While looking at Japanese manhole covers, I came across a collection of stunning photographs using long exposures and varied light sources. The artist is Hory Ma, a Russian photographer.

NOTE: Ma’s photos do include surreal images of artistic nudes.

Because I simply must yet another electronic umbilical cord strung to my navel, I got myself one of those nifty Twitter accounts. Now I can post instant updates on the site whenever/wherever I am–provided I’ve got my cell and service.

So…you can check into truffin.com to see what I’m up to, or you can get your own Twitter account and FOLLOW ME.

(Just getting the image of the Disciples wandering about, hunched over cell phones, after receiving “the call”.)

Funniest quote from a friend’s blog this week:

From Ken Morefield:

I guess if I had to heat seven homes, I’d want to drill in Anwar too.

I’ve read it three times now, and it still makes me smile.

One evil deed missed is a loss for all eternity.
–Grendel

Before Wicked turned Oz on it’s head and explored the life and times of the West’s wickedest witch, there was John Gardner’s Grendel. The 1971 novel by America’s moral fictionist delves into the mind and life of English literature’s earliest monster.

It’s not an easy task. Whereas Gregory Maguire was tackling an essentially human character and writing in a time when pop-psychology family dynamics provide all sorts of explanations as to why the Wicked Witch is so wicked, Gardner tackles a creature only presented as a monster, an animal, a force to be defeated. Interestingly, the one human element provided Gardner by Beowulf is one he discards: Grendel’s mother. She becomes a doddering, dementia-ridden, voiceless, creeping thing in the cave that Grendel finally sets “aside–gently, picking her up by the armpits as I would a child” (158). It’s a sad commentary that the recent Beowulf film adaptation did more of interest with Grendel’s mother than Gardner. To be fair, cast as a first-person narrative, Grendel’s story neccessarily ends before Grendel’s mother really becomes a force in the tale. But the jump from demented hair pile to vengeful she-beast seems a bit much to believe in Gardner’s telling.

Nihil ex nihilo, I always say.
–Grendel

If, as Wikipedia asserts, Gardner was weary of contemporary authors indulging in “‘winking, mugging despair’ or trendy nihilism”, what then does he bring to Grendel? Perhaps it’s a non-trendy nihilism. Or, perhaps, Gardner’s portrait of Grendel is his portrait of contemporary writing: there is no real heroism, there is only power; the self is only defined in pushing against the not-me. Throughout the novel, Grendel seems to ask what it is he is here on earth for, but never really engages in any true searching. His early stumbling attempts at interacting with humans are met with hostility, so he quickly abandons that avenue. The rest of his life therefore becomes a wallowing in a naturalistic, materialistic hell. Is it because of his reception? Is it because of a lack of intelligence?

Whether Gardner is shackled by the source material or a lack of imagination, his exploration into what turns the creature against mankind pales in comparison to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Both creatures blame are aware of their evil ways; both creatures blame their evil on the hypocritical failings of humanity; but Shelley is able to scribe that arc with much more precision and pathos. Perhaps Gardner’s choice to write Grendel in first person trapped him in a mind unable to comprehend the metaphysics needed to parse the cruel world in which he’d been set. Or perhaps Grendel is, in the end, nothing more than a physical manifestation of the nihilism described by O’Connor’s Misfit: No pleasure but meanness.

One of the special things about the Glen is the generosity of the faculty members. Take the writing instructors: For what I understand is a rather small stipend, these highly accomplished artists and teachers take the month before the Glen carefully reading, responding to, and commenting on manuscripts from all level of writers. Then, not only do they spend over three hours each morning leading workshops, but they also make themselves available all during the week for one-on-one conversations concerning all aspects of the writing world. Today, even though we had our last day of workshop in the morning and he had his own reading to prepare and perform, Daniel Tobin sat down with me to provide individual comment (and praise) on my work. When I was finished, there was another student waiting for a meeting. His comments in the workshop and individually were supportive, incisive, and imminently helpful.

For the visual arts, I only have rumor and innuendo to suggest that they are just as kind and generous.

The silent auction this year was a particular disappointment for me. I got outbid on EVERY item I put my name to. The most heartbreaking was a Barry Moser print of artwork for an upcoming volume of poetry by B.H. Fairchild. Valerie Sayers, the novelist, outbid me at the very last minute, raising the bid just over my absolute, drop dead, limit. I consoled myself by purchasing the icon I mentioned earlier in the week.

The ending worship service this year was understated and wonderful. The scent of spiced oil rising from my forehead as the cross was pressed into my forhead was all the more meaningful to me as in the coming year my artistic work will be more than just writing but integrating another life into our family. It was the closest I’ve come to tears in quite a while.

I was a bit surprised at how often my image appeared in the slideshow summarizing the week, but I guess that’s what happens when you hang around Jeff O. The final act of the Glen was helping Warren F of Eighth Day Books load up his wonderful booktable into a GMC van. Godspeed, Warren! You are doing His work.

