Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

When we left for Dublin, Ireland on Friday, I'd picked up a copy of Letters to a Young Poet in The Frenchman's office. Many people had told me to read this, including a certain award-winning writer back when we were still friends. The irony is that he had tried to be Rilke to me in so many ways -- and was, sweetly and sagely, for a bit -- but decided in the end to turn it all inside out when Biting Midnight was published. It was a bizarre shift of intent. I guess I'll never understand why he changed, so quickly and drastically.

That said, any past personal disappointments didn't detract from my experience of Rilke. Not one bit.

I'll have to go back and re-read the Letters. They were so dense with philosophy that even the smallest distractions flung me out of a phrase. I kept clambering back, as there was so much relevant advice about being a writer. Clearly, I've been thirsty for this. Not just the parts about writing, but he had some especially relevant points about living with sadness and difficulty that seemed useful to study in more depth.

And then there was Hibernia* -- er, I mean Dublin. Glorious, blustery, dastardly cold Dublin. We especially loved The Writer's Museum. It is without question the single most inspiring thing for me there (or anywhere, really). They offer this delightful one-man show that we saw put on by an actor named Neil O'Shea. He recited and acted bits of verse and plays by Swift, Wilde, Yeats, Joyce, Shaw and others. I managed to also snap some illicit photos of a first edition of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Much cider and great Irish food were had, as was ambling in the chilly yet jubilant streets of Temple Bar late at night. The Frenchman is completely charmed. It was his first time there. I'm so thrilled because I love Ireland like no other place.

Oh, and when we get our first kitty, it's going to be named Pangur Bán (whether it's white or not).

In the airport coming back, I convinced him to buy me The God Delusion. I was going crazy with curiosity. Dawkins is so far very witty and extremely well read, managing in this book to quote current events as recent as this last April. (How does one do that when it takes six months for galleys? I don't know.) I worry though that, as he sets up his argument to disprove the existence of God, he overstretches himself as he also tries to disprove the existence of anything supernatural whatsoever. The argument is already gearing up as if it's going to pitch "stick it in your ear cos I've got logic" in response to any experience that falls outside of his own set of experiences. But we'll see. He might hit it right out of the park. Thing is, there are plenty of us who got A's in science, logic and philosophy classes -- who even like science -- and are open-minded and non-religious. Yet we've also experienced profound things that science answers unsatisfactorily or, in my case, not one damned bit.

I've got a lot of writing to catch up on, although I worked through some things on the plot somehow between pints and planes. I'm really pleased how the loose ends are now plaiting together nicely.

And now to work.



* This was what Julius Ceasar called Ireland when the Romans first arrived. It means "Eternal Winter."

President Bush has just now revealed how witheringly useless and head-holding, body-rocking bonkers he really is...

Meet Dr. Eric Keroak, President Bush's appointee for deputy assistant secretary of population affairs within the Department of Health and Human Services. (This did not require congressional approval. Dumbshit just did it because he could.)

According to Slate:

In his new role, Keroack will have extensive power to shape the kinds of information disseminated to millions of women. He will be able to develop new guidelines for clinics, set priorities, and determine how scarce dollars get spent, says Marilyn Keefe of the National FamilyPlanning and Reproductive Health Association. "We've seen that people in these political slots have a tremendous influence over how programs get implemented," she said.

Yet Dr. Keroak does not believe in birth control of any kind, and thinks condoms offer "virtually no protection" against herpes or HPV. He is particularly fond of twisting study results on condom use for HIV and mistakenly claims they have a "15% failure rate." He also furthers a number of other unscientific, utterly demented beliefs about abortion and sex out of wedlock (which he claims isn't healthy for women based on his Weenie World News-style medical evidence). In fact, he's not too "with" modern science in general. Multiple scientific studies by reputable groups that happen to contradict him are just...invisible.

What next? A Scientologist appointee to a psychiatric position? Oh, sorry. I forgot Christian crazy is okay. Non-Christian crazy is not.

