Weekend ReCap: UCLA Book Festival

Photo found here.

Officially known as the "L.A. Times Festival of the Book," this is billed as (and is) the largest literary event on the west coast.  I've been attending the festival off and on since it began, about 15 (!) years running now. Except that when I first began going, I didn't have to drive over 100 miles to get there. (At least traffic was not an issue, this year.)


Some years I take Myk, some years I drive in with friends, meet friends, etc. This year was a first, in that I brought someone with me from here in town, whom I just recently discovered also has writing and literary interests of her own.  This was her first time going ever, and she wasn't too forthcoming, but I'm pretty sure she had a good time.  We also met my good friend Becky and two of her buds, all of us invested in the written word, in one form or another.


Held on the beautiful UCLA campus, it's inspiring to walk around and see so many thousands of people there, drawn solely by the promise of books and authors. And maybe their authors aren't too highbrow --- being in L.A., there are lots of celebrity authors and cookbook/celeb chefs -- but hey -- a book is a book. 


There are booths upon booths upon booths of independent, small book presses and publishers, booths upon booth of small and indie bookstores. But if you like to keep it corporate, Target and Borders and Barnes & Noble have their big booths, too.

These aren't my own pictures (forgot to pull out my camera until the end of the day), but we did walk up these steeps steps.

Photo from here.

This year I attended two of the (free!) author panels, one on the memoir, and one featuring three women writers, including Dylan Landis.  I bought her book, Normal People Don't Live Like This, a collection of linked short stories about teenage girls in NYC in the 70s.  Stunning, good stuff.

I always, always get a little bit of a case of vertigo and just plain queasiness when I attend the writing/author panels in the tiered classrooms and see row upon row of ambitious, bookish people like myself. And I think: all these people want to write books too.  All these people have the same ambitions and yearnings and yadda yadda too. Like I said: queasy. But then I get over myself and remember that the universe is abundant and there is room for us all. 

Uh-huh.  Right.

I also bought 2 books of poetry, by Frank O'Hara and Mary Oliver.  New York in the 1950s and awe of the natural world, respectively.  Recently I made a list of things I want to do more of (bake more. wear more skirts. try to like hot tea.) and reading more poetry again was on the list.  O'Hara is already a favorite of mine, and I keep encountering Mary Oliver and liking her a lot.  I'm not going to far from the known path here on my poetry choices but then, hello? It's poetry.  "Famous" poets are still just poor, struggling poets.

Anyway, it was fun to go again this year. A dose of inspiration and being among books and like-minded peeps is always a good thing.  If you're near enough to the Southern California area, you might want to give it a try yourself next year. 

Southern Comfort

Southern house on this awesome photo site.

Here's the thing:  I was born and raised here in Southern California. I've never lived anywhere else, except for about a year up in Bakersfield when I was 9 (and Bakersfield is just barely north enough of L.A. county  to not quite qualify for SoCal status itself).  Oh, and then those 2 semesters, spent down in the Old South at Ole Miss, when I was 25.  Thinking about this post, it's clear that my time in Oxford really deserves its own separate post, since that was a very sensory and emotional nine months of my life. A time when everything changed.


But the reasoning behind why I chose to go South in the first place is what this post is about.  Because, for a very, very long time, I have had this yearning, this yen, this connection with the south.  I don't even think it began when I was in 5th grade and saw Gone With the Wind for the first of many times.  It feels earlier than that to me.  (And, whenever I worry about my daughter and her flair for dramatic dorkiness, it helps to recall how I toted a huge faux-leather edition of Margaret Mitchell's epic tome to class every day for a week after my TV viewing, how I flounced around the classroom drawling "Fiddle-di-di!" to the baffled boys.)


It's such a subtle, hard-to-pin-down feeling. It's all sensory, and it's based on something in the breeze, some feel in the air. Once, long ago, I had a dream that I was sitting on the front porch of an old house. It was in the South.  There were bees droning in the bushes near the steps. There was laundry on the line, and a sound of a train in the distance. It was incredibly vivid, and I carry that memory of it always, always with the faint tug that somehow, that is where I belong.


 It has something to do with blue, blue skies that are seared with bright sunshine and white puffy clouds.  Perhaps it's based on my childhood visual memories of lying on the bench backseat of our  Ford LTD (back when kids could actually LIE DOWN in the back of cars), and watching the passing sky and telephone poles during our frequent weekend trips of backroads and byways.


Hearing Arlo Guthrie's "City of New Orleans" brings it on. So does much of the Allman Brothers, especially "Ramblin' Man" and "Blue Sky."  Speaking of ramblin', I feel that's what I'm pretty much doing here, trying to describe something is less wanderlust (which I also know well), but culturelust.  Is there such a thing?  Yes. At least in my head.


I am well-versed in the best of Southern lit: Ms. Flannery O'Connor, Ms. Carson McCullers, Mr. Peter Taylor, a great short story writer. Early Mr. Capote.  And don't even get me started on Mr. Tennesee Williams. 


