Paging Sancho Panza

I am fascinated by fields of wind turbines. Over the past few years, we have watched the assembly of dozens of them along our horizon. The pieces are unloaded from giant cargo ships onto eighteen-wheeled trucks — the propeller blades longer than the trucks. Surely, I think to myself when I see the turbines idle, surely, nothing could make those great beasts move. Nothing, of course, but the sea breeze. 

They are simple machines, these wind turbines. A post, an axis, and a three-armed propeller. They are elegant and powerful. Driving by them yesterday I wanted to measure their speed, to count their revolutions per minute, or perhaps more narcissistically to count their revolutions per my mile on the highway. I wasn’t driving and didn’t have a watch, so I just watched them spin, faster than I ever imagined, their titan blades slicing the blue sky. 

Passing back through the wind farm in the dark, I was struck by the absolute precision of the blinking red lights on every turbine. Dozens of them, as many as I could hold in my field of vision, blinked their horizontal red lights on and off in perfect unison from the tops of their towers. I wanted a picture of the lights right then, a way to hold that image in my hand. I wanted a photograph of the turbines in the dark. I suppose that might be a stupid photo, a dark skyline, the lights of Corpus Christi on the horizon, a smattering of red dots. 

I can’t articulate exactly what I want to capture in that photograph - the unity, the swinging power of the great blades in the dark. I know a photo doesn’t capture sound, and I couldn’t hear them over the road noise, but I wanted the photo to capture the sound I knew they were making, their great whump or whoosh. I can’t articulate how I would take that photo or why I want it.

Only that I do. 

ABAW: A Discovery of Witches, A Novel

A Discovery of Witches, a Novel (Book 1 of the All Souls Trilogy) by Deborah Harkness

Viking Adult, 2011 (library copy)

Old manuscripts, a witch in denial, clueless humans, intellectual vampires, unstable demons, secret societies, ancient castles, and a haunted house. In A Discovery of Witches, Deborah Harkness delivers a first novel that is smartly written and creates a richly nuanced supernatural world. I loved the library culture, the attention to the details of handling priceless manuscripts and academic research, and the pseudo-scientific exploration of magical powers. I did not so much love the main character, Diana, who starts out almost too perfect and too smart, and then too quickly turns too dependent on her new vampire lover. Said vampire, Matthew, is an interesting character, less for his brooding and aloof vampire romanticism than for his complicated back story combining medieval knight with modern geneticist. In one article I read, Harkness mentions that the idea for this novel started with a question about what sorts of jobs vampires would do if they were real. The ways in which she answers that question — not just for the vampires, but for all the supes — is clever. 

I was skeptical of the narrative structure of the novel. Most of the story is written in the first-person from Diana’s perspective. A few chapters distributed through the story are written in the third person, from Matthew’s perspective. First person narrative allows for suspense and conflict to build as the magical ingénue explores her newly discovered universe. Including the third-person chapters gives the reader knowledge not available to the protagonist, but mostly, I think those revelations weren’t entirely necessary. If Matthew’s perspective is important to the way the story unfolds, why not give more time to that perspective than the occasional chapters?

That said, I really got caught up in the story. The setting moves from the safety of the library, to the brooding European castle, where the sharpest dangers of the world are revealed, then finally settles into the domestic fortress of a New England haunted house. The academic setting is alluring, but the story leaves it quickly. The castle is a little cliché. The house, and the many characters that pass through it, are entertaining. Imagine a sort of benign Amityville horror house, breathing in the background of every scene, moving itself in and out of the main plot.

I was disappointed in the ending of the story (and always skeptical about time travel), but such is often the way with a trilogy. In spite of various bits that rankled me about the story, I did enjoy the book, taking in its nearly 600 pages in just a few delicious days. Harkness pays attention to the details and richly combines the historical and the fantastic, balancing science and magic on the head of a pin. I look forward to reading the subsequent books, if only for the chance to hang out with Christopher Marlowe.

Once Upon Three Proms

As graduations near, Prom season is coming to a close. Recently my aunt, after recounting my cousin’s happy Prom this year, asked if I remember my Prom. 

I attended three Proms with two boys. I married and divorced one of them. At my first Prom I wore a shimmery green dress with velvet bodice and poofy taffeta sleeves and skirt. I bought the dress with earnings from my job as an usher and ticket seller at a minor league baseball stadium (I’ll have to tell you about being a Dukette another time perhaps). At $120, it is still among the most expensive pieces of clothing I have ever bought, topped only by my first wedding dress. The evening was notable for being my latest official curfew (2 a.m.) and a close encounter with a pool table. Aside from the pool table, I don’t remember much about the night.

