My first career ambition was (at age six) to become a spy; shortly thereafter I added poetry to my list of goals. I went on to write in this genre through high school and beyond; by this time spying had lost a bit of its appeal, though I utilized stealthy methods to observe people and activity all around. I went on to earn an English degree and nowadays write on a variety of topics. I am currently at work on a collection of novellas, a series of essays re: Richard III and I dream of writing a really quality ghost story. My poetry has appeared in _Alaska Women Speak_ and I am a contributor to _Naming the Goddess_.
Winter is coming, which tends to be a lovely time of year for me. Sure, when we’re still only about halfway through I do my share of griping, but at least I head into it with a positive attitude! Generally, I wipe down my entire house, do a lot of cooking and freezing, and work out what kinds of things to do in the winter months, during which we spend more time indoors. To me, these are all pleasant pursuits.
This year we feel this time of year a bit more because it’s been raining nearly non-stop for weeks now, though I confess I don’t hate the rain at all. It’s perfect for cozying up with a book or a movie, shared with someone you adore. This is linked to another great reason now is pretty lovely, and that is because my Turtle has returned from some work that had him away from home. I really missed that little critter, and the house just feels so much more fulfilled with him back.
While he was gone, we texted our share and one of the things he convinced me to do is try Wordle. While I enjoy word games, I don’t really have a lot of spare time lying around, so I never had aims to do each day’s puzzle. I did do three of them so far, though, and was pleased to get away with not using up all my lines. I found myself getting hung up on a couple of particular words, including Witan and biped. I suppose I can see where the former would come from, since I read a decent amount of Anglo-Saxon themed material, but biped? There was another word I used, but forgot to make a picture of the screen, possibly out of shame for adding a word with not a single of the two letters I knew the mystery word contained!
Wednesday was absolutely gorgeous. I went for a ride, knowing I might not get the chance again, and wowie did my legs pain afterward. It was that nice kind of sore, the sort that gives you a feeling of accomplishment and feels so wonderful when you stretch out, slowly but fully, knowing you’ll get a great night’s sleep. My plan was to hang out by the water for a bit once I reached Taku Lake, and I did indeed do this for some time. However, I’d forgotten that part of my plan also was to catch a new video from a BookTuber I’ve been watching – it would be my reward for getting out there. By the time I remembered, a bit of a chill was setting in, and sitting still made me kind of cold. So, I walked the bike through the forest a bit – a spot of nostalgia for the favored area for hammocking – and then headed home.
And now it is the weekend at last! Since I often work on the weekends, I have taken to making Friday evenings all mine, mine to do with what I may: read, watch a Blu Ray, go book shopping, be lazy, think, what have you. This evening I pounded the pavement – well, on a treadmill. I can’t decide if I prefer the stationary bike or treadmill; both have their pros and cons. Typically I dislike stationary bikes because I find them boring, and it’s next to impossible for me to read on either. However, I have found that music makes it all go quicker – even faster than watching an episode or a video. If I look away and vow not to peek at the time register for the length of a song, quite a lot of time passes, and you don’t even know it till it’s gone. Lately I’ve been listening to Peter Gabriel, then switch to John Barleycorn Must Die for the weights. I’m working on my arms these days, which have never been as strong as my legs, and “Stranger to Himself” kind of pumps up my will to push through when I’m getting toward the end of a set and straining. It’s not that the lyrics are inspirational; they’re rather dark in fact. But there is a definite edge to the music that awakens a sort of beastly determination within, which I really need because I know it’s going to take a long time for me to make advances with this particular exercise. Only Turtle knows the teensy amount of weight I can lift. Well, and anyone else there who happens to look, but the reality is that no one there cares – that is, in the sense that they’ve all got their own deal to work on. Some are really advanced, and some aren’t, and everyone seems to just accept that this is what it is.
My reward today was a trip to the bookstore, though I told myself this was a scouting mission only. I do set limits for myself when I go book shopping, even given that I often buy used (including 25¢ hardbacks!), and I’m pretty good at staying within them. Still, when I think of all the books I’ve purchased, the guilt sets in. There’s a parent kind of voice that acts as if I’ve paid $17 for each book, and I know I didn’t, but I can’t shake it. So, I went through a pile of books to see which ones interest me the most, you know, like in case I get a job at the bookstore or something. Can you imagine? I’d probably spend all my wages on books.
But isn’t reading my guilty pleasures what I want to do all winter anyway?
People are talking a lot about winter this year, and perhaps it all seems amped up because while everything is already super expensive (and prices don’t seem to have peaked), there also is a fair amount of chatter about shortages that may occur. Sometimes I have the “I don’t want to hear about it” inclination, but the reality is, as adults, we have to deal with what comes our way as we try to right the gigantic mess our nation currently is in.
Having said that, I do want to add that, while the doom and gloom may inform how we prepare for winter, we are not there yet, and we can still try to enjoy the fall, which has not even officially arrived. (That would be September 22 for the Northern Hemisphere.) At least some (maybe many?) ways to do this involve simple moments, and maintaining awareness so we can take advantage of them can make a big difference.
For example, when I woke up yesterday, I thought immediately of a book title, The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday. I have read the book, but it has been so long that I no longer recall the passage that brings the title to bear on the ongoing storyline.* My own personal enjoyment of the mud might be a bit limited but, still, I could see where comfort might come in. Suppose it is Saturday and you’re off to the Three Barons Fair, or antiquing, or maybe flea marketing. It’s raining and you’ve taken refuge under your scoop umbrella (that’s what I call mine, with its large bubbly cover that descends downward, as opposed to just a flat piece of plastic stretched out over a stick; I don’t know the actual nickname), or perhaps in one of those temporarily erected eateries as the rain comes pouring down around you. Even if you’ve had to step gingerly through a bit of mud to get there, you are now warm and protected, and the prospect of a hot snack fills you with happiness and a sense of well-being. Or you may have continued wandering around under your scoop, checking out a tent that attracted your attention, chatting amiably with its proprietor as the raindrops beat against the canvas outside. Casual conversation turns more friendly and the smell of coffee† soothes your soul. And you savor the moment no matter where you are because it is Saturday and it has been a long week, so you fell asleep kind of early last night. You’re well rested and know that you can just forget about work for a little while – for the whole of the day! You inhale deeply, breathing in the reality that the day is yours; there is no rush and you can sit back and let your body relax for the time being.
My personal feel-good activity on a rainy/muddy Saturday is wandering a bookstore. I have loved books with a passion since childhood, but didn’t really get to buy very many then, so perhaps I’m making up for it now? Or I might just have turned out this way no matter what! In any case, walking from the car to the store is wonderful: the rain outside your scoop is torrential, but in just a very short moment you will be inside and near books. Lots of books. You can rub your palms across the lovely matte finishing, smell them if the fore edges don’t require cracking (or even if they do!), or pile a few you’ve picked out and admire with your eyes as well as every sense in your being the look and feel of them in your hands. I even love the sound of someone tapping on a book cover as they talk about it.
This is what I thought about when I woke up: the comforts of a muddy Saturday. Book shopping. Book haul. Then a lovely snack or meal to fortify myself for the upcoming task of re-arranging books on their shelves. Truth be told, I don’t always have to do this, or at least the requirement to move things around a bit is often very minimal. This time, though, I knew it was coming, and I decided I would put the small shelf from my room – that I’d been using as a night table – back to the living room. No matter; I enjoy the process. It enables me to commune with my books, gaze upon them and think about their stories or, for ones I’ve not yet read, contemplate if any given one needs to go to the top of my TBR.
What about the food? you might ask. Did you eat anything? The answer to that is yes, absolutely, and I’ll tell you about it here. It’s really quite a quick and simple guacamole recipe and involves items most probably already have in their kitchens, with the exception of one – avocado – though that is easily remedied. I am happy to report that the warehouse price on avis has mercifully lowered back down a bit – it went from its normal sticker of $7.99 for a bag of six (I think that many?) all the way up to $14 + change. Now it hovers somewhere near $9.00 and I have started to breathe again.