Here are some pretty pictures that put me in mind of the feeling:

A sunporch with wooden floors, patchwork quilts, painted metal chairs and a stack of books to read.  From a Pottery Barn catalog last year.

(Really, just about any porch would do. I've had serious porch-lust my entire life, and have yet to live in a house with even a small one. The tiny seating area smack next to my front door does not count.)

The kitchen belonging to Suzie Stackhouse's Gran on True Blood.  Oh my gosh I love this picture. I see myself in here, dripping sweat on a hot and humid day, canning peaches.  I've never canned anything in my life and would probably hate the mess and fuss. No matter.  The set design pics such as this, and a link to the killer-awesome Southern Gothic show trailer is what convinced me I had to give True Blood a try. 

Blowsy roses on a silver tray. Something about this photo gives me the itch to go read some Faulkner. "Caddie -- she smelled like leaves..."

Summer Breeze. Found here.  I really disliked the movie Away We Go.  Smug and pretentious and cutesy-smart. But that house they got to move into at the end? TO DIE. What was all the hemming & hawing and cross-country searching about? 

This picture kinda reminds me of that house; it feels like there's a river very close by.

Clothesline, lush backyard.  

All right. So this is just the tip of a really, really big iceberg for me.  I could go on and on, showing you pictures, linking to music. I guess I'm just living in my own private Georgia.  Mississippi.  Whatever.  Were any of the above photos pictures even taken in the South? Does it matter?

Most days, I am drawn to contemporary, clean and colorful lines. Modern homes with lots of windows get me drooling. But some days, I think of my farmhouse dream, of a slowly twirling ceiling fan, and sweating glasses of sweet ice tea.  It's my second home, an escape from the everyday. And it's all up here, right in my little noggin.  Do you have your own private landscape? Have you ever been there, or is just a whisper of passing dappled sunlight, a memory of an old dream?

If Happy Little Bluebirds Fly...

I actually have a long post up in my head that I'd love to share with you. But it's almost 11pm here, and when I write that late, my brain gets all revved and humming and fired up, and I'd be up and awake until 2 in the morning and beyond. And a total useless wreck tomorrow. 

I was trolling my bookmarks just now for an image I saw recently on a blog (but couldn't recall where...I do this pretty often, but just as with most items on my terribly cluttered actual desktop, I do re-find them again). Anyhow, I found my photo but can't write the post now. And then I found this photo, which makes me smile.  This is a young woman's thought, a young woman's sentiment.   It's a sort of shorthand for the restlessness in my head tonight.  Spring fever, again.

Photo found here on this Tumblr site.

Night-night, and more soon.

Enter Spring!

Happy Spring!  Oh, ye of little faith, I bet you thought I'd never return with a post about my updated entryway.  Last we visited, it was all silvery mercury and glass and chilly winter whites.  Now, it's a little celebration of some of my favorite bright colors: yellow, pink, aqua and green.  (Vases, from left to right: vintage Royal Haegar, Anthropologie, and vintage no-name pretty bird vase.)

Everything is different -- I've even updated my purse. ($12.99 at Ross, baby.)  This all looks a little heavy on the pink here, but an update on the flowers will change that. 

This cute little aqua vase is from Michael's from a few years back. Turns out the darn thing isn't water-tight though -- I had to put a discreet little square of paper towel under it, to catch the water leaking through.  Durn.   But aren't the rununculuses so pretty and ruffly?

Yes, I too have fallen prey to the lure of the Liberty of London line at Target.  I bought this frame and yes, I did notice there's no photo in here yet. Hey, the camera was out!

I also scored this peacock pillow.  From the sound of things out here in Blogland, the pillows are getting snapped up quick, and are already being re-sold for crazy-high prices on Ebay.  Hmm. The thing is, like Target's Orla Kiely line last year -- just because my Target has the stuff in stock, doesn't mean I actually wantneed it for my own home.  I like many of the Liberty of London items, but most of it I just don't have a real use for.  (I tried on a pretty, bright yellow and lime floral tunic that might be perfect for someone else's trip to Palm Springs, but on me?? One word: Muu-muu. Hello, Mrs. Roper!) 

Really glad that I scored this pillow, though.  It's classic, and with the bright yellow-green trim, I can also use it in the family room.  See that karate chop in the middle of the pillow? Oh yes I did. Just for you.


Enjoy the springtime! Me,  I like being able to leave my windows open a bit now, and hear the birdies in the morning.  Hope it's lovely for you, wherever you are.

Home

 Not my home, now.  But Home with a capital letter. Home, as in, "you can't go home again." Except that I do, usually about once a month or so.  My mother still lives in the apartment that she and my dad rented near Uptown Whittier when I was in junior high. Temporary, they said at the time. Because while we had always been renters, we had never before lived in an apartment.  No yard? No front porch? How would we all manage?  Now it's almost thirty years later, and still the same address.

I'm going to let the pictures do most of the talking here.  I guess this is sort of a belated Weekend Recap post -- these were taken on Super Bowl Sunday.

