I'm Watching You, Little German Village

Today is Thanksgiving Day. I hope everyone out there has had a great one. As for me, there isn't much family left here, so I spent most of the day at the Magic Kingdom, and then came home to some delicious leftovers and watched alien shows on the History channel all evening (not my idea, I swear).

Although I had a super time at the Magic Kingdom, my thoughts strayed to my favorite park, Epcot, this evening.

There are many reasons why I love Epcot, but the one I am determined to write about goes way back. In fact, I always vowed that if I ever started a blog, I would post about this one thing frequently. What is it? Well, the little train village in Germany.

The village is a mini-scale model of a vast village, complete with a town square, a castle in the bushy background, and many, many trains. The figurines intrigue me the most and I'm always leaning over the bars, wondering about the little guys and what stories they have. I think I stare so ardently that tourists mistake me for some train fanatic. Truth be told, again, it's not the trains that impress me.

I've taken loads of pictures of the village over the years. I have a fairly good idea where most of the figurines are and what they've been up to. So when I went back this fall, after not having gone for at least a few weeks (yeah, it was a killer to wait so long), I saw a change.

Observe.

On the corner of the display is a church. A wedding has always occurred. Here's picture of it from 2009:

What a joyous wedding it is! There are plenty of figurines gathered to witness the moment. A lot of them are wearing hats. I think it's because of the Florida weather. I don't know what's it's like in Germany, but if those folks are supposed to stand outside for another couple years, they are going to need to those hats. We only get a few good weeks of cold. The rest is like sitting in an oven. Or a kiln, I guess, since we're outside. This state considers us no better than a bunch of soggy ceramic pieces (I'd be a nail-printed bowl). Only when we pass out on the ground is it alright to send a merciful breeze through. The bride and groom are lucky enough to be standing under the shade of the church. The groom poses proudly; he looks like he has no trouble holding up his bride. And the bride - well, she looks content. Not happy. No, this is a much deeper feeling. See how her arms are legs are relaxed? She's not stretching in his arms, getting ready to throw a bouquet. She's not fist-pumping like she just scored a touchdown. No. She looks serene.

There are a lot of other figurines around the church that are just as intriguing, such as the lonely man on the bench below the church steps. Is he the uninvited guest? A mere passerby? I mused about him a lot. There's also the hunter and the deer, both balanced on mountains separated by the church. The deer is always on its side. Has it been shot, or is it just an accident of the wind? (I promise I'll post pictures of them eventually).

The family and I got into the habit of walking up the Canada side of the World Showcase, so the wedding would always be the first group of figurines I'd see when we got to Germany. I didn't worry about them. I was thinking about the deer.

So I graduate from college. I know that graduation always brings about change, but I never expected to see a change in the German village. It had been the same for so long.

And now? Well, look what's happened:

The church is barren. A leaf from the tall trees above has floated down to rest of the door of the church (not planned). The only figurine near the the building is a lone nun. She sits solemnly with her hands folded. She's holding the Bible. If she had a face, I wonder what her expression would be? Maybe she knows what happened to the newlyweds. For some reason, I don't feel like it's happy. There's a quiet eeriness there.

You know, something interesting happened while I was searching my desktop for all these pictures. I zoomed in very close to get the close ups of the figurines and, in the process, made a discovery that adds to the mystery. In the new picture, with the nun, there is a figurine standing on a bottom step. I noticed, much to my surprise, that he is the same figure that is standing in the front in the wedding photo - he has his arms up like he's looking a long distance and he wears a red jacket. Here he is in the new one:

Scroll up the wedding picture if you don't believe me.

There's a story here, no doubt. Perhaps the man has a relationship with the nun. If so, he could be admiring her from afar, wishing she would give up her vows so that they could run off together. Maybe he knows that she knows something about the wedding, and he is going to interrogate her. What do you think?

I'd like to meet whoever is in charge of this model village. I really would. To me, this type of storyteller is special. Everything is laid out before you like a silent film with missing dialogue. Whoever is willing to take the time to examine such a complex creation will, indeed, find a story waiting to be told.