The book is coming together at last. Everything is converging nicely and I don't feel panicked in the slightest. The Patterson books are paying off. I feel like I have the rhythm and voice of the thriller but with the spiritual stuff wagging its hideous face at it all, scaring the poo out of everyone.

Even me.

The night was like a factory conveyor belt crammed with half-assembled odd dreams that rolled past. It ended with me "waking" to find some creepy guy in my bed in place of The Frenchman. I screamed and tried to get away. He grabbed me from behind. I continued to shriek, pulling him halfway out of the bed with me as I struggled. When I woke up, I recognized the creepy guy looked like my villian, who in turn looked somewhat like the character Sawyer from LOST. That's when I realized that the actor Josh Holloway is my villian:

The man’s flannel shirt sleeves were ripped and soaked with sweat. Heavy rivulets swam down his flushed face as he leaned into the car, jamming the nose of the rifle into the hollow of Alex’s cheek. A thick scar chiseled over his left brow, taking with it a stripe of dark brown hair. Flared nostrils raw and moist with rage. Eyes of crushed marcasite stained with ashes...

Check out the picture I linked. He even has that lick in his left eyebrow. I never watch television, so I had no idea this actor existed before we rented the first DVD of Season 1 a couple weeks ago. Neat, eh? (Then again, this isn't a complete description. The villian is described in two separate places by different people. He's also from the South, like Holloway.)

Time to watch another episode!

The Frenchman is just full of surprises. This Friday, we're going to Dublin!

I'm incredibly excited. Ryanair is apparently having tons of sales, where the taxes cost more than the actual ticket. So, he scooped us a couple of tickets to Ireland, knowing how much I insanely love the place.

It's going to rain, but I don't care.

We couldn't find anything within our price range in the city center, so we reserved a hotel just outside near the rugby stadium. It's should be very quiet, just a few steps away from DART, which runs all night.

I'll never forget my last night in Dublin. I sang at an open mike in Temple Bar at a place called Malloy's on High Street. It was April 2000. The venue was a U.S. fireman's nightmare: about a hundred people packed into a basement full of electronics and lit candles sitting on wobbly black iron candelabras. They gave performers two free drink tickets. Everyone else got charged five pounds. The talent at that open mike far outstripped anything I'd ever seen at any open mike in Los Angeles. I was either laughing, staring with a slack jaw or bawling all evening. I sang after these two insanely talented young men who played hand drums and guitar, singing about their friend who had died recently in "the troubles." Unsure how I was going to follow that act, I started by reading a raunchy bit of poetry to build my courage and then sang a cappella my own version of "I Am Stretched On Your Grave." The room sang along beautifully for the first verse, then everyone fell absolutely silent. Even though it's one of my stronger songs, I still can't fathom where I got big enough balls to sing an Irish song. Anyway, they gave me the nicest and kindest ovation I've ever gotten in my life, methinks. The open mike organizer looked up at me with wide, wet eyes as he clapped and said, "Welcome to Ireland, Maria."

As if they hadn't already given me the best welcome ever.

It won't be anything like that, I know, but I still can't wait to go back and drink Irish coffees with The Frenchman by roaring fires. To return to the city that worships writers. It's sort of the antithesis of Hollywood. And maybe that's why I like it so much.

This morning, The Frenchman woke me up with a kiss. "Did you sleep okay?"

I nodded.

"Did you cough?"

I shook my head.

"Good! Then I have a surprise for you this morning..." He smiled sweetly. "We're going to a historical faire for the year 1720!"

My throat was a tad sore, but I was still very excited. 1720! Wow! Why did they pick that year? "Because that's the year when the Plague hit Marseille. And a time when they had a lot of pirates."

YAY!

"Il Était Une Fois"

That was the name of the gathering, which was located in the port city, La Ciotat, famous for where they filmed the first movie in history. The phrase is French for "Once Upon a Time." To get in, we had to purchase a "Billet de Santé" to prove we didn't have The Plague (which was kinda cute). Once we arrived, I felt very much at home: musicians, jugglers, nobility, great garb and food far better than you'll ever find at any Renn Faire in the U.S. It wasn't as polished as the now defunct Living History Center faire in the Bay Area, but everyone made a great effort.



