Tales from San Antonio,Texas - The Great Bird Spirit

Sunday afternoon, July 20, 2014:

On the San Antonio Riverwalk

I walk, sit for a while, and enjoy the beauty that is everywhere, then repeat. This process allows me to enjoy the heated paradise know as San Antonio’s Riverwalk.

Quaint footbridges arch over the stream intermixed with less picturesque spans speeding along motorized traffic. I’ve found a shady spot under one of the latter, and rest my lungs and knees. Interludes like this allow prime people-watching opportunities.

A group of teenage girls – hair swinging, giggles ringing – sway in their short-shorts toward me. One young lady scoots ahead of the group and stomps at unwary pigeons. The birds light upon the walkway whenever there is a break in walkers, hoping for a quick treat. They flit away whenever a human gets too close, however this child does not allow the bird their chance at a snack. She scares them. The birds herky-jerk into the sky, wings flailing in a mad rush to escape her. The critters aren’t used to this kind of treatment. The youngling laughs with delight. I am not amused.

The flange of girls just about reach where I’m sitting, when a pigeon lands several feet to the left of me: The teenager pulls her stunt again followed by peals of laughter from her friends.

“You should be careful about doing that,” I say.

She turns wide eyes my way. The entire herd of girls stop. “Huh?” She asks.

“Yes,” I say, “I wouldn’t scare the birds like that. It’s not the creatures themselves that would concern me. It’s the Great Bird Spirit, the protector of all pigeons and sparrows.”

The girls look at each other, glance at a pigeon that has flitted down from its roost under the bridge to perch a yard away on my right. The bird’s glossy head tilts like he’s listening, too.

I continue: “The Great Bird Spirit was here long before the white man moved into Texas – long before the first Native Americans set foot here. She watches over her flocks.”

The girls stare at me, then at the pigeon, who, as though understanding all, fluffs his feathers, and turns to gaze at the teenagers with his other eye.

“You keep scaring the birds,” I wave my hand at my blue-green feathered friend, “and the Great Bird Spirit will find you.”

They gasp, and step away from the pigeon and I.

In an ominous tone, I speak again. “You won’t like what she does to those who harm her friends.”

One of the girls asks, “What does she do?”

I take a deep breath, like I really don’t want to talk about this. “It’s not for me to say, but Ill give you one little warning: Beware the night. She sends—things—” When I say this, the bird squeaks, lifts his iridescent wings, and soars away. We watch him leave the security of the underpass, and head off down the river.

“Beware . . .” I begin again.

“Shit,” says one of the girls. “Santa Maria. . .” begins another. They all cross themselves and skedaddle, leaving me alone under the bridge.

I could see them for about twenty-thirty yards before the curve of the river took them from my sight. Not once did a single girl frighten another bird.

Never mess with a critter-loving writer.

Imagine they will never forget, either.

Peggy

Tales from San Antonio, Texas - View

Sunday, July 20, 2014

This is the view from my room. Please note the beautiful Cathedral of San Fernando across the river.

This morning, while showering, the cathedral bells went off. They were so loud, they reverberated from the walls in my lovely room. They jarred me as I showered. They shook my soul... And they wouldn't stop. What, I said as I dressed for the day - am I going to have to go to church before their incessant clanging will cease? I stepped out on the balcony to hear the gongs without the buffering action of glass and brick, only to find that the cacophony is less obtrusive. WTF? Then it hit me. The sucker who had the room prior to me had set a freaking alarm.

Imagining the previous inhabitant is still laughing,

Peggy

Tales from San Antonio, Texas - Arrival

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Arrived in San Antonio to attend the Romance Writers Association Conference (RWA14) at 10:08am after three hours sleep the night before, and immediately hit the Le Mans racetrack. Some folks would have called it an expressway, but I know better. The very nice cabby packed my bags in the trunk, opened the door for me, and then we were OFF! Zip here. Zag there. Weave and pounce. We slashed our way through many lanes of traffic. But wait! There’s an opening almost five feet long in front of a fluorescent orange semi. Surely not—well, of course he goes for it. I swear we had—oh—a good solid inch between my side of the cab and the semi’s shiny chrome fender. I could count the dead bugs on the front of that truck as we squeezed in front of him, and was extremely grateful that the semi’s breaks and horn worked. Finally, we pulled up in front of the Riverwalk Marriott, where I exited the racecar with alacrity. I did NOT fall to my knees and kiss the ground, though I did think about it. I was surprised there was no checkered flag.