This is the back of my bedroom door. I don't remember when I put up the Led Zep -- but I cut the letters and symbols out of a poster and glued them up -- I guess with some pretty heavy duty glue, as they're still there. My dad moved into this room after I got married (yes, I lived at home right up until my wedding day, with only a brief 9 months away at an out-of-state college).  He tried to chip off the letters, but to no avail.

 Shortly after I was married, my dad was diagnosed with emphysema. He eventually ended up needing an oxygen tank and some other sort of major breathing machine (like a tank, but less portable). He moved into this room, and toward the end of his life, he rarely left.  He had his computer, a TV for round-the-clock viewings of Law & Order and other cable police shows -- and his displays. This shelf held his display of vintage roadrunners.  (Shortly after I took this picture, my mom said she took down the display. Almost 3 years after my dad died, and it's still hard to put away all of his things.) After his years as bartender, my dad got very into thrifting and selling at flea markets. For a while, he had his own shop: Roadrunner Antiques.

 The view out my bedroom window.  This is "Across the Street," also currently known as a Circle K -- before that, it was a Stop N' Go.  We have always, always just referred to it as Across the Street: as in, "I'm going across the street for some Dr.Pepper, do you need anything?" (Usually  yes, since my mother ALWAYS needs a half-gallon of milk.)  At night, and on clear days, the view is long and southward -- one can see clear to Signal Hill,  near Long Beach.   During the summer in high school, I would cross for bags of chips and Icees, wearing short shorts and testing my ability to stop traffic and garner hoots and hollers from passing cars. I was both thrilled and embarrassed. It's like a short story from Joyce Carol Oates or something. 

 Vintage cuteness in the first bathroom. Yes, an apartment with 2 full baths and 3 bedrooms, and more than 1,000 square feet. We never felt crowded. 

The view out a front window, looking east.  Less than 2 miles east up the road, this major street, which you can drive west all the way to Beverly Hills and beyond, turns into Turnbull Canyon.  The canyon is winding and rural and wild and it never felt far away, even in the midst of the traffic noise and bustle. Even now, at night, one can smell the proximity of all that brush and chapparal.  High school kids like to cruise the canyon on Saturday nights at way-too-high speeds, blasting Ozzy Osbourne out the car speakers. Not that I'd know anything about that.

 Me and my sister (I'm the curly one.) In the background you can see some of the other vintage elements in the house that we take for granted: the old icebox, that we've had  forever, the Frankoma pottery above the pantry, the clock, the De Grazia print. 

Lily with a mouth full of Super Bowl cupcake. Behind her is the antique cabinet holding my mom's collection of ceramic Florence dolls. Florence dolls were made in Pasadena, Califonia in the 1940s and '50s.  These gals was acquired by my dad, almost exclusively on Ebay. Neither the cabinet or the dolls are secured in any way to the wall -- one good earthquake, and they're toast! I have harped on my mother for years to fix this  --- not my problem, I suppose.

The view from the balcony, looking northeast:  The hills are very green right now, says mom. Whittier is a terrific walking town, especially on the west side: alleys, overgrown bougainvillea, bungalow homes and curvy, steep, narrow streets. There are trails that lead up into the hills, too.  Ah, the green, green grass of Home. 

Miles Away

It's getting on to full dark, but if I stand under the light and stick out my thumb, do you think the car will stop? Would it be some creep, or somebody who needs to tell me about Jesus (I attract a lot of those), or somebody who could just be quiet and not ask too many questions? Maybe I'd luck out and get a laid-back old pot-throwing hippie chick -- it is Big Sur, after all. 

It's in my blood, I could say, when she asks.   A third generation, genetic predisposition to just skip town, see ya, sayonara. (No sorry -- never apologize.) 

I walked that road on an afternoon last summer, alone and facing the traffic whipping down this winding stretch of Highway 1. There were glimpses of Big Sur Creek and inner-tubers through the trees  below, down the ridge to my left.  Alone, alone, my heart sang, for I still feel most utterly myself when most utterly left alone.

If I got triple lucky with my thumb out there, I'd catch a ride with a non-curious old hippie chick, and she'd just happen to tune her car stereo into some funky NorCal radio station -- maybe out of Santa Cruz -- and it would be playing this song,  maybe not this rough live version, but you get the picture. Ain't nobody better than Neko for feeling wild and alone on a dark road.


How far will I get? It can't escape my notice that by driving south down the California coast, we're inevitably headed closer and closer to my home.  And I'll get pretty tense thinking too far ahead, and crush that hippie's mellow groove. She'll ditch me at a gas station somewhere around Hearst Castle with a patchouli-scented hug and advice to keep it real.  

Well, lucky for all us, the buck, or the DNA, seems to stop here. No skipping town for me, just a bad case or wanderlust, or maybe early spring fever, or just thinking too much. As usual. In deciding to write a memoir, I've been opening a lot of wormy cans, turning over a lot of stones (again: worms), and generally putting myself in a lot of strange mental cul-de-sacs.  On purpose! In the name of Art. More on that later.  Maybe. 

For now, I have a ride to catch.