Tomorrow is a wakeup, and I get home late.

Back to the oars today after a late night. Coffee and good poetry soon put all to rights, and we were working through Bob’s poems. Right good ‘uns, too. Later there was an interesting poem from Allen featuring a peregrine attacking a sparrow. I must say, referring to none I shall name, that I for the life of me can’t figure why someone would spend the time and money to bring work to a workshop that they had no intention of revising once receiving critiques that clearly show weaknesses, some severe, which need attention. If you took your car to a mechanic, and he said your wheels were about to sever their connection to the vehicle, would you not take steps to correct the situation?

In the heat of the afternoon, Bob, Chris, and I headed out to the Arroyo Chamisos Disc Golf Course for what turned out to be the best disc golf experience I’ve had in New Mexico. The course meanders through a dry river bed/wash–well, and arroyo. The course designers have made good use of the scrub junipers, brush, and elevation changes to provide interesting holes. The installers and maintainers of the course have marked the course very clearly with three tee lengths. Unlike the St. John’s course, it’s always pretty easy to find where you’re headed and at what you’re shooting.

We played from the red Rec tees, which actually were a bit too short for me. I ended up with a -4 but 4 bogeys due to the winds and overthrowing some shorter baskets. (Imagine overthrowing a hole with a Roc.) I should be happy with the 8 deuces. I also ended up throwing way more “hammer” shots than I think is polite.

After dinner, Jeffrey O, Bob, Chris, and I headed into town for a “guy’s night out” only to be confounded by the lack of parking. We ended up on a patio near Bob and Chris’s room chatting until it was time for worship.

Later in the evening, I noticed Laura L-M and her friend Cullen from SFBC sitting out in the upper dorm patio area. I sauntered over and was quickly enlisted to learn a dice game called “Farkle”. It’s a nice easy dice game that is good for socializing.

Heading into the last day of the conference, I had another rich, full day.

Ah, the free day. A good idea. After Wednesday’s richness and fullness (did I mention I had my poems critiqued on Wednesday), everyone’s a bit gassed and needs a breather. I spent most of the day wrestling with MS Word to get Sherry’s manuscript ready for the publisher. She felt horrible about needing the help while I was at the Glen, but, truthfully, the work was a bit mindless and gave me some needed solitude and a chance to “be”.

I did have some fun today, though. Laura, not Morefield, who was in my fiction workshop last year orchestrated a good old-fashioned hymn sing at breakfast. It was great fun and edification standing around with 10-15 people singing “Be Thou My Vision”, “Were You There”, and “How Great Thou Art”. Later, after getting ditched by the folks who were also supposed to come, Laura and I headed out to the Santa Fe Brewing Company for lunch. After chawing our way through some excellent burgers (I love being able to get avocado on my burger.) and two fine ales, we headed over to the brewery proper. Laura’s friend Cullen works for the brewery and was working today, and the two of us were taken on a fantastic tour of the brewery. We even got to help “grain out the lauter tun”, that is, Laura took a hoe and extracted spent grain from the lauter tun while I pressed “Stop” and “Go” to spin the paddles inside the tun which moved the spent grain to the exit hole. I can now say that I helped brew a batch of Nut Brown Ale. It was fascinating to see what I do on a professional production scale. Cheers! to Cullen and the rest of the Santa Fe Brewing staff for being so friendly.

When I come to The Glen, I must admit to a small amount of disappointment if all I get in the workshop is high praise and little suggestion for improvement. It’s not that I’m unappreciative or masochistic; I know my work needs improving, and I desire constructive criticism. However, when I packaged up six 22-oz bombers of my Inklings Ale to be enjoyed by members of the Thomas Parker Society, I really wasn’t looking for constructive criticism. I wanted full-on adulation. Bob D made my day when he enthusiastically declared, “This kicks *$$!” Ann O’s struggling between her desire for another glass and being a good, sharing hostess was equally satisfying. Two gentlemen from Colorado Springs–nearby to the great brewing town that is Denver–gave me rather sincere “Well done’s”. And I hope Brett Lott doesn’t lose his Southern Baptist membership, but I believe he may be the most well-respected word-smithing personage ever to taste something I’ve made, the only possible competition would be poet Gary Gildner. Brett thought the concept was “cool”, and I am now only two degrees away from Oprah. The bottles were emptied at rate that I truly found surprising. In fact, the reception was so enthusiastic that there was only the smallest of mentions of last year’s Porter the Rhine Coffee Porter.

Other highlights of the night included a wacky 50’s-style space adventure by Chris, a Jamaican folk-tale told (with special voices), a preview of Jeffrey’s forthcoming book, and a funny/touching essay by Lisa on living with obesity.

Tomorrow it’s back to the grind and possibly some disc golf.