The only truly disappointing part was the sword work. They'd set up a rather wretched area full of half-spirited, unskilled young actors with swords and training sticks to run through basic sword moves. They had bad form, no rhythm, no real anything. I wanted badly to jump in and show 'em a thing or two. Alas, there was no steel slinging for me. I left with my heart a bit in my mouth.

Anyway, here are gobs of fun photos with lots more of the day's story.

After the faire, we then went to the Cliffs of Cassis where I took many, somewhat hazardous photos. But can you blame me?



And then we ate crepes, watched LOST and lived happily ever after.

Dormez bien, tout le monde!

I'm reading Violets are Blue by James Patterson to get an idea of how popular thrillers are written. It's been very educational. According to this book, here are his 7 Golden Rules of Writing:

1. Write simple sentences. Don't use big words or describe people wearing colors other than black or "powder blue."
2. Dialogue should be monotonous. Have your characters say the same thing over and over. Especially the hero. He has to bemoan his life yet cheer himself on in the next breath, reminding himself how great he is. Over and over. Bemoan, cheer, repeat! If that doesn't work, have other people say the same thing. Bemoan, cheer, repeat!
3. Keep your chapters short. Three pages is pushing it.
4. Take a subculture -- like goths -- and exploit them in the most obnoxiously ignorant way. Use the real names of their clubs in Los Angeles, and make sure every person depicted is a lunatic, a drug addict, or both. Get everything wrong, even if getting it right would make your story more complex and interesting. Don't even try to understand said subculture. They won't know! They'll never read your book, anyway!
5. Don't worry about the accuracy of anything you write. Geography, culture, language -- it's fiction! You can do what you want!
6. Kill a lot of people.
7. Make your villians go to Vegas. No reason. Just get them there. You've got to write off that trip to Vegas for your taxes somehow...
   

Wow! I'm ready now to write a commercially successful thriller. It'll take about a month.

But please shoot me first.

I just finished the first draft of "Though Thy Lips are Pale." The ending rabbit-kicked me in the stomach.

Fuck.

When it was done, all I could do was lay in the dark on the bed by the laptop until I felt better. Still not sure I feel better.

I guess I didn't expect it to hit this hard. This is not a tale for the jaded. It's a tale for the wounded. And for those who still believe in something...

...even if it's a bit dark.

I already know none of the usual places will want this. I can't help but feel my voice is a bit too basso profundo for most fantasy magazines. Chris at Paradox might like it. He's not reading right now, though. It's a shame.

Goddamn faeries.

Goddamn them.

And what is in my special Z-catching trap, you ask? Another bed, Choda Boy! I slept in the other room last night whilst the Frenchman stayed in our regular bed. I slept the whole night through without coughing. The Frenchman was worried I'd get cold in the other room, but I was fine. I refuse to sleep in a separate bed for the rest of winter. That just bites. So, we're also looking into a humidifier -- that is, un humidificateur, to you, pal.

Speaking of translations, I'm reading a novel right now where the author has created these French characters who do not really speak French but rather phrases that were either pieced together with a dictionary or that have been run through Babelfish. I'm pulling out my hair as I read one egregious error after another. Most of the time, it's not even close to the correct spelling or phrase. (And just so you know, Babelfish doesn't even give what's called a "literal" translation. It is often completely heedless of grammar, as well as context and idiom.) One would have thought the publisher would give a rat's ass, but apparently not. Shades of Rowling's comma splices, no doubt. It all makes the mind boggle...

After this book, I have two James Patterson novels set in San Francisco to gulp down as I go back to Out of Body. I think it will help me steer my San Francisco drama more firmly into thriller territory whilst keeping all the spiritual drama. After that, I have some Margaret Atwood to wash it all down. I'm going to wander back to the British bookstore in Aix and see if I can't dig up more Peter Straub and maybe some King. I've read very little King, and now I have a hankerin'. Go figure.