All you need is this:
Fat edge sliced off a tomato
Large strip peeled off an onion
Dash of cilantro (I didn’t have any, so substituted dill weed)
½ teaspoon lime or lemon juice (I didn’t add any; see why below)
Dash of salt and another of pepper
This is an approximation of this recipe for one serving, because I only wanted to use half of an avi. Also, I often just eyeball amounts, especially when I’m cutting a recipe in half or more. Which reminds me, before I continue, a few background items:
I save empties from items such as cottage cheese and joghurt, because I cook a lot in bulk and utilize them for freezing single-serving sizes. They occasionally get mixed up in the drawer because space demands I store caps together and stack containers, but for the most part it all comes out just fine. When I find I have accumulated too many, I simply donate or give them away.
I want to be able to save the gigantic avi pits for other uses (more to come), but don’t want to fire up the oven or go to other larger efforts for one pit. However, leaving them out, even after washed, begins to attract bugs, which I really can’t stand. Most people dislike them, I suppose, but I also inherited from my mother a bit of a hyper dislike, especially when it comes to them hovering around food or food-prep surfaces. So I began to pop them (the pits, not the bugs!) into those containers, and same for the peels (more on my usage also to follow), in separate containers that I label with masking tape and Sharpie.
I keep a roll of tape and a Sharpie in a drawer in my kitchen, as I label lots of things.
I used to eat an entire avi in one dish but have begun to split it up. Partly this is because one is kind of a lot, but I also learned that the fats in an avocado, even though they are the “good” fats, are quite a lot. This article bears an unfortunate and frankly, stupid, title, but does a good job explaining why you should not go “avo-board” on the fruit. There also are quite a few links within, but the ones I went to are quite informative, so you might also find them helpful.
Another good reason to cut down pertains to, as mentioned above, the cost. Avis are expensive in good times; but now…even with the lowering closer to a normal warehouse price, I wouldn’t be surprised if they shot back up. Eating half at a time can stretch your supply of avis and, subsequently, your money.
The first time I cut in with the intention to save half, I was rooting around for something to put the half with the pit still in and came across one of those empties, though I couldn’t find its lid. There was some clear one there (?), but it fit and that’s all I cared about. However, the next time I went into the fridge I realized I could kind of keep tabs on the state of the remaining avi half, in case it started to brown (even though I had sprinkled it with lemon juice), plus I wouldn’t forget about it.
It was morning when I made the cut and the following day, rather late in the evening, when I ate the other half. So the avi stayed good for me for over a full day. It may last longer; I don’t know. But you can use this as a gauge for how often you eat an avocado. You can experiment a bit (I think I will) to see how much longer it will last and determine your time remaining before being committed to the other half. Or you can just split it with someone else from the get go!
Back to the recipe!
The handle is the little turned thingie in the middle picture; when you pull it out on its “string,” it rotates the blade seen in third image. The blade is extremely sharp and I’ve cut myself on it twice. It can be removed from the unit to be washed. The set also includes a cap so you can leave what you’ve just mixed in the bowl and take along with, put it in the fridge, etc.
So I used the leftover avi half, plus the lemon juice already in the bowl with it, and same for tomato, which was left over from sandwich making the day before, and a piece of onion I tore off one I’d begun to use. (You can decide how much you want also, of course.) The tomato, onion and garlic clove I shredded up in this wonderful little gizmo my mom gifted me (see image above) that has really increased my cooking pleasure because I don’t always love chopping (though sometimes it is kind of meditative). The avi, dill weed, lemon juice (from the container the avi’d been stored in), salt and pepper I added to one wide bowl and smushed it up with a potato masher. Then I added the shredded ingredients to my bowl and mixed with a spoon and taaaa daaa! My concoction is a bit chunky, but one could also pulse it in a Vita Mix (though sort of large for this small undertaking) or perhaps a Nutri Bullet. This latter item is not meant to have hot food or beverages in it, but I think this would be ok? (I’ll have to check.) We just got one, so I’m not entirely sure about all its uses. In any case, I’ve seen guacamole very smooth before, but it often doesn’t look nearly as appetizing because it’s a plain green. I really loved the colorful look of mine and when I tasted (don’t forget to taste before serving!), it was marrrrrrvelous. I also didn’t refrigerate mine, but only because I wanted to eat it straight away and also I don’t prefer some items to be cold when eating, but of course you could do it how you like.
I put some lovely crusty bread on the side and ate along with a cup of tea, and oh my word, it was magical! You know what else it was? Very comforting. It went so well with the area, surrounded by books as it was, and the day. A muddy Saturday, not quite fall, but with a fall feeling. Well, where I live fall makes its presence known a bit before September 22, and the chill in the air making a pulli somewhat of a necessity was so comforting and cozy, and the rain hitting the roof so relaxing. It all came together and felt very much like a fall day.
As an added note, in one thrift shop (where I went for some books – more also to come!) I came across these sweet little jars that are currently soaking in a bath of water and vinegar, and when completely rinsed and dried will store spices. And that reminds me that this is the first time I used my dill weed, which came with a spinning spice rack I had and decided I no longer wanted. But I needed just a few more bit-and-bob jars, as I call my collection of various sizes and sometimes colors, so I could empty out the last of the jars that came with the rack, in order to give it away. These were jars of herbs and spices I didn’t use and at one point put out a request for uses of these items. I received at least one fantastic idea from a friend who herself, a talented cook, baker, and food storer, is currently in the midst of her winter food prep – a process that itself is another reason I love the feel of fall. Sure, the sense of relief as we begin to see our food stores accumulate is part of it, but that’s just the brain part. The heart comes into play as we go through cabinets, plan, prepare, store, and see the goodnesses in store for our families. I’ve always said that a delicious meal is an act of love, and love keeps us warm in winter too. In preparing for the season and enjoying the fruits and labor of fall, that is the biggest difference of all.
*That shall be remedied soon, I hope, as I have begun to re-read the entire series.
† I actually dislike coffee – the smell and its taste, but I know it gives lots of peeps the warm fuzzies, so we’ll roll with it. Plus, I find coffee memes funny, so I don’t mind giving coffee a bit of love.
Not too long ago I came across BookTuber Haley Pham, whose enthusiasm for her reading made me sit up a little straighter, sort of pulled me away from a slump I’ve been working on leaving behind. In the first couple of videos I watched, she tended to talk about romance novels, which I’m not terrifically interested in, but I really liked her energy and the relationship she has with her collection. Without any sort of lecturing, she talked about swapping phone time for reading, her desire to read new genres outside of her comfort zone, and different types of journaling. These clips and the video in which she excitedly gets to put her books on a new shelf, arranging, talking about her experiences with the stories and so on – they all awakened something in me and I decided I’d have a perusal around a book store, something I hadn’t done in quite a while.
Specifically, I wanted to look for a new blank book because I decided I wanted to record my books there, not just online. My idea was to record the basic info about each book – title, author, etc. – and a few words regarding my reading experience. I’ll write more about this and other angles in an upcoming blog, but for now I’d like to show you the haul I came away with – for of course I ended up with more than just one blank book! How could it be any other way!?
A Promise of Ankles by Alexander McCall Smith – The 2020 installment for McCall Smith’s 44 Scotland Street series, Ankles’ quirky title is yet one more in the author’s collection of catchy designations. Equally intriguing are the inhabitants of the series title’s Edinburgh address, including Bruce, a self-satisfied surveyor who finds a roommate in Pat, a second-gap-year twenty year old; their neighbor, the widow Domenica; five-year-old Bertie and his insufferable mother and long-suffering father. I can only imagine the title has something to do with Cyril, personable canine companion to Angus Lordie, and a slight obsession with the ankles sometimes associated with the disembodied voices he hears from underneath the table. As a long-time fan of the prolific Alexander McCall Smith, I’m at a happy place in my McCall Smith collection because I’ve fallen a bit behind, which means I have a number of books to read ahead of me. Now I just need to decide: do I start one of his many series over (which I plan to do anyway) or read the new book I’ve just purchased first?
