The Spiral Staircase

George Carlin on Elections

A priceless bit of vintage filth from the late, great George Carlin.  (Please note that the Spiral Staircase does not endorse Carlin's views, and encourages you all to go vote.)

Polls Reveal Obama Ahead By Decisive Margin in My Apartment

Polls conducted earlier today revealed that Senator Barack Obama leads his rival John McCain by a margin of 75% in the crucial battleground area of my apartment.  While some analysts have questioned the significance of such a lead, pointing out that my apartment has failed to impact the results of past presidential races -- has, in fact, more often picked the loser -- leaders from the Obama campaign said they welcomed the show of support.  

"Every vote counts," a spokesman for Obama said earlier.  "Even from a stuffed animal."

TRINOME: BARACK SUPPORTER

Trinome, the plush alien who occupies the white chair in my living room, has been outspoken in his support of Obama's economic and foreign policy.  Trinome told pollsters that he thinks Obama is less likely to eject trash into outer space.  Also, he claimed to be impressed by the Senator's "impressive green aura."

DEMING: BARACK SUPPORTER

Novelist Sarah Deming declares her strong support for Obama, stating that she plans to vote for Barack "as soon as I wake up tomorrow."  When advised that polls are only open until 9PM, Deming states "OK, then, I'll set my alarm."  Deming has been experiencing difficulty sleeping lately, because she is worried about the polar bears.

IVERSON: BARACK SUPPORTER

It will come as little surprise to fans of such tunes as "Cheney Pinata" that jazz pianist Ethan Iverson cast his absentee ballot earlier this month for the Illinois Senator.  Jazz musicians as a group trend strongly democratic, except when they forget to vote.  Pollsters interviewed Iverson earlier today via video Skype from his hotel room in Sweden, however they forgot to ask him for his comment on the election, as they were too distracted by how cute he looked.

 

NAUGA: MCCAIN SUPPORTER

The lone Republican holdout?  The stuffed animal occupying my living room sofa, Nauga, who states that he has received strict instructions from his superiors at the Naugahyde corporation to cast his vote for John McCain.  Reading from a prepared statement earlier today, Nauga stated that "Senator McCain's steadfast leadership and patriotism make him a hero to corporate mascots everywhere."  The statement was signed by an impressive number of imaginary creatures, from Ronald McDonald to the little-known Exxon mascot "Smileyspill."  Nauga also added that he feels a kinship with Senator McCain, as both of them are composed from 100% synthetic materials.

 

God Bless William Wharton

The author of one of my favorite novels ever, Birdie, is dead at 82.  It's always been comforting to know that he published his first book when he was in his fifties.  The New York Times obit describes his fascinating life.

MONSTER OF THE WEEK -- Ravana

The Rakshasa is a race of flesh-eating demons from Hindu mythology.  The most famous Rakshasa of them all was the fearsome Ravana, King of Lanka and arch-villain of the epic Ramayana.  He has ten heads and twenty arms.  

  

Ravana abducts Sita, the wife of King Rama and the goddess personified.  Like the theft of Helen in the Iliad, this transgression sparks off the whole epic.  Unlike Helen, the beautiful Sita was a loyal wife and did not go willingly.  

Now Ravana assumed the shape of a wandering yogi; carrying a staff and a beggar's bowl, he came towards Sita waiting all alone for Rama to come back. 

The forest knew him: the very trees stayed still, the wind dropped, the Godaveri flowed more slowly for fear. 

But he came close to Sita, and gazed upon her, and was filled with evil longings; and he addressed her, praising her beauty, and asked her to leave that dangerous forest and go with him to dwell in palaces and gardens. But she, thinking him a Brahman and her guest, gave him food and water, and answered that she was Rama's wife, and told the story of their life; and she asked his name and kin. 

Then he named himself Ravana and besought her to be his wife, and offered her palaces and servants and gardens.  

She grew angry beyond all measure at that, and answered: 

"I am the servant of Rama, lion amongst men, immovable as any mountain, vast as the mighty ocean, radiant as Indra. Wouldst thou draw the teeth from a lion's mouth, or swim the sea with a heavy stone about thy neck? 

"As well mightst thou seek the Sun or Moon as me! Little like is Rama unto thee, but different as is a lion from a jackal, an elephant from a cat, the ocean from a tiny stream, or gold from iron. Indra's wife thou mightst carry off, and live; but if thou takest me, the wife of Rama, thy death is certain, and I, too, shall surely die." 

And she shook with fear, as a plantain-tree is shaken by the wind. 

