Alabama Writers Conclave 2009

On Sunday, July 19th, I attended the last day of Alabama Writers Conclave 2009. We met in Birmingham, which was just fine with me. I had no trouble locating the location!

Last year, the 2008 Conclave was held in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and I, being the intrepid traveler not unlike Dangermouse himself, wisked away to Auburn, Alabama with Nina, an unsuspecting side-kick not unlike Dangermouse's right-hand-hamster Penfold, really. We arrived all agog, and casting our eyes all around Auburn, we soon perceived that there was no Alabama Writers Conclave meeting to be had in that fair city. Well, duh, it was in TUSCALOOSA!

But this year I successfully located the Conclave, which is something like a cross between a coven and an enclave, and accepted with grace, and something approaching dignity, the two awards they slapped on me. My free verse poem Calling Up Magic, and my children's story Uncle Earlie Batson and the Biscuit Angel, each won an Honorable Mention. As my daughter Buffy says, it's always good to be mentioned honorably.

As soon as time permits, I'll post Calling Up Magic here. And as soon as I get my illustrations done, Uncle Earlie Batson and the Biscuit Angel is bound to be published to rave reviews, and on sale at your local bookstore!

Calling Up Magic

I remember the mountain
where mountain trees are tall and wild
with glittering leaves like jewels in blinding sun.
Deep shadows abide beneath those towering trees;
somber shadows where secrets rest,
half-remembered, long-enchanted.
Scattered there are ancient odd-shaped stones,
covered over with moss and willful vines
like strong, possessive arms entwined.

The old dirt road curves along cool, shadowed places,
beneath wild cherry, sweetgum and hickory branches,
emerging into sunlight’s blazing blast;
red sand soft and warm underfoot.
Huge sandstone boulders, summer-hot,
perfume the mountain air with fragrance like no other,
and the smell makes my mouth water,
and the air moves around me, gently caressing
like mountain spirits whispering blessings.

A rough-barked tree shimmers, engulfed, heat laden,
its gnarled exterior shredded and tattered
by a bobcat whose sharpening claws,
over time, have left deep enduring scars.
Birds trill, noisy in the bushes, and
insects hum like a choir of tiny whirring machines.
They are calling up magic, singing incantations
of mysterious joy as dark clouds gather
out of the heavy, languid grip of Alabama summer.

© Ramey Channell

Sept choses que j'aime.

On her blog, Blackberry Creek, my sister Susan chose The Painted Possum to receive this nifty Kreative Blogger Award, which I receive with glee! Now I must list seven things I love. The dificulty lies in narrowing down my choices.

1. Possums... all and sundry. I never met a possum I didn't love.

2. Lightning bugs. The First Lightning Bug Night is one of my favorite celebrations each spring.

3. Fresh cut lumber. Love to smell it! I love waking up in the morning to the smell of fresh wood and the sound of hammering.

4. Rocks. I dig in my yard a lot just to see what kind of rocks may be unearthed. My house is full of rocks of every size and description. I have mysterious rocks, rocks I've stolen, rocks I've painted, rocks people have given me, rocks I've fought over, rocks I've lost.

5. Turtles. I find turtles to be enigmatic and amazing.

6. Marbles. Just as the rocks, my house is full of marbles of every size, age and description. I have mysterious marbles, marbles I've dug out of the ground, marbles I've stolen, marbles I've won, marbles people have given me, marbles I've fought over, marbles I've lost.

7. China dishes. Can't ever have too many sets of dishes. Once my daughter, Buffy, told my best friend, C.J., "Mama has dishes all over the house. She even keeps them under her bed." and C.J. replied "Well, of course she does!"

Now, if I could just locate some dishes with possums on them!

Who Do You Love ?

Bo Didley said that! I must give credit where credit is due. Bo wrote and recorded Who Do You Love in 1956, and it is one of the great rock and roll songs in the soundtrack of my childhood and adolescence.