Present Concerns: Journalistic Essays by C.S. Lewis – This one is inspired by Haley Pham’s reading recommendations, though I’d also been carrying an interest in reading Lewis for quite some time. However, when faced with his row of books in the store, I really had no idea which one to choose. Having tried, and failed, to read Lewis on at least one previous occasion – and we are talking non-Narnia here – I went with the slimmest volume and the one that seemed most digestible, because I really wish to succeed this time. Plus the teal color on the cover, which is my favorite. It is notable that much of what the author writes about, in this compilation of articles stretching from the early 1940s to 1962, is very relevant today, such as the fate of the English language; threats to education; living in an atomic universe; and literary censorship. That these issues still persist even after all this time is a little alarming, actually, though I have heard several people say that reading Lewis is very “comforting,” so between this and an online course on the academic and lay theologian I signed up for, I decided just to move forward and take it from there.
The Logic of Alice: Clear Thinking in Wonderlandby Bernard M. Patten – The first thoughts that came to my mind upon seeing this book cover were, “Perfect, given as we are currently living in the looking glass presently!” and “I wonder if this author is related to Marguerite Patten?” I’ve seen enough of the book’s innards during a flip through to know I must read it, and had to make myself content to wait and see if I find an answer to my second question within the pages. Sometimes books such as these serve up small bits of autobiographical material, so for now the answer is, “We’ll see.” So what is this book about? Well, without having read it yet, my brief and hopefully not short-shifted explanation is thus: Logic provides a walk-through of Alice in Wonderland, using key episodes in Lewis Carroll’s masterpiece as analyses on thinking and expanding our intellectual and other horizons. Three section headers that sealed the deal: “A (Dismissive) Word About Freud and Freudians,” “Neglect of Evidence is Wrong/Conclusions Contrary to Fact Are Always Wrong,” and “Emotions Often Dictate Our Thinking on Critical Issues.” And then, because I really want to say curiouser and curiouser: “Aristotle Was Wrong.” Stay tuned.
Persian Grove Journal: This blank book’s cover reproduces a 16th-century binding of mystical Persian poetry, featuring lacquer painting with gold and pearl dust. – As some readers probably know by now, I’m intrigued by and attracted to things Persian: history, food, art, literature, even their modern culture. And so, while certainly not an expert, I have immersed myself in it at least enough to be able to recognize Persian art on occasion, as I did when I first laid eyes on this beautiful book. And since I was engaged in a search for the perfect blank book to house my reading journal, I knew my search had ended. The journal is to be for 2023, so I do have a bit of time (thankfully) to plan it out and, as mentioned above, some chit chat about that will be forthcoming. I do know some of what I want and don’t want, though I suspect there also a little of both that I don’t know. So, I’m perusing videos of other people’s reading and book journals to get more ideas on how to set mine up, angles to consider and so on – at least a portion of the and so on being that I also just like to watch flip throughs because taking in the beauty of people’s creations is satisfying in so many ways.
Beast by Paul Kingsnorth – I now understand a bit better why Haley Pham spends money on books she then says of, “I have no idea what this is about.” At time of purchase I had not an inkling of this novel’s plot; still, it said Paul Kingsnorth, so I knew I was taking that baby home. Kingsnorth is the author of The Wake, a book written entirely in a close approximation of Old English (aka Anglo-Saxon), one I’ve struggled to read but remain determined to complete. Also, I subscribe to the author’s Substack and greatly admire his measured and thoughtful approach to any topic he picks up on, and that he isn’t afraid to consider other people’s points of view. Here, Edward Buckmaster, wanders a West Country moor (that alone gripped me) as he simultaneously battles a creature that becomes an obsession. Between the blurb and a flip through, where I saw sentence fragments and strange passages, it reminded me a little of Italo Calvino’s If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler, which, to be honest, I read all of about three pages of because, despite the rave recommendation of a Swiss friend, I simply couldn’t get into it. Having said that, I hasten to add that I was not as careful or thoughtful a reader as I hope I am today, and I also didn’t have the dedication – for lack of a better word – to Calvino that I seem to feel for Kingsnorth’s work. And the cover, I can’t go away without a word about Beast’s simply and simplistically beautiful cover. I may be able to better describe it after reading the book, but the font, in words splayed out across lines, carelessly (but with precision, you know?) meandering from one to the next, they speak to me as somehow reflective of the content, particularly the small dot in place of the capital A’s crossbar, the bars on the T, and what…what is that pair of fs in the lower right corner? Simplistically, I had called it, while really there is nothing simple about it.
Why can’t I get paid to read?
The Bookshop of Yesterdaysby Amy Meyerson – I confess I prefer the cover of Diane Setterfield’s The Thirteenth Tale, which Meyerson’s cover reminds me of, but still it caught my attention enough for me to pick it up and read the blurb. And let’s face it, a pile of books is nearly always a beautiful sight. Miranda Brooks may or may not see the nearing-bankruptcy book shop that her uncle wills to her as a beautiful sight, and she also finds a scavenger hunt he left behind, the solution to which brings her closer to unwrapping a family secret that her mother never meant to be revealed. “The Bookshop of Yesterdays is a love letter to reading and bookstores, and a testament to the healing power of community and how our histories shape who we become.” It’s not a huge secret that our past informs our present, but the how, and how we choose to move forward, can be an amazing journey of discovery. I haven’t read many love-letter books, and in fact the only other one that comes to mind immediately is Hanan al-Shaykh’s Beirut Blues – a work I treasure deeply. It remains to be seen whether Meyerson’s novel finds a place in my heart – admittedly, it has some stiff competition – but it came home with me, and that’s always a good sign.
Sea TurtlesJournal: The cover’s sea turtles swim in an undersea forest filled with flowers and starfish. This one accidentally fell down, literally right into my hands, as I was moving another, and when I saw it, I knew this too was meant to be. You see, I collect turtles in honor of my wonderful Turtle, my sweet little boy who grew to be the most wonderful young man. Still a teenager, he nevertheless looms over me, a beautiful and vibrant presence in my life. Not long ago, he persuaded me to read the first part of Plato’s Republic, which I’d initially resisted because I’d been there, done that in university and thought I wasn’t as fond of it as I probably should have been, but I’d moved on. OK, full disclosure, I really didn’t like it at all. Also full disclosure: I read it in a philosophy class I took toward the end of my four years, when burnout was setting in heavily. Reading it more recently, however, I found it to be rather accessible and intriguing. I recalled aloud to my boy about something I missed and had been thinking about in recent months: how at one time I used to grab a backpack with a couple of books, a journal and sketch pad and took off to various locations around Washington, D.C., a place often as horrible and fantastic as you can make it. It definitely has some great locations to sit, think, read, sketch (even if you’re terrible at this last endeavor), and journal, as I often did. I lamented that I didn’t really do this so much anymore and wanted to get back into it. He encouraged me to do exactly this, though my first search for a fitting journal ended with purchase of How to Be a Stoic: Using Ancient Philosophy to Live a Modern Life (Mossimo Pigliucci). A bookstore employee recommended it to me and though I’d temporarily put it down (I vow to read it), I don’t regret taking it home – of course it provides some food for thought as I get down with journaling, some of which I’ve chewed on and am eager to continue pursuing.
I hope you’ll join me for Book Haul (Part II of II) in which I discuss, naturally, the books I found, as well as the re-awakening of a story important to me; how books so often lead from one to the other, not accidentally; some new perceptions on the act of getting rid of books; sense of place; and the place of food in our reading and writing lives.
Lisl Madeleine is the author of “Episodes in the Life of King Richard III,” a short story in The Road Not Travelled: Alternative Tales of the Wars of the Roses, edited by Joanne Larner and available at Amazon and Amazon UK. She is currently attempting to muster up enough steel to publish her book of poetry and is engaged in researching and writing several works of historical fiction while trying to keep up with her reading, which includes further developing interest in Rumi, the Black Prince, and expanding her cooking repertoire.
A random past entry from the Browsing Books series you might also enjoy: In the Big City Edition. Be sure to click to subscribe (upper right) and keep up with books and other fun stuff!