But Ravana's yellow eyes grew red with anger and the peaceful face changed, and he took his own horrid shape, ten-faced and twenty-armed; he seized that gentle thing by the hair and limbs, and sprang into his golden ass-drawn car, and rose up into the sky. 

But she cried aloud to Lakshman and to Rama. 

"O thou forest and flowery trees," she cried, "and thou Godaveri, and woodland deities, and deer, and birds, I conjure you to tell my lord that Ravana has stolen me away."

(Text by Ananda K. Coomaraswamy from this site; Images lifted from here)

Ravana is a great, sexy villain.  There's a way in which - like all characters in the Hindu epics - he's just doing his job.  

The epic culminates in a huge battle in which many great heros, demons, and monkeys are slain.  This painting shows Ravana in the chariot on the right with his army of demons.  King Rama (AKA god) sits on the left with the bow of Shiva, watching his monkeys advance.

 

Of course, Rama kills Ravana in the end. 

Each like a flaming lion fought the other; head after head of the Ten-necked One did Rama cut away with his deadly arrows, but new heads ever rose in place of those cut off, and Ravan's death seemed nowise nearer than before -- the arrows that had slain Maricha and Khara and Vali could not take the king of Lanka's life away. 

Then Rama took up the Brahma weapon given to him by Agastya: the Wind lay in its wings, the Sun and Fire in its head, in its mass the weight of Meru and Mandara. Blessing that shaft with Vedic mantras, Rama set it on his bow and loosed it, and it sped to its appointed place and cleft the breast of Ravana, and, bathed in blood, returned and entered Rama's quiver humble. 

Thus was the lord of the rakshasas slain, and the gods rained flowers on Rama's car and chanted hymns of praise, for their desired end was now accomplished -- that end for which alone Vishnu had taken human form. 

The heavens were at peace, the air grew clear and bright, and the sun shone cloudless on the field of battle. 

But not everyone is happy about Ravana's death.  This temple mural detail shows Ravana's many devoted wives mourning over his corpse.  

 

His chief queen, the virtuous Mandodari, cries out this eulogy:

"O thou great-armed, younger brother of Vaisravana, who could stand before thee?

"Gods and rishis thou hast daunted; not to be borne is it that a man, fighting on foot, hath slain thee now! 

"But thy death has come to pass because of Sita, and I am a widow. Thou didst not heed my words, nor didst thou think how many fairer damsels thou hadst than her. 

"Alas! how fair thou wert and how kind thy smile: now thou art bathed in blood and pierced with shafts! Thou wert wont to sleep on a couch of gold; but now thou liest in the dust. 

"Why dost thou fare away and leave me alone? Why dost thou not welcome me?" 

But the other wives of Ravana consoled her and lifted her up, saying: "Life is uncertain for all, and all things change." 

Wine and Wisdom

Sorry to leave you guys with such a cliffhanger.  I know that after reading my last post, all three of you must have been on the edges of your seats with worry, wondering...

Will Sarah pass her big wine test?

Will she have her wisdom tooth removed, despite her laziness and lack of dental coverage?

Well, I'm happy to report that the answer is "yes" to both.  I didn't do great on the sommelier exam, but I am pretty confident that I passed.  I was so busy memorizing all the communes of Barolo and all the soil types in the Loire that I didn't even look at Australia.  I totally forgot the grapes Madeira is made from.  I could not identify this woman.  And there was some weird question about barrels that I totally screwed up.  But I think I did pretty well under the circs.

As a fun reward, I booked the extraction for the very next morning.  It's always so unpleasant to go to the dentist, but when you have someone as resoundingly competent as Dr. Jonathan Lippin, it makes it better. With a wrench and a crackle, it was out.  Such a little thing can cause so much tsuris.  While he extracted, Dr. Lippin told me the amusing story of Lewis Warner, the 23-year-old heir to the Warner Brothers fortune, who died of an impacted wisdom tooth in the 20's, back when antibiotics were less advanced.  This ensured my compliance with the five-day course of amoxicillin. 

The final question that may have been keeping the three of you up is: What will Sarah read next, after such wonderful classics of children's literature?  Well, I'm fifty pages into a novel my brother lent me and it's pretty much the perfect follow-up to such heartwarming tales as "Flotsam" and "Feathers."