Dogs

I like to conjure up a particular image when someone asks me if I like dogs. I say, imagine that I'm standing in this dark, foggy alleyway at night. There's a chill in the air and I'm breathing hard because I can feel someone following me. Well, I hear someone shout, "Get her!" and I see, coming through the haze, a pack of dogs dashing toward me. Their eyes glow red, spit slaps their cheeks, and their snarls could make a grown man cry. What do I do? The only thing I can. I fall to my knees with the biggest smile, my hands open wide. "C'mere," I coo. I wait for them, sincerely expecting them to devour my face with kisses instead of... well... actually devouring it. Yes. It's strictly unconditional.

Naturally, I'm also one of the ten percent of people out there who hate movies where dogs die. I think there's even a book inspired by it... called No More Dead Dogs by Gordon Kormen. I haven't read it yet, but this is interesting to note. I can give you numerous stories of how sick I feel when I run into these on-screen or in-pages dog deaths. The most recent one had me so disturbed that I had to pause the movie for at least twenty minutes until I could calm down. That movie is going to collect dust... or forever have that opening scene (opening scene? Come on!) forever skipped. Ugh. Gives me the shivers.

"Do you like dogs?" Isn't that the best opening line for the start of a friendship? Of course, it can come off as a little strange if their are no actual dogs around. Or puppy mugs. Or even a pin. That's how it started out: this one tiny friendship I had in high school. We got off at the same bustop. We lived in the same development. We walked home down the same streets. I couldn't say a word to him because I didn't trust boys who didn't sing video game lyrics at the lunch table and couldn't fathom the satisfaction of playing a Pokemon card battle.

"Do you like dogs?" he asked, as we passed through the gates together. He looked at me, smiling slightly, a little awkward since he knew as well as I did that it was a silly question to ask. But then again, any question used to break the ice of a non-existent acquaintanceship has to be sharp at the edges.

"I love them," I replied, after a pause, and we both smiled and laughed away the strangeness of that beginning.

For the next year, we waited for each other to get off the bus and conquered all kinds of topics on the way to our respective homes. We never hung out any other time and when some one else decided to walk with us we both felt offended that we had been interrupted. There was a meandering repetitiveness to our ambles home. It was nice and we both liked having company since the Florida heat was unforgiving and you needed something to make you forget about the sweat sinking into your mind. And then I went to college.

He's gone now. I mean, really gone. I remember driving home from college on a long weekend and seeing the ribbons flapping in the breeze, tied in some way to every house on the block. Small memories. Small friendships. I do believe they all matter, even if we can't always guess why.

He used to earn money by pet sitting for the neighbors. Always a responsible boy. He would do great things with his golf swing and trusty persona. I don't remember if he had a pet. Or a dog. I'm sure, even if he didn't, he loved them.

The family dog, Misty, is smelling my messenger bag and purse. Her little brown nose picks up the scent of three other dogs. She wags her tail at me but she looks confused. "Don't worry," I tell her, scratching under her ears, "I didn't cheat on you. You're my favorite." She kisses me on the cheek and trots away after hearing the crackle of a bag.

Misty giving her sleepy stink eye to the camera.

What I'm Doing When I'm Not Writing: Writers' Harvest

I have a feeling that this might be a reoccurring title... which is why I added the magnanimous colon to make this post specific. Since this is the novel writing month, my mind is wired with guilt for every minute I'm not writing something to add to the word count race. This isn't my first time writing a manuscript, but since the main structure of this one is not quite so linear, writing it is strange and wonderful, but mostly frustrating. Ah, yes. Sounds like I'm right on track.

So this past Monday I went to the Writers' Harvest, an amazing event that our department put together to help raise money and collect cans for Feeding America. I happily brought my cans, listening to them clank in a tinny, musical way. The sun had long set when we got there and the venue, Ella's Folk Art Cafe, was alive and waiting. The building was two-stories, inviting and exotic with its artistic atmosphere and earth-tone colors. We all gathered around the first couple tables, taking in the colorful bar and metal sculptures; Ella's is usually closed on Mondays, so we felt special standing within its doors.

Photo Courtesy of Claire Stephens

Haha, here I am on the left, wearing what I call my "Sci-fi shirt." I fell in love with the teal stripes and the band of brass buttons along the collar. I think I gained a bit of money experience after manning the USF booth at the Other Words Conference, so I volunteered to sell the featured writers' books, tag teaming with fellow MFAer, Alan. With a full bar at my fingertips, I ordered a Diet Coke and got to work...