Imagine how much fun that was!

Peggy

The Eyes Have It!

Before I get all wrapped up in my latest “writerly” escapades, let me say how very proud I am of our country’s celebration of its 238^th birthday!

I’ve been reading Diane Gabaldon’s numerous books of Historical-Adventure-Scottish-American-Pirating exploits. She spent numerous hours painstakingly researching the mid 1700’s in Scotland, France, and the America’s before she wrote her novels. She continued the research as she wrote her masterpieces – and, since I’m in no way affiliated with her, other than as a fan – let me plug that Starz is making her first book Outlander into a series. Don’t we all wish that for our novels? I can see it now Flocked: Birds of a Feather, a Starz series . . .

Pardon me, I’m taking a break as I daydream . . .

Ok, I’m back now. Not only does Gabaldon write exquisitely, she captures the imaginations of both men and women readers with her word craft. She is one of the examples I follow when writing. Not to say I write like her, but she has a talent for descriptions and a way of dialog that inspires me.

So now we are to the confession: “Her eyes, the color of chocolate . . .” Oh, how horrible. Surely I can do better than that? How many of you have used a phrase – a description that you know should be better? Could be better?

Here’s my July goal – use other names/descriptions for the commonplace.

Examples I’ve come up with (using eye color):

The color of malted hops.

As bright as rain on a wren’s back.

Caviar eyes.

Eyes the color of North Atlantic storms.

Eyes as dark as his soul, tainted with rot.

His eyes were like a shark’s, cold and deadly, without emotion.

Okay, you get the drift. I have a little notebook I’ve started, with descriptions – different ways to say something other than the usual. How do you keep track of your ideas? I certainly can’t remember my brain illuminations. I have to write them down.

Go ahead and try new ways of saying something. Send me your description of the eyes in the photograph. Have fun with it – I won’t tell my daughter-in-law, the model. Let your imagination soar!

Imagining the possibilities,

Peggy

Review of "Grant's Little Read Book of Poetry"

Grant Peeples, songwriter, singer, and now poet, writes in soul-blood upon the pages of Grant's Little Read Book of Poetry with love, and anger. He does not mince words, but throws in double handfuls “along the roadsides of convention, and medians of mediocrity,” his disdain and hope.

In “Mowing down the Wild Flowers,” he writes:

In stagnant ditches or in dry and rocky washes,

    they may volunteer to thrive,

to dance in the shadows of lampposts, road signs and

    power wires,

and to wave a proud little glory that’s

indifferent to the insults

    of all that trashed contempt

    scattered there amongst the innocent

    rot of road kill

Gritty and raw, Grant’s poetry scrapes through thin public veneers to eviscerate the reader and force them to take notice. In “The New Southern Tableau,” he states:

Beyond the town,

    where once there was a woodland,

    now grows in rows

    the slash pine fields

    of future 2 x 4s and toilet paper;”

Each word is this slim book counts, holds weight, and paints pictures that fascinate. Inside the front cover of Grant's Little Read Book of Poetry, nests a compact disk with Grant reading his own poems, so the reader has options – read – listen – or both at the same time. I enjoyed this small book in all the above ways, but prefer listening to Grant interpret his art.

There is some foul language, so if it offends you, don’t read it, but you will miss out on a true North Florida artist. Peeples’ poetry is like the sweetest water, and bitterest lemon, smooth and rough, and filled with passion. Forty-three pages are not enough, and I sincerely hope this is not Grant’s last book of poetry.

You can purchase Grant’s Little Read Book of Poetry by visiting his web site: www.grantpeeples.com, or purchasing it directly from him at any of his concerts. Information regarding Peeples’ concerts is available at www.grantpeeples.com, and at http://www.reverbnation.com/grantpeeples.

Having read this book several times, I feel like the last section in his poem, “The Well.”

Then I was done.

    And that one small sip?

        Well, I can taste it yet,

            and will

            beyond.”

