Portrait in Linen

Fulfilled all four daily writing objectives.

1. Read: 60 pages of Ronlyn Domingue’s The Mercy of Thin Air.

2. Critiqued: 1 peer article.

3. Wrote: Draft #1 of Thanksgiving parenting article (780 words).

4. Researched: Meeting the Deadline…, about time-management and project organization.

Total time: 4 hours

So far, so good. The book is not “my type,” but the language is lovely. Wish I had a vocabulary like that.  But I’m just not into paranormal, activist, or speculative fiction.  Still, I love that the book carries a vintage theme.  Reading is inspiring anyway.

The first draft of the article stinks, but it’s a decent start. Had to produce something. Much easier to move forward when you have something to work with, rather than pre-compose in the head in anticipation of dumping out a cleaner product all at once. ‘Ain’t gonna happen; especially as much as I’m multitasking these days.

Mini-Goal: Maintain routine for 7 consecutive days.
Reward: A hardback book for collection—maybe Ernest Gaines, or Elizabeth Bishop.

—

Began revisions on rural drama short.

Originally written in 2001, current revision project is a whopping 2,200 words–significantly longer than the 1,000- to 1,500-word shorts I wrote recently.  Pretty involved redraft last night, but still plenty of opportunities to tighten.

Narrative is dense, written exclusively in dialect, which I’ve got to be very careful with.  Too much dialect kills a story before it even really begins.

BUT…

Initial reactions in the critique group are surprisingly positive!  So far, the consensus is the story is a smooth, compelling read from start to finish, despite the regional language.  Don’t know what sort of comments I’ll be getting on technical aspects of the piece, but I’m prepared for whatever suggestions may come my way.

Not sure where to place the story, though.  It’s Fall–hightime for writing contests everywhere.  I’ve already come across a couple competitions that are offering a $2,000 - $3,000 first prize.  Now realistically, I don’t think I’d have a fighting chance at first prize, but Rocky was quick to bounce back to me my own motto: “You’ll never know until you try.”

I did exactly as I said I would,
Purchased the book Evangeline
From the local B&N
With an educator’s discount card.

Surprise! I did not recognize
That the title I had bought
Was not what I’d initially thought,
But a Longfellow anthology!

Not only will I now enjoy
The ode to Evangeline and Gabriel,
But also thirty-six additional poems and tales,
All for five dollars and fourteen cents!

Though I’m thrilled with my new find
And the many literary perks
That come in reading Longfellow’s selected works,
There is a downside I can’t help.

Like that derned cell phone ringtone,
Or that infernal chipmunk song,
I’m sentenced for an undetermined time
To think and speak in meter and rhyme.

And this is why I generally
Make it my strict policy
To stay away from formal verse,
Lest I fall victim to “The Dr. Seuss Curse.”

—

Interestingly, a reader directed me to the “UL library special collections.” I was told to dig up “Joel Lafayette Fletcher’s speech written in late in 1940’s, The Acadians in Louisiana Today,” if–says the reader–I want some inspiration on Evangeline and the Acadian people.

Now how cool is that? Almost like a treasure hunt, with obstacles and risks and all the like…. I’m not, after all, a student of UL, so there’s the possibility I may meet some resistance when trying to gain admission to the college library special collections.

Then, I may have to seek special permission, or–even more exciting–I may have to contact my anonymous reader and request his personal aid in accessing the facility. Maybe with a skeleton key left in an envelope in the bottom of a potted plant, or a forged document stuck between the pages of a certain obscure book shelved in the wrong section…. Maybe I’ll have to hide in the library bathroom until the doors are locked, then climb through the ventilation system, drop down into the special collections room, tethered to the end of a black nylon rope….

Then again, it may just be a matter of asking.

Reality is at times so much less enthralling.

—

On Longfellow’s Burial of the Minnisink

(Read full text of poem at hwlongfellow.org.)

First of all, I had to ask myself…What is a Minnisink?

The best answer I could find in reference is, the Minnisink (also “Minisink” according to other resources) are(were?) a Native American tribe who occupied areas in the North American northeast (New Jersey? New York?).

Longfellow’s poem, Burial of the Minnisink, describes the laying to rest of one Minnisink warrior chief.

The poem begins with an image…

On sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And, where the maple’s leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down,
The glory, that the wood receives,
At sunset, in its golden leaves.

…which I thought was so precise and illuminated. At this point, I still didn’t know what a “Minnisink” was, so I just enjoyed the images of the coast and the forest.

Later, Longfellow introduces the human characters, and then, I understood a “Minnisink” is a who. And how noble a who he is.

An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian’s soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

The remainder of the poem describes the brief life of the chief and his untimely passing; funerary details, including the putting away of personal items and the procession; and lastly, the leading in of the riderless horse.