I no longer remember where I even heard of Roger Housden’s Saved by Beauty: Adventures of an American Romantic in Iran, just that I requested it from the library. I have enjoyed reading about Iran for years, and the title instantly grabbed my attention; before I was halfway through, I knew I would order my own copy and re-read. It is impossible to speak of Iran without including poetry, and Housden does a marvelous job of talking (not just “telling”) about Rumi, Hafez, and poetic message, weaving it within and without the people and places he visits, his, and perhaps your, understanding of the world, and those understandings of the Iranian people’s. He meets with artists, writers, filmmakers, religious scholars, whirling dervishes, explores beauty, truth, evil, and comes up close to history as well as current events.
Apart from his encounters, one thing I also appreciated about the narrative is its willingness to praise where praise is due, but be critical, questioning, or skeptical as well. He also details the closing episode of his trip, several days of captivity (cold comfort, but in a hotel, at least, not Evin) and interrogation, and his feelings of raw and utter loneliness in the world in a manner that it brutal in its poetic truthfulness. I say “poetic” not because he translates the experience into a flow of poetry, but rather because his words are neither harsh nor softly new age-y. He does not display open anger (though it was there) or bravado, and his words translate to us perhaps in a dual manner as well: we feel a sense of muted horror and peaceful acceptance. But he leaves us with overwhelmingly positive feelings about the people of Iran, the real focus. The horrible government apparatus forces its way into the story because it is impossible to talk about Iran without bringing up the government they currently live under. Poetry and tyranny.
At a later date I hope this changes, as, I’m sure, does Housden. He mourns that he cannot go back to Iran, and in my small way I can appreciate this. I would love to visit this land and come close to the history, the places, the people who grew up breathing in poets such as Rumi and Hafez, the average one of whom could recite a few lines of either one, or perhaps Ferdowsi, were you to stop them on the street to ask the time. I’m sure there are some not inclined to poetry, but there is a very strong current of survival amongst the Iranian people. They are not, after all, Arabs, and Islam is a foreign religion, even though it has conquered the nation and, centuries ago, made their own Zoroastrianism religion a minority one. But they don’t forget their culture and in this manner remind me a little bit of Americans, who consistently thwart attempts to make them like Europeans. The pathway traveled to get to this point isn’t, for Americans, the same as that of Iranians, but it does have its similarities. It is also interesting to note that Rumi is the most widely read poet in America.
It also happens that I’ve admired Rumi for years, though only recently began to look into his life a bit more deeply. I’m not very far along, but reading Housden’s account deepened my desire, what with its – well, I might say philosophical –discussions or summations, but his do not alienate the reader in the manner philosophy often does people. The reality is, indeed, very real, but he immerses us into his observations in a manner graceful and beautiful, the end result being not only that we want more, but we also wish to be a part of it.
This is not an alien concept to me: as a teenager I wanted to live in a Welsh forest and, not unlike Housden’s own ambition in his twenties, “live a contemplative life of reflection.” Well, I also wanted to write poetry and practice healing, both of which come from my mother, I suppose, who was a nurse by profession and, throughout my childhood, recited Poe continuously. I wasn’t a big fan, but for years after recalled “Annabel Lee” and, naturally, “The Raven,” in their entirety. Also, my father had a history bent and I was often tasked with writing essays about events he’d discussed with me. It was from him I garnered my initial knowledge of and perhaps affinity for Iran, and surely the inclination to discuss, dig deeper.
You must be set on fire the inner sun. You have to live your Love or else You’ll only end in words.
For better or worse, I never made it to that forest. I know it’s unquestionably better, for I cannot imagine life without my wonderful son, who in many ways has also brought poetry and contemplation to my life and still does. Teenagers have naturally poetic souls, and Turtle has listened patiently and compassionately as I talked about Saved by Beauty, Iran, Rumi. Even more magnificently, he doesn’t just listen, as I am blessed to have a child who thrives on engagement. Asperger’s drives a bit of the nitpickiness, but it too has a dual nature, and his digging helps keep me connected to the lower layers in a world of paying bills, dentist appointments and being on time for work.
Now, before my re-read (when I can mark up the book, a practice I picked up by necessity in university and one Turtle loathes), I cannot exactly place my favorite passage or chapter, but I do recall a few dripping tears. As I recall, this portion was not necessarily one of great sorrow (or was it?), because I remember a sort of detached wonder at my emotion. Perhaps I will recognize it next time and be able to understand more of why I responded in the manner I did.
Reading not unlike a memoir, Saved by Beauty also weaves Rumi (and other poets) throughout, undoubtedly one of the work’s best elements, though by far not the only. Housden unapologetically invites us into his world, as well as one he yearned for since childhood, a culture of more than three thousand years. His perspective is truthful and sober, though not without levity, and both he and Rumi invite all into his journey. As Housden writes of Rumi’s funeral, “no one is turned away.”
Come, come, whoever you are. Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving. It doesn’t matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vow a thousand times Come, yet again, come, come.
Just in from watching the third in the Jurassic World franchise and – hey, it’s just what you thought it was. But read all of the review before you agree with any assessments I make at the start, because it’s a mixed bag.
First of all, let me tell you that Chris Pratt could be tasked to read aloud the most boring book in the world, say The Alchemist* (Coelho) or The Old Man and the Sea** (Hemingway), and still manage to keep my rapt attention. So the movie right there has something going for it, along with Jeff Goldblum’s appearance, which actually took me by surprise. I had thought Ian Malcolm was done with these moronic experiments by people whose lows plumb the depth of low and still don’t manage to hit bottom. But there he was in the trailer, and you’ll see that his re-emergence makes some sense.
I hate to say this, but from start to finish the film suffers from poor or lazy writing: take your choice. It opens up with a “news report” filled with expository information spoon fed to us and continues with arc-less characters, snippets of conversation that have no place in the story, and even a repeat of the deus ex machina that irritated me in the very first Jurassic Park: the dinosaurs fighting at the end, enabling the characters left alive to escape.
A word about that last angle: it wasn’t exactly unexpected that two dinosaurs would meet up and get into a scuffle; it was just super convenient. How else would the survivors make it from visitor center to helo pad to effect their escape? For Jurassic World: Dominion, the screenwriters did seem to have given this some thought, because they set up a vicious dinosaur rivalry as soon as we arrive at that portion of the tale: a therizinosaurus and a pyroraptor (names I had to look up) fight each other and the Edward Scissorhands one pursues Claire in a slow-speed chase that brings us to more (yes, more!) of some really thrilling dinosaur-human encounters. Well, they all are pretty thrilling, but some are more engaging than others and I really found myself sucked in. I should add that by this portion you’re already pumping up the adrenaline because we’ve just left – escaped – a city scene with hairpin-turn chases and snapping jaws that, while exceedingly unlikely because the atrociraptors have to be, as Turtle declared, the most incompetent predator-chasers, is nevertheless a wild ride that is probably very easy to get addicted to. I saw the film last weekend, for instance, and this portion is one I was eagerly looking forward to watching again this evening, derivative as some scenes may be. I was even given the choice of another flick I had also liked but insisted upon this one.
“Oh, Wendy, I’m home.” Prehistory meets The Shining, 007 and Jason Bourne
I also have to say that I find the whole animal rescue angle, introduced in the second film, perhaps the stupidest, most non-sensical of all angles, and it’s got some stiff competition (e.g. the locusts). The only reason I could possibly believe that anyone could say something such as, “We can learn to depend upon each other, trust each other, co-exist,” is one that bears witness to the absurd and irrational world we currently inhabit. The mosasaurus that leaps from the Bering Sea and takes a giant chunk from a fishing vessel? Does anyone really think that thing actually gives any kind of consideration to the value of its relationship with humans? Sure, Blue and Owen seem to have some sort of connection, and she is kind enough not to eat him, but the vast majority of people on the planet – actually, that would be all of them – didn’t spend years with a velociraptor developing “a relationship based on mutual respect.” Sorry not sorry; these people are deranged and unhinged if they think populations can “learn to live” with random attacks and lives of terror over wild roaming prehistoric creatures that scoop you up like bald eagles scoop up poodles, or gouge eyes out with their feet-long beaks. What about that ginormous bird’s nest on top of Freedom Tower? Really, dude? This occupant isn’t a magnificent goshawk that we are wise to maintain distance from or respect in its place in nature. (Also, it was a little weird to go there; images of that tower being destroyed by pterodactyls and the mayhem that would produce doesn’t constitute my idea of a poorly executed but still-fun film.) Wouldn’t the public demand something be done to put an end to this? Certainly, that point might be one of no return, but a rising body count seems likely to result in a public unsympathetic – nay, actively hostile – to animal saviors who act as if they’re rescuing kittens.