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I. Fucking. Hate. This.

The Frenchman's sister says that her youngest son gets this cough from the dryness of the heaters in the house, that she has to do something equivalent to humidifying the place to get it to stop. It makes sense because we've only started using the wall heaters in the last couple of weeks. I'm dramatically increasing my water intake to see if that helps.

Yesterday, I was feeling pretty well, so we went into town late in the afternoon. We bought crepe batter from Crepes-a-Go-Go, then went to the movies to see The Queen. It's a fairly solid film with some wonderful acting, but there were a couple of miscasts in my opinion, particularly of Prince Charles. I loved recalling Tony Blair in the days when I wanted to have his babies. It also brought back all that emotion when Diana died. The Frenchman was incredibly puzzled as to why I and my friends would have grieved so much at her death. I thought the film had explained the whole fairytale thing, but I re-explained how I and my friends were not that far in age from Diana and how her whole wedding captured our romantic imaginations in high school. Then, to see the whole dream peeled away in what looked like a series of frightful betrayals just made us far more sympathetic to her. She was truly a Princess of the People and she stirred us deeply with her compassion, strength and courage. One of the missteps of the film was that they allude to another side of her -- a private Mr. Hyde to her demure, public Jekyll -- but they never gave any good examples of it except to imply that she wasn't as affectionate with her sons in private as she was around the cameras.

Anyway, I made my first crepes last night. Check out my Flickr photos of the yum!

I'm going to try to make my day better than my night, dammit.

Today is just blistering with birthdays.

Happy Birthday to Neil! (Shhhhh! He's 46. Don't tell anyone.)

AND

Happy Birthday to Nathan Long! Many, many more to ya, pal!

AND

Belated Birthday to Jonathan. His was on the 8th, but I coughed through it.

Did I miss anybody?

Right.

As you were.

After a hellish night of coughing despite the new sirop contre la toux, The Frenchman decided it's now time to see Dr. K, if for no other reason that to get prescribed something stronger so that I can sleep. I've been going over the list of cold vs. flu symptoms. Although I have more cold symptoms, there are a couple of flu-like things about this, like the severe cramp I got yesterday morning in my leg that nearly immobilized me. And I periodically lose my appetite.

Anyway.

I finally finished Lost Boy, Lost Girl, which had been misplaced in my collection at home for some time. I found it when packing, but couldn't bring it here. So, I bought a paperback of it at the British bookstore in Aix. It's so great. Funny, but despite how Peter describes the teenage character Mark in the book, I kept picturing Benji, Peter and Susie's handsome rascal of a son with whom I had a very funny encounter at the dry cleaner's in Burbank. If you haven't read it, it's a terrific thriller that sits the natural and supernatural back to back, the two spines touching but not fusing. Unbelievably good.

We've also seen some movies lately:

I downloaded Kinky Boots from iTunes. It was incredibly sweet, albeit predictable, but, damn, do I love it when a man wears a fine pair of sexy boots!

Saving Grace was delightfully funny, a bit whimsical and had Brenda Blethyn, which is never bad. Ever. It really deserves a higher rating than it gets on the IMDB.

And then friends gave us a really big television and we rented The Constant Gardener. Now, you must understand that most televisions in France are no bigger than an Etch-a-Sketch. This television is actually about the same size as mine was in Los Angeles, which is to say, sufficiently large. Based on John le Carré's novel of the same name, The Constant Gardner was very well done as a film -- great acting, suspenseful, moving -- but I was bothered by the way they glossed over the responsibility of the African government in what was going on in the plot. In one sentence, they minimized it to "someone got paid off" and then let us sit with that little burning coal in our mouths whilst the plate full of gold passed by.

"Though Thy Lips Are Pale" is creeping along but I'm really happy with it. After this, no more short stories for a long while. My agent will soon be finished with her notes on Mr. Wicker, and I need to finish this draft of Out of Body, obstacles or no.