Not one to spoil a good story for anyone else, I’ll withhold the climax of the tale. But I must comment: The ending lines brought genuine tears to my eyes. It was entirely unexpected. Maybe such things are common knowledge to most other people, but it wasn’t to me. I was actually grateful for my ignorance; I felt I was able to experience the full impact of the poem, both the language and the story.

—

The Riderless Horse

I remembered a recent CNN headline, “Riderless horse adds poignancy to military burials.” In reading Longfellow’s Burial of the Minnisink, I began to wonder where the riderless horse custom began.

Reads the CNN article: “The tradition dates ‘to Roman times, or Genghis Khan,’ Nielsen said, ‘as a high honor bestowed on high-ranking fallen warriors.’”

It seems the custom predates Native American practice.

The article also mentions the riderless horse (also “comparisoned horse,” or “cap horse”) in the funerary procession of JFK in 1963, how the image is iconic for the millions of Americans who recall the day.

I’ve been told a visit to Arlington National Cemetery is a profoundly humbling experience one will never forget. Burial of the Minnisink raises my anticipation of our visit in September. I’m quite mindful of the marked contrast between the earthy intimacy of the Native American burial and the white-gloved formality of a military memorial service. At the same time, however, I immediately recognize the honor, the grief, the love and devotion to the fallen is the same.

I’ve fallen in love.

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie…by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Reads Wikipedia:

Evangeline describes the betrothal of an Acadian girl named Evangeline Bellefontaine to her beloved, Gabriel Lajeunesse, and their separation as the British deport the Acadians from Acadie in the Great Upheaval. The poem then follows Evangeline across the landscapes of America as she spends years in a search for him. Finally she settles in Philadelphia and, as an old woman, works as a nun among the poor…[Spoiler ending sentence omitted.]

A poem I have never read. A name I’ve only known as a thoroughfare, except to hear it spoken in St. Martinville, to hear them speak of her with reverence and ownership.

I’ve only ventured through the first few passages (courtesy of Google Book Search), and I am spellbound, eyes glossed over, lips whetted with the dew of true romance.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

…

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

A story of enduring love…the story of the Acadian heart. My, but the words grab hold of the soul!

I’m ashamed I’m just now discovering the nature of one of the most beloved personas in Cajun culture. We spent months traveling back and forth to St. Martinville preparing for a play production at Duchamp Opera House. The old theatre sits just across the street from the church square where “Emmeline LaBiche” (the “real” Evangeline, according to tradition) is said to be buried. There is even a statue of Emmeline nearby. I have never visited the church, never seen the statue, never seen the grave, and never read the poem.

But Longfellow has captured my imagination with only a few lines. Love at first sight. I’ve made up my mind to buy the book tomorrow. It will only take me a few days to read it, and then, I’ll make the pilgrimage to St. Martinville to walk the grounds and visit Emmeline, as is proper for a resident of Acadiana.

I fear reading Evangeline may lead me to even more severely romanticize the Cajun culture I love so dearly but know so little about. In the past, I’ve scorned the same kind of naive sentimentality foisted on the Hawaiian culture, because I felt the starry-eyed fascination was more spawned by a subjective, contrived idealism rather than a genuine admiration and reverence for the true identity of the Hawaiian people. Now, the tables are turned, and I’m challenged to love Cajun culture with a pure heart, a trained mind, an educated selflessness.

Did Longfellow love the Acadians? Did he love the land and the people, as did James Michener the Hawaiians?

I may have been guilty of accusing Michener of romanticizing and idealizing the Hawaiians of times past.

From “On James Michener’s Hawaii - Chp. 1 & 2“; Pana Hula archives, written 2 Sept. 2004…

Michener’s command of the English language is glorious, and I find I am at times so caught up in his spell, I forget all about reading critically, questioning his accuracy or comparing his interpretation of Hawai‘i’s history with facts and opinions to which I’ve been previously exposed. I put off consideration of the author’s subjectivity (the novel is–after all–a work of fiction) and allow myself to drift along on the currents of his excellent tale.

With this in mind, I have to wonder how a kanaka maoli’s perception of Hawaii differs from that of the general readership. Is Hawaii considered by Native Hawaiians to be a sentimental white man’s contrived fantasy? Or do they view Hawaii as a valuable contribution to the celebration of the culture? Or, is Hawaii simply disregarded altogether?

I may follow suit, despite my best intentions. Inevitably, some prose or art will come from the lingering euphoria of reading Evangeline. No doubt, the reading coupled with a visit to St. Martinville will stir me up, and the senses and images won’t let me rest until I’ve created something that will speak for my moved spirit.

But will it be genuine? Will it be a reflection of Longfellow’s Evangeline Bellefontaine? Or will it be a stiff ‘Ailina-mannequin crudely wrapped in a cheap Longfellow knock-off? Campy and synthetic, like cellophane hula skirts?