At my second Prom, I wore the same dress. I added black satin gloves and shoes and a black velvet choker. I can’t remember if I was broke (my paycheck was now eaten by my car) or just didn’t find another dress I liked. I do remember shopping vintage stores around Albuquerque with my best friend. Both of these years we prepared for Prom together, and both years she found the most amazing vintage dresses. One year it was a floor length, black velvet, sleeveless dress with white satin sailor collar, and one year it was a strapless chocolate satin. Both suited her body and her personality perfectly. Our dates (mine different, hers the same) picked us up at my dad’s house. There was a lot of hairspray and giggling and hose adjustment. The night was most notable for the Italian dinner (Capo’s Hideaway), the earlier curfew (12:30 a.m.), and the gobsmacked look my boyfriend’s best friend gave me when I arrived at the dance (followed immediately by the filthy look and cold stare of his date). I had a great time, though I’m pretty sure I missed my curfew.

Dani at 17, getting a corsage pinned on before Prom

By the time I was a senior, my interest in Prom had waned. I was engaged. I was working two jobs on top of a senior schedule full of honors courses and AP exams. I was earning more money than ever, but also planning a wedding and getting ready to move away to college. My family was tense. My best friend and I were frayed. I didn’t think Prom was that important. I offered to work the night of Prom so that my friends could go. Then, the day before, perhaps caught up in the fever of Prom week, I changed my mind. Weeks before, on a whim, I had bought a skimpy little black dress off a discount rack for $12, with no idea when I’d ever wear it. I paired it with my black satin pumps and gloves and velvet choker. I don’t remember who’s idea it was to get my hair teased up into a bouffant up-do, but on the day of Prom, before work, I found myself in a salon with my best friend getting the tease of a lifetime. A bag with silk stockings and garters sat next to my feet. The hair and stockings were my only expenses. 

I went to work. My beehive was a spectacle with my red and white striped polo shirt and made for lively Saturday-night conversation at the ticket window. When I shut down for the night, I changed. I was sent off by my boss, the money counter, and my intern friend Paul. My date picked me up in front of the ball park. The juxtaposition between my fancy hair and my dorky uniform, my fancy, slutty dress and the grimy office were hilarious to me. I have only a vague memory of the dance, of standing in the middle of the crowd wondering where all my friends had gone.

The evening was most notable for the awesome hair, the sexy stockings, the clucking-hen attention of my male coworkers sending me off like I was their daughter, the cleavage, and the profound sense of loneliness in the middle of the crowded ballroom. 

Don't faint, I have some knitting: Cherry Swiss Cheese Scarf

I’m experiencing a little wobble in the work-life balance this week. Actually if I’m not getting any work done, I suppose there’s no balance to be found. Mostly I’m rolling around enjoying the last week of school with the Sonars. I’ll get back to it. To prepare for summer, Sonar X6 made a sign for my door to make sure people know I’m writing. If the youngest of them can get that I need writing time, there’s hope for me. 

In other news, I finished some knitting. A gift for a special person in our lives.

Cherry Swiss Cheese Scarf in Yarn Bee JubileeApologies for the crappy dark photo on my rumpled bed. My good sunny photography spots have been filled with roofing materials for a couple of days. 

Yarn: Yarn Bee Jubillee

Colorway: Cherry

Pattern: Swiss Cheese Scarf by Winnie Shih

Needles: US11

Finished dimensions: almost five feet by a little more than one foot. There’s a lot of room for stretch in both directions.

Pattern Mods: When I reached the desired length, I did almost one more pattern repeat, omitting the final buttonhole row, then binding off. This made both ends of the scarf symmetrical with one another. Because the yarn is so much thicker than the lace weight called for in the pattern, I knit fewer repeats, but still got a scarf that can do double-duty as a light-weight shawl.

The pattern is acheived by interrupting stretches of garter stitch with giant buttonholes. I love the drama and versatility of this pattern. It looks great with this thick, frizzy yarn, but the eyelash obscures the wave effect that forms around the buttonholes. I’d love to try it again with a smoothly spun yarn. The scarf is long enough that the wearer can put her hands through two holes near the end and make “sleeves.” Or the whole thing can be worn like a keyhole scarf with one end drawn through a center hole. The Sonars also suggested draping it over the front of the face like a ski mask. Sorry, no picture of that one. 

You're Gonna Need A Lot More Rocks

In a grass field along Partner’s walk to work:

A sewer access point with rocks piled on the manhole cover, in the middle of a large grass fieldThere are no rock sources anywhere near this sewer opening. Someone had to find and carry those rocks across a big field to pile them on the manhole cover. It’s been like this for several days. This is six feet from a church sign that says, “Open hearts. Open minds. Open doors. Come as you are.”

1. Why did someone do this?

2. What did you/he/she/they/it think was down there?

3. What kind of drugs were you/he/she/they/it taking?

4. Who saw this happening and why didn’t they take pictures?

5. Does the church really welcome what someone tried to stop with rocks? Or is this a sign meant to welcome people down the hole?

6. Those rocks weigh less than the cover. You’re gonna need a lot more rocks.