"Battle Royale" by Koushun Takami is about a group of 42 middle schoolers in a dystopic, futuristic Japan who are dumped on an Island and told to kill each other.  The last child left alive will be given a medal and a government pension.  This book is awful and exploitive, but it's sooooo good.  When you read it, you can't help but wonder what you would do in that situation.  I have pretty much decided that I would try to convince everyone to commit mass suicide.  We would hold hands and walk into the ocean.  I guess I'm just a natural leader.

Back from the Book Fair

I just came back from a visit to my old school Abington Friends, where I spoke to the darling fifth, sixth and tenth graders.  It was incredibly moving to me to see how seriously the younger kids had taken my novel. Also, they thought I was famous because I had written a book, and they thought my tattoo was cool. This made me feel really good, because here in Brooklyn, everyone has more tattoos and publications than me. 

The other visiting authors were heavy.  I read books by two of them on the train home.  

Flotsam is a beautiful, surreal picture book by David Wiesner.  Without words it tells the story of a boy who finds a camera washed up on the Jersey shore.  He develops the film and discovers images of a magical, underwater world.

Jacqueline Woodson's Feathers is a slim, powerful novel about a girl named Frannie whose world is shaken up when a white boy joins her all-black classroom.  This book totally made me cry, to the amusement of my neighbors on the Amtrak train.

In other news: my final wisdom tooth, having ascertained that I no longer have dental coverage, is now emerging in my upper left quadrant; my sommelier final exam is on Monday and I can't keep the grand crus of Burgundy straight; and my sweetheart is on the road for the foreseeable future.  

I wish I could be more like my new hero Giorgio Morandi, who painted pretty much the same thing every day and didn't worry about anything else.  Maybe I'll get another tattoo, something along these lines...

The First Time I Met My Husband

The first time I met my adorable husband was at a New Year's Eve party at saxophonist Bill McHenry's house.  It was a costume party, and, since I didn't have a costume, I wore my boxing gear.  It was a bunch of cute girls in cat outfits, and me, in oversize trunks, mouthpiece, and a female abdominal protector. Luckily the lighting was dim, so nobody noticed how much the mouthpiece made me drool. 

I wound my way through the antechambers and got to the heart of the party: the room with the booze. There was some loud, abstract music and a bunch of guys in Scream masks.  Then the crowd seemed to part before me, giving me my first sight of the man who was, five years later to the day, to propose marriage.  He seemed to have ignored the costume rule, and he was mid-rant.

"And what really bothers me," he was saying, "is those narcissistic male writers like Updike and Roth who have no use for women."   

A frisson went through me, from my wrestling shoes to my headgear.  I won't say it was love at first sight, because I didn't think anyone with such good gender politics could be straight, but I definitely felt: this man and I are going to be great friends.

I was reminded of that night when Ethan blogged this great takedown of Updike by the late David Foster Wallace.  TKO.  It makes me want to read Infinite Jest.

I can't wait to get back to the city today after two weeks away and catch the boys at the Village Vanguard.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I was already fond...

Zen in the Art of Writing

I have spent the last week or so at a friend's beautiful country home for a solitary writer's retreat.  Almost done my third novel!  It's hard going, but I look to be on track for my October 1 deadline.  My new assistant is helping out a lot with structural issues.  She has a wonderful grasp of form.

Reading random trash as well as books on writing.  Here's the very beginning of Ray Bradbury's:

Sometimes I am stunned at my capacity as a nine-year-old, to understand my entrapment and escape it.

How is it that the boy I was in October, 1929, could, because of the criticism of his schoolmates, tear up his Buck Rogers comic strips and a month later judge all his friends idiots and rush back to collecting?

Where did that judgment and strength come from?  What sort of process did I experience to enable me to say: I am as good as dead.  Who is killing me?  What do I suffer from?  What's the cure?

I was able, obviously, to answer all of the above.  I named the sickness: my tearing up the strips.  I found the cure: go back to collecting, no matter what.  

I did.  And was made well.

But still.  At that age?  When we are accustomed to responding to peer pressure?

Where did I find the courage to rebel, change my life, live alone?

I don't want to over-estimate all this, but damn it, I love that nine-year-old, whoever in hell he was.  

Blocking Care for Women

from the NY Times, an op-ed by Hilary Clinton and Cecile Richards 

LAST month, the Bush administration launched the latest salvo in its eight-year campaign to undermine women’s rights and women’s health by placing ideology ahead of science: a proposed rule from the Department of Health and Human Services that would govern family planning. It would require that any health care entity that receives federal financing — whether it’s a physician in private practice, a hospital or a state government — certify in writing that none of its employees are required to assist in any way with medical services they find objectionable.

for the rest of the piece, go here.

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