Do you want to see some 50s or 60s era preteens throwing themselves around in an ecstatic frenzy akin to a religious paroxysm? Just throw Who Do You Love on the turntable, and stand back!

In other news: On her blog, Sourwood Mountain, my sister Joanne posted this request: If you love somebody, or some pet, who most likely never existed, I invite you to post it on your blog, and to tell why you love him or her. Joanne's "somebody" was Lancelot.

I think quite possibly that Lancelot really did exist, in one form or another. And the first person who popped into my mind as someone I have loved who was almost fictitious, and definitely mythical, is Alexander the Great. No doubt about it.

I fell in love with Alexander the Great in about 1976 when I read the novels The Persian Boy and Fire From Heaven by Mary Renault. Renault seemed to capture the personality and spirit of her subject in a way that actually made him seem totally real and believable. I was captivated and intrigued by some of the amazing and romantic facts or legends or myths regarding Alexander.

1. His mother claimed that the king, Philip, was not Alexander's father, but that a god impregnated her. Sounds unlikely, but aspects of Alexander's character, life and death seem very much super-human.

2. After conquering an enemy force, Alexander gave full citizenship and freedom to all those who would swear allegiance to him.

3. After each battle, Alexander kissed each soldier in his army, and this honor was so treasured that anyone who didn't receive a kiss was thrown into inconsolable grief and despair.

4. Alexander's love for his best friend, Hephaistion, was so intense that when Hephaistion died, Alexander built an enormous and beautiful tower as the funeral pyre, placed the body on the summit of the elaborate structure, and burned the whole thing down.

One famous event after the battle of Issus (autumn 333) gives us an idea about Alexander's and Hephaistion's friendship, when Alexander had captured Darius's throne tent and all the royal contents, including Darius's mother, Sisygambis; his wife, Stateira; and his harem.
When Alexander and Hephaistion went to meet Sisygambis, she prostrated herself at the feet of the most kingly figure. She chose by mistake the taller Hephaistion! Alexander is said to have responded rather pleasantly: "Don't worry mother, he is Alexander too."

5. And, Alexander loved his wondrous horse, Bucephalus, so much, he had a giant statue of the horse sculpted, and made the horse a general in the army!

So, while in the throes of this amorous affliction, I wrote an amorphous poem about Alexander. The dictionary tells us that amorphous means without definite shape, and I think that describes my poem, which is more emotion than form.

Alexander of Macedonia

You have left us;

by night we hunger for your voice

still, at this great distance, we hunger

and thirst for the taste of you.

Memories and haunted dreams

like fires, like jewels,

burn across the dark until

your voice awakes the seamless night.

Then I see your face, that aching

long-remembered beauty, loved by others long ago

and now so close to me

I feel your breath against my skin.

You come and go, appear then fade.

Please stay, please stay longer here

in this time and place, so far, so far

from that world you knew before; those days

of gold and fire and battles fought

for kings and kingdoms and promises

never lost, and worlds invented in your eyes,

worlds invented, conquered, then redeemed

by you and your beautiful eyes.

You rode across the earth, called it your own,

then gave yourself, body and soul, to those you conquered,

those you possessed and who would possess you;

soldiers and slaves who cried for your kiss.

Lovers and warriors whose every waking thought

was of you, whose destiny was in your hands

and whose blood fueled your fires; those are the ones

who touched you and were changed forever by your touch.

Those are the ones I envy, the ones who knew you, the ones

you built towers for, towers of flame and honor

and desire and sound. The sound of sacred flame

echoes from your past, a holy noise around you.

Still, I hunger and thirst for you,

and I watch for you in vacant dreams.

Silence drifts like smoke across the starless night

waiting to be filled by the sound of your voice

and the touch of your breath.

At dawn, the fires still burn, and you will go again

to find that distant world you knew.

That other world awaits you still.

Alexander, Alexander,

take me with you.

© Ramey Channell 2001

Homage to a Sweet Friend

Looks like I'm all blogged out for the time being. Today my brain is a vast and empty COSMOS.

