day! I feel this is a good compromise on dates, since it is now Friday in the USA, where my agent resides, and although it is technically Saturday here, I haven't gone to bed yet, so it feels like Friday to me.
Which brings me to an awesome thing about my agent, Barry Goldblatt, which is that he is willing to wrestle with time zones in order to speak to me by phone. And he is so delightful and reassuring and clear-eyed on the phone!
Here are some other awesome things about Barry:
1) Every year he runs what he calls an agent-client retreat, and what his clients call "Barrycamp". I went this year and it was totally awesome. (Except for the horrible American snacks forced upon my innocent New Zealand palate. What is IN Hostess cupcakes?)
2) He put me up in his home in NYC. Not for a day! Oh no. For a week. Oh! And with my best friend. He offered to do this before he had met either of us. By the time I got to NYC I was so sick that I had thrown up on my shoes in Atlanta airport* and was having little visual hallucinations in the corners of my eyes, and despite my disgusting condition and general incoherence, he and Libba still made me very welcome.
3) Oh yes, he is married to Libba Bray, one of my favourite people. And their son is a total delight.
4) I have not even spoken about Barry's professional accomplishments, nor his work on my behalf, but let me assure you, they are FANTASTIC. He is a great deal person, he has a fantastic rapport with many publishing people and he knows the business inside out. He was at the top of my prospective agent list. I nearly died when he rendered the rest of that list moot.
In conclusion, I appreciate Barry very much, on account of he is generous, smart, funny, and CRUSHINGLY AWESOME.
~Fin~
* I really have to tell y'all that complete story some time. |
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| Not A Guidebook. |
[Dec. 11th, 2009|08:07 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Not Ready to Make Nice - Dixie Chicks | ] |
I've seen a few places talking about Guardian of the Dead (eeeeee!) and there's a thing that has come up a few times where someone's said something along the lines of, "Oh, great, a book I can use to teach from/learn about Māori culture!"
And then I sit there chewing on my lip going, "Mmmmmaybe not so much." This is a misunderstanding I think needs addressing, so here we go.
I'm just going to quote from the Afterword here:
Finally, I caution the reader against drawing parallels between the mythological constructs depicted here and contemporary Māori society. This novel is greatly indebted to Māori mythology and draws on some points of traditional Māori social and religious custom: it touches only very lightly on the diverse cultures, politics, and history of modern Māori life, and that only as seen through the eyes of a seventeen-year-old Pākehā woman, who is very far from being a reliable narrator.
So, yes, there are modern Māori characters in Guardian of the Dead; major and minor, magical and not, from various social strata. There are buildings named after famous Māori people, and mention of historical and present racism, and a school kapa haka group, and people practicing the language at uni, and a number of Māori terms and phrases that are defined in the glossary, and references to some cultural practice, because that's what you get in New Zealand. It would be shamefully bad world-building to leave them out of any book set in modern New Zealand, but especially one which owes so much to Māori mythology - you can't use the stories and leave out the people!
But! But! The narrative isn't written by or told from the point of view of anyone ensconced in Māori culture, and is thus necessarily limited. It's written by me, a white person, and it's told from the point of view of a fairly ignorant and very young white New Zealander, and part of the story's tension comes from her growing awareness of how very ignorant she is, and how poorly her education has equipped her to deal with the non-Western uncanny. And then some [SPOILERS]. There may well be egregious mistakes in there; I had excellent cultural consultants in an effort to avoid making them, but you can never be certain, especially when it comes to interpretation - my consultants might be totally fine with something that's going to really hurt someone else.
I think that if you didn't know anything about Māori mythology before, you'll learn a lot about the legends, and a little about New Zealand as seen through Pākehā eyes. I think you could absolutely use Guardian of the Dead in schools as a focus for any number of learning objectives, and that would thrill me entirely. But in terms of being a guide to Māori culture, I think the book has almost no educational value, and may in fact be harmful if attempts are made to use it thus. Primary sources are always best. |
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| Man remember when Carmen died and Guy had to look after baby Tuesday all alone? |
[Dec. 11th, 2009|03:44 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | (I Am In Love With the) McDonald's Girl - The Blenders | ] |
Poll #1497430 Culture check!
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 53"You're not in Guatemala now, Dr Ropata." "Nippon no mirai wa" "Because we love our vegemite, we all adore our vegemite" "Stop having a boring tuna! Stop having a boring life!" "Good afterble, consternoo!" HEADON "Burnt toast... Doctor Penfield, I can smell burnt toast!"
And for special bonus relating to the first question, a good ol' dose of delicious nostalgia and bad hair:
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| WHAT DID YOU SAY? |
[Dec. 10th, 2009|08:45 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction - The Rolling Stones | ] |
As I am an adult woman with mature and successful friends in a variety of fields, I often like to engage with them in meaningful discussion of the issues of the day.
karenhealey: THEY'RE TAKING THE HOBBITS TO ISENGARD
miggy: THE HOBBITS
miggy: THE HOBBITS
miggy: THE HOBBITS
miggy: THE HOBBITS
miggy: TO ISENGARD TO ISENGARD |
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