Imagining the possibilities,

Peggy

On The Road at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference

East Beach, Santa Barbara, California

There are no fat people in Santa Barbara, California. Everyone rollerblading, trotting, biking, skateboarding, pushing strollers and walking Fido is skinny. On this first day of the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, I wait for the opening ceremonies by watching people parade down Cabrillo Boulevard. Gentle swells from the Pacific Ocean frame each individual as they pass.  There is no cottage cheese on these people. It is June 8^th, and the high for the day is 65 degrees. In mid-afternoon. That’s right, Tallahassee – welcome to summer in Southern California, where writers like me spend six days learning to perfect our craft and trim the fat off our novel until the writing is as lean, strong, and beautiful as the folks sashaying down the Boulevard.

Begun in 1964 by Barnaby Conrad, the SBWC, Santa Barbara Writers Conference, oozes history. You can feel the ghosts of Conrad, Ray Bradbury, and Charles Schultz swirling around, and know they must be proud of the extensive work done by the conference committee. “We used to sleep on the floor back at the Cate School, when this thing first started,” Sid Stibel, a workshop leader, said. Stibel has attended every SBWC since arriving with Ray Bradbury at the first one.

Saturday morning - June Gloom

Daylight in Santa Barbara begins shortly after 5 a.m. with the sound of finches reminding me to put out the day’s offering of crumbs on the balcony’s rails. Salt scented breezes laugh through long palm fronds sharing the joke with cawing Ravens that the majority of tall graceful palms throughout California are not native, and are kept alive thanks to water which is also imported to this semi-arid state. Morning is the most peaceful time of day . . . until 9 a.m., and then, the race is on. Each day provides options for illumination – there are twelve morning and afternoon workshops – twenty-four different classes. I’ve chosen the Travel Writing and Interviewing Boot Camp, hosted by Jerry Camarillo Dunn, Jr. for the morning sessions. Dunn writes for National Geographic Traveler, among other publications.

Sunset

In the afternoon, like many others, I switch it up among workshops, trying to learn as much as possible in the time allotted. If you can think of a topic or genre, the SBWC is more than likely offering a class on it. An attendee said, “I feel like I’m in a one of a kind candy store. Every day I have to choose which sweet to eat.” Precisely.

Four in the afternoon brings on the panels. Agent panel, first time author panel, editor panel, muckety-muck panel . . . I can’t stay away. Patricia Bracewell, author of “Shadow on the Crown,” and Karen Keskinen, author of “Blood Orange,” gave encouragement to authors who waited until later in life to write. Though different genres, a glimpse in their books has me anticipating a glass of wine and a bit of time to spend reading them.

At 5 p.m. we break for supper, then drag tired feet and minds to hear the evening speaker. Stephen Chbosky, author of “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” began the speaker series. Someone from the audience asked him if he remembered the name of the first person he kissed. Chbosky answered, “My wife’s in the audience, and she’s from New Jersey. NEW JERSEY,” he spelled out each letter, “you know about New Jersey people. There was no one before her. No one.” He slashes a tanned hand across his throat. “Ever.”

Note the Zoo sign points to over 200 writers.

It is said that confession is good for the soul, so here goes: My name is Peggy, and I’m a Pirate. Pirate sessions are for the masochists, idiots who don’t know when to go to bed, or when to stop and smell the Jacaranda trees that are blooming in mounds of purple prose. There are two Pirate Sessions that start at nine and go until—. I made it to midnight one night, and when I finally slogged heavy-eyed to my room, there were stalwart individuals still reading their work and critiquing each other. Lorelai Armstrong and John Reed lead these critique workouts. The sessions are an addiction, and like other addictions, even though you know that the next day you will fight to keep eyes open and brain alert, the next opportunity you have to partake of the heady stuff, your trembling hand will reach out, and there you’ll be, parking yourself at the table with the other addicts, hauling papers out to read, and tuning eager ears to listen.

Dusk

This is the halfway point of the conference. I look forward to the rest of this feast with anticipation and dread. Anticipation because I know I’ll learn so much that will help me with whatever I choose to put to pen, and dread, because I’ll miss the people I met here, miss Santa Barbara, and miss the different world that is Southern California.

Over the top of my computer, a pod of dolphins cartwheel a few feet off shore. There must be sixty or more of the creatures, joyful in their dance across the smooth water. The mammals are sleek and lean, like the people of Santa Barbara. They are examples of what the conference attendees are learning to do with our writing, use action verbs, make each word count, limit the ‘ly’s. In other words, getting rid of the cottage cheese.

Imagining the possibilities,

Peggy Kassees