My beautiful Mr. Humphreys has passed on to Kitty Heaven. The rest of us mourn.

Here's his beautiful face.

Blues in Birmingham

Oh, wow! I just found out Jonny Lang will be at City Stages in Birmingham on June 20th!

Here's Jonny doing Good Morning Little School Girl from his 1997 album "Lie to Me." Lang was 16 years old at the time of this video. (Sept. 9, 1997)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uETsOtparg

Lie to Me is an absolutely fabulous CD. I believe all songs on the CD are Jonny Lang originals except Good Morning Little School Girl, written by Sonny Boy Williamson around 1937, and Matchbox, written by Ike Turner.

There is also another Matchbox, written by Carl Perkins: "I'm sitting here wondering, will a matchbox hold my clothes." I think the Beatles recorded this, along with other earlier artists. I always thought the words were, "I'm sitting here worrying, with a matchbox hole in my clothes." I always wondered if a matchbox hole was a hole as big as a matchbox!

Of his recent album, Turn Around, Lang says "With this album I want to focus, more than ever before, on my purpose in life. I've been so incredibly blessed. My wife and I just had our fifth anniversary. I get to do what I love for a living. But it wasn't so long ago that I was spiraling downward in a lot of ways, until God touched my life and set me on the right track. I feel a huge debt to give glory back to Him for everything He has done for me. It's the least I can do."

"I understand that not everybody believes as I do," Lang says, "which is fine. I just want to sing about what's going on in my life and let people make up their own minds about that."

I haven't heard Turn Around yet, and can't wait to do so! One of my favorite musicians, Buddy Miller, accompanies Jonny on the song On That Great Day. Buddy and Julie Miller are indescribably talented artists. The first time I heard them perform was at City Stages a few years ago.

Guster will also be there, and if we're lucky, they'll perform All the Way Up to Heaven, the sweetest song you'd ever want to hear. This song brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it, and so far everyone I ask has had the same experience.

So, let's all go to City Stages this year!

Fifteen Books in Fifteen Minutes

My sister tagged me to list 15 books that will always stick with me--but I'm supposed to do it in 15 minutes. I'll give it a try. I'll list them as they come to mind, not in any kind of best-to-worst order.

1. Firmin: the Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife, by Sam Savage
2. A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole
3. A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean
4. In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, by Peter Matthiessen
5. A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier, by Ishmael Beah
6. Ghosts of Tsavo, by Philip Caputo
7. Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me, by Richard Farina
8. Dracula, by Bram Stoker
9. Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier
10. The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran
11. The Peaceable Kingdom, by Jan de Hartog
12. The Book of the Hopi, by Frank Waters
13. Black Elk Speaks, by John G. Neihardt
14. Ishi, the Last of His Tribe, by Theodora Krober
15. Karla Faye Tucker Set Free: Life and Faith on Death Row, by Linda Strom

I didn't time it. I think this took me more than fifteen minutes. I recommend all of these.

