In the Labyrinth

Reorganizing Priorities: What to Publish After Hannah's Garden

I have been going back and forth, trying to decide which of my out-of-print novels to reissue after Hannah's Garden. The stand-alone novels seem easier, cleaner, less complicated, and at least well-edited. But how wondrous and strange it is that the Oran Trilogy, a barely edited three-volume sprawling series, continues to be the most asked for in my list. So be it.

With the help of a terrific editor and copy editor, I will spend the summer months re-reading and editing the original manuscripts. My greatest hope is that my readers will not notice the changes but rather sense the more cohesive narrative of the edited versions. It will be a journey backward for me, as it has been many years since I read the entire series. I look forward to experiencing it for the first time, not just as an author but as a reader.

 

I am pleased now to be able to show the gorgeous cover art for the trilogy, especially since the old covers were beyond awful. 

 

                                                                                                                   

 

Bringing Back Italian Insults!

 

 

It was with great sorrow that I unintentionally deleted my original post on Italian Insults. I have decided to resurrect this post with research into those fabulous insults again. Fortunately, I have a lot of resources for the endeavor from my novel, The Innamorati.

 

The Insults: 

Pox face shit eater!

Cazzone (Prick)!

You Piece of Spanish shit!

Italian sop!

Pasta-head!

Crab louse! You're sitting on my tits!

Pus-plague sore!

I vomit your insults and throw them at your pox-covered face!

Dio, che pezze di merda!

Old nun's fart!

Saints Hell!

Crab louse, priceless lover of boys,"

F-F-Fuck yourself

Schiffo! Chuido il becco! (shut your beak)

 

 

                   

And here is how to describe the simultaneous joy of sex and over-eating. 

My sweet sausage!

My mound of polenta!

My veal bone!

"My plate of split figs!

"Culattelo!"

"My torta!"

"My graveyard asparagus!"

 

 

The Dreamer as Architect by Marly Youmans:

I was surprised and very grateful to my longtime friend Marly Youmas for dedicating this wonderful poem to me. 

 

 

Last night in dreams, she lived a thousand years
And was the architect who made a house
That wandered from the mountains to the sea.

And in its rooms the strange and marvelous
Began to stir with songs and images
And words of radiance by those who knew

That every stone and changing face and tree
Was singing forth a name, a fullness—word
Of self that joins with music of the spheres.

And how that potent work of loveliness
Could fall away, she hardly grasped, though knew
The grief aimed arrows at her flesh, her soul.

She kept one room intact and hidden safe,
One jeweled image on the plaster wall,
One melody that curled inside her ear,

One archway onto mountainside and sea,
One spell, one tale that murmured: Everything
That dies—for all must die—will be renewed.

—Marly Youmans

So many years of writing

 

These days, I find myself re-reading many of my previous posts. More often than not, I am surprised by what I see. There is everything from midnight rambles about literature to sketchy plans about the future of my novel and even what else I should scan for my articles and essays. So, if someone stumbles upon my blog and starts reading, let me know what you think. Let's even have a conversation about whatever I wrote here. 

 

 

 

Art by Javier Pinon

 

 

How I feel these days

 

Lately I have been struggling with sternal wires, placed in my chest after surgery to keep it closed as the two halves of my chest fused into a single unit. I had a great thoracic surgeon do the work. But over time, the sternal wires have become really painful, like a bunch of cat claws when I bend or move in certain directions. My original doctor can remove them -- but not for another month at least. A month of pain and sleepless nights. I have asked that perhaps there might be other doctor's not so busy who could remove the wires sooner. But as of yet, I have no takers. 

 

 

 

Wily Rascal: My Grandfather, Pierre Menager

 

 

So my maternal grandfather Emmanuel Pierre Menager was something of a coyote trickster -- an itinerant artist, a womanizer (an occasional bigamist), but a rather magical person when he showed up at our house. Though I suspect my parents -- especially my father was less than pleased (despite the fact that Pierre was an amazing cook). Pierre always needed money -- and even though they were broke graduate students, my parents always sent some. Here is a photo of my brother and me with Pierre during an early visit to California. My parents must have mailed or given him the photo. And he mailed it back with a short message -- an address and an amount. (And yeah...that would be me up there rocking the pigtails at about two years old.)

Happy International Dog's Day.

 

So it's true -- every dog has his day. And here's a little celebration of those furry-faced, cold snouts and sweet-eyed dogs that come into our lives and make them better.  I have to post this grizzled guy because I have known him now for 11 years and love him.  Enjoy your day, Buju -- extra cookies! Buju died a long time ago since I wrote this post, but I still miss him every time I  see this photo of him. He was the best dog ever!