There are a ton of great readers, the four main ones being Ira Sukrungruang, Jeffrey Thomson, Rita Ciresi, and Katie Riegel. Three MFA students - Melissa Caroll, Jaquira Diaz, and Tristina Dickerson, were also featured and really knocked it out of the park. Sadly, I couldn't see any of them reading from my spot. As the books flew out of my hands, I simply enjoyed listening. The table was awfully comfortable and I rested my chin on my arms and was taken away by the soothing and humorous words floating over my head.

The night ended with hands sore from clapping. The night air was cool, but not cold, and I joined my grad friends in casual conversation. When I say casual, I mean what we all normally talk about - literature and writing. The topic was a heated debate about the literary cannon, among other things. My contribution was a few chuckles and nods and gasps as hands slammed the table and voices rose in good cheer and banter.

While it's always fun to talk about, I don't think we'll ever have an answer to the final, official cannon. The best thing about this is that all of us individually make connections with various authors. There's something cozy about this. You find an author buried somewhere on a shelf or in a pile and you are drawn in like all the magnets in the world are packed within the pages. It's as magical as examining the brush strokes of an old master's painting , more private than the discovery of a breathtaking band.

When we find those authors that mean the most to us, I like to imagine that tiny networks form and stretch over time and space that connect us. How many times (and I guess I'm asking mainly English majors) have you daydreamed about sitting across a table with your favorite writer or poet? What would you say? What would he or she say, for that matter?

I'm wearing a mudmask as I'm typing this. My quiet smiles make the clay on my cheeks crack. It's a good night for thinking.

Am I Tired or Just Impressed?

It was one of those Friday nights where the fatigue of the week sets in and you find yourself buried in the cracks of your well-loved couch.

With a bag of no-name brand chocolate chip cookie sandwiches (the strange pimply step-child of the Oreo) and a bookmarked, bedraggled copy of Sara Teasdale's biography, I enjoyed the evening. The TV was set to the home and garden channel. With the Travel Channel gone (Why... oh... why?), I appease my travel bug now by watching rich people (they have to be) house shopping for international abodes.

My fingers on the keyboard of Gorgonzola, my randomly-named laptop (blame Chowder), began to slow. Yes, yes, I was on my laptop too. I really am a multi-tasker. The idea was to read a little, watch TV a little, and raise the word count on my novel manuscript another notch. Hey, it's only a first draft. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. It really is better to just get it all down the first time. So in the process of my usual bout of juggling, a commercial came on that made me stop in my tracks.

A new, Christmas-themed Planter's Nuts commerical.

Whuh.

Now, I've had a lot of little surprises over the past couple days, like, for one, finding out that Nickelodeon is making a partically live-action movie for The Fairly Odd Parents... with Jason Alexander as Cosmo. (Whhhyyy? But Cosmo is so young... and cool... I say this, even though I love Seinfeld. Believe me. But this just isn't right). However, this peanut commercial not only made me abandon all my juggling balls, but had me geeking out about it long afterwards.

[There is something you should know: I am madly in love with both claymation and stop motion animation.]

The commercial is wonderfully made and is a great example of a minature story told artfully in a matter of seconds. I wanted to link it up here via Youtube, but it hasn't been put on there yet. I did learn that Mr. Peanut has his own Facebook page and the video is on there. Please take the time to watch it:

Planter's Nuts Commercial

Best part: Richard the Nutcracker going in for the kill. I thought immediately of Twilight - the way Richard moved was completely vampirelike. It was hilarious.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who found this commercial, well, noteworthy. Tracy Agnew from the Suffolk News-Herald wrote a great article, enligtening us all on the changes that have occurred to the image of Mr. Peanut. I was surprised at how much thought went into the revamp:

Made-over Mr. Peanut debuts

There it is. A great weekend post. And now it's back to work on the manuscript... until another commercial comes along to dethrone me.

The "Old" and St. Augustine

I'll be the first to tell you that Florida isn't magical.

If that comes as a shock to you, I'm terribly sorry. We do have theme parks, most of which I admittedly love and will likely blog about. Beyond that, though, Florida is a very new state. I say new in broad terms: we don't have much "old" going on here.