A Wedding in Birmingham: A Good Story for Summer

Voltus Electricalus and Strata Illuminata

They were married. The wedding march ushered them briskly out of the candle-lit church into the ecstatic sunlight. Rice and birdseed were thrown. Brown sparrows and gray doves skittered along the warm sidewalk amid the feet of exuberant guests. A solitary squirrel ventured down the trunk of a massive oak tree to peer at the festive crowd, as Albert Slater led his bride to the car parked at the curb.
That was on Saturday. Now it was Wednesday. Marissa was still trying to get used to the fact that she was Mrs. Albert Slater. She thought she might never get used to the fact that she was Mrs. Albert Anybody. Albert was such a difficult name to get used to; so old fashioned and stiff. She would have preferred a Daniel, a Greg, or a Jason. Albert was a stuffy, dusty sounding name.
But here he was. Thank goodness he didn't look like an Albert. They stood together on the hotel balcony overlooking the endless view of mountains piled one over another into the blue distance. Sun struck his clean thin face, causing him to squint as he smiled at her. She could see scattered prisms of refracted sunlight in his hair. Suddenly the thought struck her that he seemed to actually emanate light. That's it, she thought. He looks electrical.
She continued to watch him, the sunlight firing off his face, his eyes, his red hair; then she had to explain why she laughed.
"It's because you look electrical, Albert, like a volt of electricity. Like a watt. Like a million watts. Like a bolt of lightning tearing across the sky, like the king of all lightning and electrical impulses."
Albert had no objection to being the King of Electrical Impulses, and since it amused her, he let her fashion a costume for him out of coat-hangers, plastic dry-cleaner bags, shoulder pads snipped from articles of clothing, a clear plastic belt strapped diagonally across his chest.
"Wild King of Electricity," she addressed him that night inside their institutionally impersonal honeymoon suite. "Your name henceforth shall be Miraculous Voltus Electricalus!" And she laughed and laughed.
And he laughed too, watching his new bride apply red lipstick lightning streaks to her fresh just-married face and along both arms from shoulder to wrist. He pranced about the room, uninhibited for the first time in his life, striking poses he deemed to be thoroughly electrical, as she continued drawing red zig-zags of lightning from her thighs to her ankles and from her breasts, downward across her stomach and abdomen.
She moussed her blonde hair into two huge spikes that actually looked quite like horns, and she sprayed them with hair spray until they radiated stiffly from her head. Then she fashioned a costume for herself, folding many sheets of white writing paper into fans which she tucked into her bra and under the straps and around the elastic of her bikini panties. Then she encircled herself with a long, heavy-duty extension cord which she ripped from the lamps on each side of the king-sized nuptial bed. From this, she dangled her curling iron, her hair dryer, his electric razor.
"My electrical darling!" he exclaimed, as if he had recognized her for the first time.
"Yes," she answered. "I am known as Strata Illuminata." And she danced for him, a frantic, twitching pavane with many starts and stops, like an electric light switch flipped on and off.
Thus, when they came back from their honeymoon, they possessed a private world, inhabited entirely by electrical lovers of wattage. No one else guessed that there was such a world, and that of course made it all the more amusing. When in the company of relatives and friends, often they looked shyly at each other when anyone mentioned power surges, or they winked furtively across the table when someone predicted an electrical storm.
They felt, even more than most young married couples, special, set apart, conspirators. Mythological.
They had a nice little home, a renovated 1940s bungalow on Southside. There were tall trees in the back and thick, luxurious green grass in the front. The young couple enjoyed lying on their backs on that verdant green carpet at night, watching the stars and talking of the distant electrical galaxy from which they came. Soon they began wrapping themselves in long strings of Christmas lights, augmenting their electrical costumes with thousands of tiny luminous bulbs. His were multicolored; hers were clear.
They purchased more and more extension cords, stringing them together end-to-end, so that the two glowing, frolicsome beings of enlightenment could run about across the lawn each night, sparkling and volatile, dancing dances of astonishing incandescence on the dark summer grass.
Strata Illuminata teased and tempted her mythological hero, Voltus Electricalus, as she romped across the dew covered lawn. The fescue glittered under her feet, reflecting the brilliant beams cast by thousands of tiny lights adorning her otherwise naked body. V.E. laughed lustily and gave chase.
"Come to me, my flashy seductress!" he called, pursuing his flickering loved one. "Illuminata! Illuminata!"
She squealed and threw herself into his arms, giving little thought to the crackling of tiny bulbs. They bought only the kind that would continue to burn if one burned out.
The thunder of the approaching storm was muffled by the shouts and laughter of the radiant lovers who were now entangled in their multiple extension cords as they thrashed about in fervent embrace. The immense bolt of lightning ripped out of the turbulent sky and made contact with their many-lighted bodies.
And that was the end of that marriage.


©Ramey Channell 2004