There’s a lot to unpack regarding what’s wrong with this awful movie, my own personal ire going back to the previous film’s ending, a mere excuse to set the stage for this disaster. The first film was not as tightly written and executed as the first Jurassic Park, but it was enjoyable. But to be honest, so was this one, which is a bit of a departure for me, because usually movies with this much (and more) wrong with them would never even get a review from me, not even a bad one. Perhaps it serves a purpose people need right now: the world currently is a shit-show and the unreality of this story removes us from that for a little while. Chris Pratt is a favorite and DeWanda Wise, whom I’d never heard of before, not only plays a badass character I was really drawn to, but also has a nice range of facial and other gesticulations and, generally speaking, I like her personality. Given that I’d wanted, at age six, to be a spy, had I seen her back then, I’d probably want to be Kayla when I grew up.
Sure, Jurassic World: Dominion is a terrible film, but it’s fun. Every single dinosaur that ever existed seems to be in it and it definitely has more teeth. And if I haven’t already mentioned the underwater escape scene: I loved that. The action scenes are fantastic (if jiggly at times) to watch on a giant screen, especially if you’re willing to let go for a while of nitpicks about editing and so forth, and maybe embrace a spot of “it’s in the script.” It’s also surpassed $600 million globally, so the filmmakers must have done something right. Whether it’s something to distract audiences or keep in mind for a Friday night flick even years on down the road, I’d say go watch it.
You may have heard of or read not a few bad reviews of Jurassic World: Dominion. Here’s one that does a good job of pointing out what’s nice about it.
Murder lurks at the heart of the royal court in the rabbit warren of the Palace of Westminster. The year is 1480. Treason is afoot amongst the squalid grandeur and opulent filth of this medieval world of contrasts. Even the Office of the King’s Secretary hides a dangerous secret.
Meeting with lords and lackeys, clerks, courtiers and the mighty King Edward himself, can Seb Foxley decipher the encoded messages and name the spy?
Will Seb be able to prevent the murder of the most important heir in England?
All will be revealed as we join Seb Foxley and his abrasive brother Jude in the latest intriguing adventure amid the sordid shadows of fifteenth-century London.
As it happens, when recently writing a review for one of author Toni Mount’s previous publications, How to Survive in Medieval England, I happened upon the portion of her website focused on a “Medieval Artist,” whose introductory words beckon us in: “Dear reader, I am Sebastian Foxley, scrivener of London and the creation of Toni Mount.” It’s true about characters: they can take on a life of their own, which has often led me to musings about how these figures and authors connect. So when I see such introductions or “interviews” with characters, I am sure to be drawn in, as I was here. Just beneath was the cover image of the latest book Foxley appears in, The Colour of Rubies, tenth in Mount’s medieval murder mystery series. There was no hesitation; I wanted to check this series out. So when the opportunity to review this latest arose, I knew Foxley had expertly captured my attention.
Following an opening scene with a mysterious foreigner, we are introduced first to Jude Foxley, which came as a surprise that I found I quite liked; that this brother of Sebastian reveals himself to be such a curmudgeon only added to my intrigue of how this novel was to play out. As it moves forward, numerous characters are introduced, and I was further relieved and delighted to realize I was having no difficulty remembering who they were or their places within the plot. For me this is fairly huge because I have found that some novels lose their appeal following a cast of characters too numerous to be supported by the story. Mount’s skilfull management of her personalities, however, keeps the focus where it needs to be, even with those of necessarily limited dimension playing their required roles, lesser though they are.
With precision and fluidity, Mount’s tale marches forward, and we start to see a connection between the mysterious Italian of the novel’s opening, though who he is remains a mystery, as does the identity behind the murderer of one of Jude Foxley’s colleagues. His brother, Seb, is brought to work in an undercover capacity, writing out summonses, as does Jude, in a workroom that freezes feet and ink alike, deterring production and raising the unjust ire of Secretary Oliver, who oversees the Scriptorium and suffers none of its ill effects. Escaping in the evening to the dormitory provides little relief: it is just as cold, privacy is nonexistent and personal valuables are never safe, as the married Jude, ineligible to reside in the dorm, warns his brother: ‘I’ll take your cloak home with me later. It’ll not be safe in the clerk’s dormitory. As I told you, the clerks are all bloody thieves.’ Whether this is true or not, we do not at this point know, but there is the sense Jude issues the warning for true benefit as well as to stand apart from his brother’s shadow. As the youngest of numerous siblings myself, I remember compensatory bossiness quite well, and the wonderful realism of the brotherly exchanges, harsh as they often were, was exceedingly satisfying in its complexity. Humans can be strange creatures, and brothers can be so different it astounds.
Indeed, one huge angle I loved about the author’s presentation of the tale is linked to my overall view of medieval people, and that is her true representation of them. That is to say, we do not see merely one long narrative of aristocrats performing exalted tasks. The ordinary is also given its due: soggy socks; worries about rent; having to perform tasks or errands on a break and not getting to eat lunch; not enough sleep; petty work supervisors; and the like are real-world problems that existed then as they do today, breaking down some of the barriers between modern readers and the real people of flesh and blood that we too often view as so distant as to not really need or deserve our consideration. That Mount includes these characters’ woes adds to the authenticity and overall enjoyment of the story.
We also get to see the greed, sibling disputes, lust, promiscuity, selfishness and other negative character traits that plague this world (just like ours), as opposed to presenting the era as only one of sharp morality and stilted English. At the same time, Mount does not eliminate that reality from Sebastian Foxley’s era and we see a multi-dimensional period less easy to define than is often asserted.
Seb and Jude climbed the stair to the dormitory but their hopes of a little wine left from last night to cleanse Jude’s cheek were dashed.
‘I fear the servants have cleared all away,’ Seb said when they saw the sideboard was bare of any remnants of yesterday’s payday feast.
‘Drunk it, more like,’ Jude said, ‘No matter. It doesn’t need bathing. Where’s that salve you said you have?’
‘In my scrip. I put it in the coffer by my bed.’ Seb lifted the coffer lid and stared, dismayed, at what lay within. ‘Oh, Jude. Look. My belongings … See what has come to pass.’
‘I warned you not to leave anything of worth in this bloody place. Why did you bring your damned scrip? You should’ve left it at home, as I told you, but do you ever listen to me?’
This is one of many passages that stood out to me because it speaks of character complexity and the questioning of what we really know, or think we do. When Jude says, ‘Drunk it, more like,’ it is easy to write the retort off as one reflecting anger of Jude himself not having any of the remnants, or perhaps at the thought of using it medicinally instead of as refreshment. Perhaps he even makes the statement in a complimentary fashion, noting that they had the good sense to drink the wine rather than waste it on such an act as his brother now proposes. After all, Jude has previously asserted, ‘Wine’s for drinking, not for wasting on a little nick.’ However, as we saw previously, Jude’s assessment of the king’s clerks is not always so generous. He disapproves of their behavior and warns his brother. Jude tends to swim upstream, but he is also a product of his time, so it might not be all that surprising for him to hold to some of the day’s prevailing mores, even in a small amount, or when assessing others.