It got me.

Yesterday, I was so weak I could barely speak. I slept most of the day, coughed most of the night... I was coughing so badly last night that I moved to the other bedroom lest I keep The Frenchman awake. His mission tonight is to bring home cough syrup.

Man, it's been so ridiculously long since I got sick like this that I can't remember what to do. Rest, drink fluids, vitamins...is there anything I'm missing?

My friends lovingly remind me how much they hate me for my current fortune, but when I recently took four different versions of the Life Stress Test, I consistently got extremely high scores, which means I'm "due" for an illness. These tests are pretty out of date, though. They don't include things like "moving in with significant other," just "marriage" (too specific) and "change of living conditions" (too general). And what about loss of pets? That's not a huge stress? Anyway, you get the picture.

In better news, I'm happy to report that I voted almost three weeks ago via absentee overseas ballot. Please vote today. PLEASE. I just miss that I don't get the sticker. I love that stupid sticker. (Where is that on the Life Stress Test? "No longer gets the dopey 'I Voted' sticker.")

I have a funny French-to-English-to-French anecdote, but I'll share it later when I feel more jolly.

Au demain!

Awww, crap.

For days now it's felt like I've got potstickers in my neck. A nice excuse for a hot toddy, anyway. I've been in this arm wrestling elbow lock with whatever-it-is since Friday. Half sick, half well.

I had to convince my mother not to mail me over-the-counter drugs (an action I think might be illegal anyway). I reminded her we have pharmacies here. And doctors. The French, like, invented x-rays and stuff.

Moms.

They are sending kitty pictures. Those are very good medicines, yes.

I need to stop writing short stories for a while so I can finish my book, but I'm driven to write "Though Thy Lips Are Pale." As I write it, I think about all those towering literary awards that frown down at writers, one foot raised up over the wee head of a scribe like me. Symbolically, the story is a little bit about them, and more.

Time soon for bed. And more hot lemon honey kirsch water.

I did another interview with JD Holveck last night for Pagan Podcasting. This time we discussed the mystical, sometimes scary places I visited in my journey during the "tour de France." I'll let you know as soon as the link is up. Incidentally, there are new photos up of the fairytale port of Honfleur, where Baudelaire lived with his mother for some time, and the Bayeux Cathedral, a Gothic masterpiece that rivals Notre Dame in Paris. It's located near that jaw-dropping artifact of medieval propaganda, the Bayeux Tapestry. (No cameras were allowed.)

One of the things I told JD offline was that certain sections of the so-called pagan community are driving me crazy with revisionistic, "fluffy bunny" concepts of various deities in ancient religion and literature. This has always bothered me, but last night I lost all tolerance for it. Here I am, trying to clear up popular misconceptions about the historical documentation of Jesus and there are people who think it's okay to have small children in a ritual where the participants become possessed by an ancient deity of madness and frenzy.

Yes, you read that right.

I've found in the pagan community two extremes in thinking: either one should never deal with a "dark" deity or that said "dark" deities can be diluted to something digestible and nontoxic in our watery ideological porridge. In the former, black-and-white thinking, it's almost as if we were Pentecostal Christians but with different gods. In the latter, however, ancient religion sheds its scales, rolls over and begs for belly rubs; even if we look at this from a purely psychological perspective -- the deities as aspects of our psyche, which is entirely valid -- there is a dangerous denial of what human beings are truly capable of. You can turn on the firehose of logic in these situations, but all you get is soggy thinking.

Just remember: Cthulhu Hearts the Little Children. Especially with cream sauce.

Although they only offered a French dubbed version in the Aix theaters, we just saw Pan's Labyrinth and were completely stunned by its brilliance. I didn't understand everything that was said, but I didn't need to. Guillermo's story works so powerfully on so many different levels that I understood almost everything regardless.

Magick. Cruelty. Courage. A story of faery, a story of humanity and a little girl in between, all woven into one beautiful film.

I don't want to say anything else about it. Just be sure to see it when it comes out in the U.S.