Given the ruby’s association with raw emotion, we see its reflection throughout the book, in many forms, as implied by the title’s umbrella-like nature. The shades of emotive signals and secrecy, retreats and revelations, such as Jude’s attempts to talk himself into more sensible behavior, bursting into rages or setting himself in opposition to his brother are just the beginning. There is an undercurrent that flows throughout the book, keeping the reader always a little on edge, especially as the pace moves somewhat fast, making one simply not want to set the book down. The intrigue and twists contribute to this, and the curveballs come in fast and swift, bringing us to realize there is much more beyond the book.
Though there are details and events that happen in prior volumes, and those occurring apart from the books entirely (see the wonderful looking The Foxley Lettershere), The Colour of Rubies most definitely can stand on its own.
However, with the ongoing strife and Seb’s overarching desire to see peace between himself and his brother – not to mention amongst other family members interacting with the two – I know I won’t stop here. I cannot deny I recommend that neither do you!
About the Author
Toni Mount is a history teacher and a best-selling author of historical non-fiction and fiction. She’s a member of the Richard III Society’s Research Committee, a regular speaker to groups and societies and belongs to the Crime Writers’ Association. She writes regularly for Tudor Life magazine, has written several online courses for www.MedievalCourses.com and the Sebastian Foxley series of medieval murder mysteries. Toni has a First class honours degree in history, a Masters Degree in Medieval History, a Diploma in English Literature with Creative Writing, a Diploma in European Humanities and a PGCE. She lives in Kent, England with her husband and has two grown-up sons.
The blogger received a complimentary copy of The Colour of Rubies
from the publisher in order to provide an honest review.
Note from the blogger: I highly recommend you check out SebastianFoxley.com and scroll down a bit ~ amongst other items on the entire page, you will see some more introduction in Seb’s own words and a lovely small video about how his visage comes to life. The layout of all the delicious book covers probably will stir you as well! ~ Lisl
My son wants me to finish watching A Taste of Cherry or take in one of five other films he left on the coffee table for me to choose from while he’s at the cinema taking in Lightyear. I’m down for it, except it’s early afternoon and this seems not quite the right time for movie watching. Very early morning for a limited time and evening seems to be the province of the screen, though matinee go-ers surely would disagree with me.
Is that an odd assessment? Maybe it’s because, until recently, I used to fall asleep watching movies or TV. For better or worse, I tended to cook, clean and look after children when movies played. It’s no secret that, like many mothers, I operated on tired, and taking a seat threatened to overcome that. I’ve gotten better about all that more recently though, it being early evening (in the 14:00 hour) as I type, it seems like I ought to be doing something else, even though I decided to designate today to just letting happen what may, combined with the promise to myself to stay steady in the activity side of things. In other words, there are a few things I want to do, but I’ve left the when of these tasks to whatever force guides me to each one today.
Perhaps that means I’m resisting the forces, or maybe not. I went out to the deck for a spot of reading and it started to rain. I did aim to put one disk into the video, but it wasn’t in the case. Sitting down to read at the dining table, I contemplated how indoor darkness often doesn’t seem to have changed much from Victorian times. Without any lighting on, it’s pretty dark in the areas away from the window. I’m loathe to move away from it because it’s lovely, and perhaps my association of movies with sleep, itself associating with evening, is not the beckoning I want to follow.
To be honest, I’ve been thinking lately about a vest I was gifted after a surgery I had last year, quite a nice vest except for the stitching on the back of the collar with the clinic’s logo. I thought I might perhaps stitch over it; the fact that I really have no clue how exactly to do this didn’t really put me off much, because the desire kept growing within me all week. So what if it looks weird or is badly stitched? I can undo it all and start over, right? I think I don’t seem to mind this because I’ve been wanting to learn to knit or crochet; I don’t care which because I don’t know enough to have a preference. I did used to do counted cross stitch at the hospital where I worked at that time; at first it was super awkward until one of the nurses showed me to turn it upside down, and it all made sense. I found it to be quite relaxing and even recently saw some CCS with the likeness of Richard III, which really delighted me. Where I live I don’t really get to see too many items bearing Richard, so when Turtle presented me – I think he was around 10 – with a coloring page of the king, it was quite wonderful.
I find coloring also to be very relaxing: I have Outlander and Harry Potter books, plus another with patterns from India. A Richard III coloring book would be all that! All that – our way of saying It’s the shit. Every time I hear that phrase I remember the Russian who asked me why shit sometimes means something is great, while other times it refers to something you loathe. “How to tell difference?” Well, the the is key.
But I couldn’t really color or do much stitching if I were to watch Taste of Cherry or any other foreign film because I need to pay attention to the subtitles. Which is fine, partly because I want to pay attention to them, but also because maybe sometimes I just need to give my mind a one thing at a time permission. Focus on the taxi driver and what he says makes me think about; what do I think it all means? The area he drives to, away from the city, I feel I’ve seen it before, which is strange because I’ve never been to Iran, where it is set. I remember when I first heard the title a few months back, I felt I recognized it, and straight away thought I’d seen it with a friend in college: we used to go watch foreign films in a strip mall theater that only played foreign. But nothing looked familiar when Turtle and I started to watch it. Terra incognita. For both of us, the taxi driver as well as myself. Perhaps afternoon viewing is actually the right time for this film, given its subject matter.
It’s hot and sunny here today, just like it was yesterday, though not quite as bad as the weekend before when the temp was even higher – to a degree when most of us here start to melt. But I was fed up with the way yesterday turned out, not a bad day, just sort of boring because I didn’t want to engage with the heat. So, I just spent a lot of time on my spring cleaning/house content purging project.
Today, though, I wanted out. So, I walked to the library – a bit of a hike, though not godawful – to return a book and then headed to a store for a backpack. My plan was also to restock on salad-making stash and used the newly purchased backpack to carry it all. Unfortunately, they only had the “regular” sort of pack, while I wanted the type that collapses in on itself when it’s empty (easier storage). I didn’t want to carry anything in my hands, so ended up skipping it and headed home.
En route, I thought about the seagulls (which might not actually be the correct name, but who cares?) I’d encountered on the way. When rounding a particular corner that leads to an open grassy area with a large pond, I heard their raucous company engaged in whatever they were doing behind a walled area. Quickly they shot up and one flew just above me, hovering and, it seemed, looking right at me. I didn’t even bother to consciously articulate in my mind that surely this guy wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. I was nowhere near them and not making any predatory or threatening moves.
Then he shot down closer, and I whistled in surprise. “What the – “ and down he shot again, getting nearer each time, close enough for me to see what looked like anger in his face. I don’t know much about birds, so I couldn’t say why I think he had the appearance of an immature critter, and the behavior of one as well. They were all shrieking, but he was the only one dive-bombing. I waved my book in the air and shouted, this time definitely threateningly, but in a defensive manner. He seemed cowed by the book, but when I lowered it he, perhaps, perceiving it to be gone, came again, swooping so close I wondered if his beak might scratch me.
“What have I ever done to you, you little brat!?” I yelled upward. By now I was far enough away that maybe he finally was convinced I wasn’t out to get him, though I wondered what I’d do on the way back, having lost my defensive “weapon” to the return slot. I remembered the ravens, who come in winter. They’re smart as whips and will indeed tell all their friends if you somehow wrong them, and then next time they see you all of them will get in on the scolding. Yes, they recognize faces! Seagulls engage in some intelligent behavior, maybe even remembering faces, I don’t know. But they’re rude.
I also thought about my son, who used to often take this same road to the library when he was younger. He came home several times with stories of dive-bombing magpies. I felt for him then, but now I really had a deeper sense of it. Poor kid.
It wasn’t until I was having all these thoughts again on the return journey that it suddenly occurred to me that maybe he didn’t like my red hat. Sure, it has a hawk on it, but it’s just an outline and I’m pretty sure seagulls don’t recognize this sort of likeness. Besides, it was just the one with the bad attitude who seemed perturbed. I didn’t end up finding out because I decided to go straight home, rather than the roundabout route, which means I didn’t even go near the thug on the corner.
But I was a little curious about the red thing, so I looked it up. Could my red hat have enraged this seagull, sort of how bulls are said to be set off by the color? (Though the truth is, bulls are color blind.) And wow, what else I found! Not only am I not alone in my negative attitude, but I found that I practically love them compared to some others! First, let me show you the first thing I found re: red, which actually kills my “theory,” but it’s kind of cool anyway. Ian Watson of Arbroath in Scotland tossed the remnants of his Man United-loving daughter’s crimson birthday cake, thinking the seagulls would have a go, but they ended up avoiding it like the plague. Seagulls turning down free food? Check out his experiment here.
Now for some anti-seagull ranting and then some more, and then someone who actually loves these creatures, or at least claims they are “just misunderstood.” Whatever! Check out this report on a series of attacks from the poor, misunderstood creatures. (This link may not work on Safari.) For birds that are supposed to be so smart, they sure have bad manners!
Arthur’s Men have returned to Britain to keep the peace between fractious allies. Gawain wants only to raise his family and forget the war, yet he carries a heavy burden: an oath to maintain a lie.
But is it a lie?
Looming conflicts threaten more than any border or throne. The course of history, the future of the Britons, will be decided at Camlann.
Many readers are familiar with and enjoy Arthurian legend, and there indeed are many versions, and perspectives within such, to choose from. One that came to my attention in recent years was Sean Poage’s series, The Arthurian Age, the first of which, The Retreat to Avalon, I read and reviewed. Told from Gawain’s point of view, it is gritty and gripping and brings us into an individual world we don’t usually get to see. The Strife of Camlann carries on with this angle while moving more deeply into events that frame Gawain’s world and understanding of it. As Gawain remembers and moves forward, layers are peeled away; we begin to better comprehend his burden as Poage’s narrator leads us further in, toward social encounters and violent skirmishes that test the warrior, to conversations, such as one with Myrddin (Merlin), that both confuse and enlighten him. There are small teasers along the way, but so authentically stated and placed that none elicit a mere “I just want to find out what happens in the end.” Each one, for better or worse, is a crucial ingredient to the outcome that we both see coming and don’t.
As with his debut novel, the author’s research is in great evidence in this installment, all of it also contributing to our thirst, not just for the “what happens,” but also for the people who lived it all. His characters come to life in a manner that penetrates us; whether this is because so many of them are like us may be a factor. Also contributing is Poage’s attention to detail and the dimension within which he provides it. Rather than just doling out specifics, he leads us into their labyrinthian world and we have to make our way just as many of the book’s people do. We see the material manner in which they lived, the connections that bound them together but were also cause for concern owing to various individual and group agendas. Jealousy, indifference, attachment, fear—these and other motivations inform their actions and within all this we become witness to the shaping of a nation.
We do have two glossaries to aid us in keeping in order the myriad names of people and places involved, which I highly encourage readers to utilize. They are a bit on the extensive side but let not disquiet enter our reading realm, for there is a singular joy in discovery that links events and our understanding. Sometimes, admittedly, there isn’t, owing to the tragedies that touch our people’s lives, but that we—our people and us—share our grief helps us to move forward to the rebuilding of lives and goals, and Poage’s narrative helps us to believe that these characters somehow know that they matter to us.
I expected the flow of writing here to be fluid, as in The Retreat to Avalon, and was not disappointed. We are rewarded with even better this time: the author’s ability to smooth his writing, to create a narrative flow that billows like silk in a gentle wind, has noticeably increased. Knowing when to sweep over minor events is also a valuable skill, and this author does it with grace. There are numerous passages that display this nimble quality, though one in particular stood out for the manner in which Poage retains the undercurrent of trauma even while displaying Merlin’s signature mordant sense of humor and breezing through time.
“Myrddin, I. . .” Gawain felt his sense of hope drain away. “I know it’s pointless to ask you to stay. But thank you.”
“You may thank me by not squandering what I have saved.” He opened the door and wrapped his cloak against the chill.
Before he could close the door, Gawain called out, “Myrddin! How did you know to be here at all? You, I mean . . .Did you know?”
Myrddin paused, looked back. From the shadow within his cloak, his eyes twinkled, and his lips curled into a lopsided smile. “We talked of this before. Do they not say I’m a seer?” And he was gone.
Gawain smiled a moment. It faded with the crunch of Myrddin’s footsteps on the frosted earth. He has never felt so alone in all his life. When Neas came, offering pleasant small talk as she tended his injuries, he barely responded. After she left, he dozed uneasily.
The creak of the door woke him. The room had dimmed to late afternoon’s light. “Neas, I need nothing but peace.” There was no reply, but a presence drew his eyes to the door. His breath caught. I’m dreaming again. Oh, dear God, let me be dreaming. Don’t let it be her shade now, too!
There do remain some of the action beats and speech tags used interchangeably that I complained of last time, but their instances are far fewer and go further in providing a narrative diversity. That the author has grown as a writer is without doubt, as is the care he takes in the consideration of his characters. Also grown is my anticipation for the next installment, which he addresses in his author’s note. It was exciting to read his words that reflected many of the thoughts I had had, including the idea as to where the next and final chapter will take us.
I can’t help but look back at The Retreat to Avalon, which I’d skimmed through, re-reading certain passages, before beginning the second book. The Strife of Camlann retains its predecessor’s true-to-the-period detail and strong character development. As the passage above hints at, Arthurian mysticism does not go unacknowledged, but reality has a firm grip, much as in Mary Stewart’s Merlin Trilogy. Poage’s Arthurian era dispenses with magic and dragons, while we still see the glory, which strengthens the epigraph he chose that in part states, “There is more here than nostalgia for a glory that no longer exists.” Stripped of the décor, Gawain’s world within Arthurian legend, as told by Sean Poage, remains solid and real as history, revealed to us not via legend borne of a vacuum, but rather merging facts with fiction to capture the reader’s imagination and help set the stage for the next 1,500 years.
About the Author
Historical fiction author Sean Poage has had an exciting and varied
life as a laborer, salesman, soldier, police officer, investigator,
computer geek and author. A history buff his entire life, he is most
drawn to the eras of the ancient Greeks and Dark Ages Britain. Traveling
the world to see history up close is his passion.
These days he works in the tech world, writes when he can, and spends
the rest of the time with his family, which usually means chores and
home improvement projects, with occasional time for a motorcycle ride,
scuba dive, or a hike in the beautiful Maine outdoors.
The Retreat to Avalon and The Strife of Camlann may both be purchased at Amazon, here and here, respectively.
Sean Poage may be found at his website here. I strongly encourage you to check out the Free Stuff tab, which includes info on how to obtain an autographed book plate from the chapter of your choice. There are other goodies as well, so have a gander!
The blogger received a free copy of The Strife of Camlann
in order to provide an honest review.
The Stone Rose: The sweeping third installment of Carol McGrath’s acclaimed She-Wolves Trilogy, the gripping series exploring the tumultuous lives and loves of three queens of England – and of three women who lived in their shadow, in an era shaped by powerful women.
Based on the extraordinary true story of the female stonemason who carved a queen’s tomb, The Stone Rose traces the life of fierce, self-destructive Isabella of France. Wife to a weak king, Isabella finds herself facing enemies from the wild north, in a war with Scotland, and from within her own family: her uncle Lancaster, whose attempts to rein in royal power cause a rift between them.
But Isabella soon comes to realise that this is a love story. And the threat to the kingdom is a threat to her marriage – and to her own life . . .
Isabella – August1311
A fox darted from the woodland verge across the path with a flash of russet. Isabella’s palfrey shied. She tugged hard on her reins. The horse pawed the ground, trying to rise up. It would have thrown her, if her companion had not speedily edged closer to her side and seized the palfrey’s head straps. Her saviour bent his dark head and spoke in a soft tone to the creature, gentling it. Within moments, Juno was calm and stilled. Sitting firm in her saddle, Isabella leaned down to thank him.
‘If you had not been so quick, Piers, the mare would have thrown me.’
‘Near shave,’ Piers Gaveston gasped, his beautiful dark eyes filled with concern.
King Edward came trotting forward, followed by his pretty green-eyed niece, Margaret de Clare, Piers’ sixteen-year-old wife.
‘Isabella, praise Saint Thomas, you are safe, my sweeting,’ Edward said. He turned to Piers, leaned over and patted his arm. ‘Thank you, my friend. Praise God’s grace, you were right by her side.’
‘Gabriel held fast,’ Piers said, patting his horse’s neck. ‘It was a fox that flashed by in front of the Queen’s horse. I saw its bushy tail.’
Edward began to laugh. ‘You saved my Queen from a nasty fall. You protected her like a devoted knight.’
Piers grinned at Edward, then at Isabella. ‘A pleasure for this knight to protect his Queen.’
Isabella glanced over her shoulder to where the others crowded onto the narrow woodland path; they were led by the extremely well-connected Earl of Warwick, a frowning, dark, sardonic, proud and powerful noble, one of the King’s awkward council, who had been privy to Piers’ previous exile to Ireland. Hunting dogs with their keepers were snapping, barking and straining on leads. Following her nervous glance towards Warwick, Piers muttered, ‘Pity it wasn’t the Black Dog taking a tumble. That fox had unfortunate mistiming.’
Little Meg frowned at her husband, but Isabella’s lips twitched. Piers had amusing names for all the earls he considered enemies. She knew the powerful older men – Warwick and her wealthy uncle Thomas – were both jealous of the young King’s love for Piers, whom Edward called ‘brother’. Her father, King Philip the Fair of France, she mused, would never stand for his barons ordering his friends into exile, as the English barons had poor Piers. Edward had, only a month earlier, called Piers back from exile in Ireland, where, to satisfy the nobles, he had sent Piers as Lord Lieutenant. Now, Warwick, Lancaster and their allies were determined to exile Piers again, just as viciously as they had done a year previously. She liked Piers. He was kind, fun and witty. She had first met him after she arrived in England following her marriage ceremony. Piers had led her to the Privy Council to sit beside her new husband, who blushed and stared straight past her. With a smile, Piers had taken her damp hand and placed it in Edward’s clenched one. ‘I hope we can be friends, my pretty Queen,’ he had whispered in her ear.
The earls had no right to complain that Piers encouraged Edward to be extravagant and inattentive to great matters of state.
Isabella shook her head. These were silly thoughts. The earls had no power to do anything other than what Edward said. Edward was King, she was Queen, and they ruled England by God’s holy grace, not by the permission of people like Warwick, whose role was to help and serve. Warwick and his allies were always complaining about Piers – and now they were threatening another banishment and the withdrawal of Edward’s income. In Parliament, they loudly insisted that Piers was a bad influence and too close to King Edward – far too close. At this thought, Isabella felt her stomach grow so tight, it felt fastened to her ribs. What did they mean by these words, ‘too close’?
‘Your Grace, are you affrighted?’ Meg’s gentle voice broke into her thoughts. She had ridden to Isabella’s side and was offering a vial of infused mint, rosemary and lavender for her to smell. To please Meg, Isabella inhaled and passed it back. She felt better afterwards.
‘Thank you, dear Meg, the Queen seems quite recovered,’ Edward said smoothly, speaking for Isabella, as he liked to do. It had been different, some years earlier, when she was a child bride and unsure. Now, she could speak for herself, so she said, without hesitation, ‘I am well. Do not fuss so, Edward.’
‘Then, my love, it’s time to break our fast. We’ll eat in that meadow.’ Edward waved his jewelled hand towards a sunlit clearing ringed with beeches. He turned and shouted along the path towards the wiry figure of Warwick. ‘Dog—I mean, Warwick! Tell them to set up the pavilion in that glade, over there. We’ll resume the hunt after we break meats.’
Riding up to them, Warwick nodded. ‘Sire, as you wish.’ He threw a malevolent look at Piers, who sat on his horse watching him with an insolent grin on his face.
Piers does invite enmity, Isabella thought. Such impertinence is not doing his cause any favours. It does Edward no favours either.
‘As well you requested a competent organiser today, sire,’ Warwick said, turning his dark expression into a pleasant smile for Edward. ‘Ride on, sire, and it will be done.’ He kicked his heels against his horse’s flanks and the brown hunter trotted back along the track.
Almost at once, their crowd of followers had a silken pavilion erected in the meadow, with a linen-covered low table, cushions and carpets spread out under the shade of a stand of beech trees. Bowing low, servants placed baskets filled with pears and apples on the table and set out dishes of breads, cheeses and meats. Isabella paused and looked about her, feeling how lucky she was. Their court was all young men and women; they loved each other like brothers and sisters. As well as herself and Edward, there was Piers, of course, who was not from a great noble family, but had served Edward since they were two boys learning to be squires in Wales and Gascony. And her dear friend Isa Beaumont, and her French nurse Thea, and Edward’s red-haired niece, Meg, one of the younger daughters of Edward’s most powerful Welsh lord, Gilbert deClare. Meg’s sisters, Eleanor and Elizabeth, were often at court, too, though Isabella was less fond of beautiful, cold Eleanor, and knew fiery little Elizabeth not at all. Delicate Meg, however, was her dearest friend. And Edward had married Meg to his dearest friend, Piers. Isabella smiled to see Meg, at this moment, pulling her skirts around herself to sit down on cushions close to the king.
‘Has this forest a name?’ Meg said, turning to Edward. ‘Boarstall Wood. Do you like staying here, at the old palace at Brill, Meg? My ancestor, the first King Henry, built the hunting palace. My mother loved it. She made improvements – a bathing room and new tiles on the floors, with lions and crowns.’
‘I do, very much so, Uncle. Much better than London. The views over the fields, the air, the country lanes . . . I can see how Grandmother Eleanor liked it so well.’
‘And lush hedgerows.’ Edward turned to Piers. ‘Do you know, here, they weave young hawthorn and beech together to make a strong barrier that their sheep cannot penetrate?’ He twisted imaginary boughs in his hands. ‘We’ll get the villagers to show us how, Piers. A new skill to learn.’
Isabella felt herself frowning. Edward was always happier away from the castle and his royal duties. Why must he insist on mixing with peasants the very moment he found an opportunity? It was beneath him. Their job was to rule over the poor, not to associate with them. She popped a grape into her mouth. No, she must not criticise. It was not for her to gainsay her husband. Her duty was to provide him with an heir. And that, she smiled to herself, was sure to happen soon. She had just passed her fifteenth birthday. Edward had only this month bedded her for the first time since their wedding, three years earlier, and now this was happening more often.
It had not been the unpleasant experience she had feared. In fact, it had been delightful. She had enjoyed their lovemaking after the first time – though, even then, he had been gentle and considerate, caressing her in places she would never touch herself. She glanced with admiration at his great height, her eyes appreciating his lean figure and strong muscular arms, glinting with blond hairs. As they had lain naked, thigh to naked thigh, he had told her she was one of the loveliest creatures he had ever beheld.
‘Who are the others?’ she’d dared ask. He’d snorted, and not answered.
He clearly admired Piers’ handsome looks. She shivered slightly. And there was, too, the unknown woman whom Edward confessed had given him an illegitimate son named Adam, only two years ago. But that woman was no threat, having died giving birth to Adam. The child was growing up on a manor set deep in the Kent countryside. Edward had won Isabella’s approval when he admitted that he would always care for Adam, since it spoke well of his kindness and reassured her that he would always feel responsibility towards his own. He had looked at her with adoring eyes when he said he hoped she would accept the boy when, one day, he joined their court.
‘Edward,’ she had said dutifully, ‘I shall always be kind to the boy.’ Even so, the sooner she had her own son in her arms, the better.
The Silken Rose, The Damask Rose and The Stone Rose may be ordered from Amazon or Amazon UK. See below for additional dates and blog addresses in Carol McGrath’s fabulous blog tour. Keep up with the author and her other works at her website, where you can sign up for her wonderful newsletter, check out her previous books and more. And don’t miss “The Sexy Weasel in Renaissance Art,” an entry for her Sex and Sexuality in Tudor England blog tour. It’s pretty fantastic!