In craft class, we were joking about ghost tours. Thinking about the possible tours that could spring up in New Tampa, the best we could think of was one that boasted haunted outdoor shopping malls. "And over here," Claire said, wiggling her fingers for good measure, "is the haunted Steinmart! It's three years old... creepy, right?"

In order to find the "old," one must travel to certain parts of Florida for the fix. St. Augustine is, without a doubt, one such place.

As I said in my previous post, the lot of us mosied over to St. Augustine for the awesome Other Words conference at Flagler College. The air was sharp with cold and we huddled together as we wandered up and down the tiny streets and hidden treasures. I was so happy to have finally put my sweaters to good use: winter is a rare breed of season around these parts. With a red nose and aching finger joints, I grinned and sighed happily at each gust of wind attempting to tear off my face. It was so delightful. I friggin' love the cold.

Most the conference was spent in the Ringhaver Student Center. We took turns manning the USF booth, advertising our MFA program, literary journals, and books for sale by our talented professors ;) The panels took place in comfy classrooms and some us even took a gander at the library (to print our pieces for Open Mic... if you were me and forgot them). I even walked away with a Bible-sized biography of Lord Byron from the free rack just inside the door. What luck!

The night readings were held in Ponce Hall, Flagler Room. Beautiful room. On either side of the podium, rooms were filled with old furniture and the most lovely paintings I've seen in a long time. There were even four paintings in the middle area, each a female character from a Shakespeare play. Super. The room was all gold, and wood, and filigree designs above our heads - I wish I studied more architecture so I could describe it better. Pictures, unless taken sneakily, weren't allowed. Over the two nights there, I listened to such poets and writers as Wil Haygood, Diane Wakoski, and Lola Haskins.

My discovery poet was Sarah Maclay. I perused the book fair and found her book, The White Bride, at the table. The mythic cover art drew me in and the imagery kept it in my hands. I presented at the comic book panel at the same time as her reading, but I did get to meet her later on that night. She was wonderful.

St. George Street is THE street to start for a plethora of unique shops and restaurants. The first night we were there, I somehow ate every little rice fleck left from a giant burrito. The interior of the Taco joint was the most interesting we came across: the walls were covered with drawings and messages written with Sharpie. Other foods included: my favorite staple tuna sandwich, pizza, pastichio, and a plate of scrambled eggs. All of the food was delicious. You can't go wrong in St. Augustine. Next time, in warmer weather, I want to try something sweet from the gourmet Popsicle shop. Yes, that's right.

Gloria and I fell in love with a shop called "Dragonflies" and at another Spencer's-like store, we all found something strange and wonderful to bring home with us. I couldn't resist taking home an inflatable desk version of Evard Munch's painting The Scream. It's always been a favorite of mine since I was little and seeing one in a favorite undergrad professor's office make me want one for my own. The little screaming guy now sits in my cubicle, reminding me of the horrors of grad school life :)

Among the other shops, I found a bead shop that I remembered when I went to St. Augustine in middle school. I remember not being able to find it on the way back and thinking that - oh my god - it simply disappeared! Well, it is still in business even after all these years, and I must have had a hard time finding it because the store was, really, a hole in the wall. A little square with a door. I squeezed into the shop and stared at all the beads. I even found the glass beads with little mushrooms inside them (I had purchased a cat version with a mushroom in it's stomach back then). What I didn't remember, with my rose-colored glasses, is that everything in the bead hole was expensive. I left empty-handed from the store, frowning at my friends and saying, "She wanted ten bucks for a ring!" Watch out, dear reader, for the fine print that says "$2 for every gram of metal."

St. George's Row was another place I remembered; it's an indoor hall that curves and it is lined with shops and other interesting things. The first picture in this post is from the magic shop. I went with my family again to St. Augustine not long after the middle school trip. My mom was experimenting with our hair at the time so she and I had matching banana-yellow hair with dark roots. The magicians running the store put on a few tricks that wowed my brother into begging for a card trick kit. We were all actually impressed until one of the magicians smirked and made a stinging comment about our hair (my fear of being blond again must stem from this).

The hallways had at least three different fortune-teller puppets (ranging from zombie swami to one-eyed pirate). Another machine tested the amount of love one has? I didn't quite get it, but there were levels of love like hot stuff, burning, mild, clammy, and my favorite: poor fish, try again. Featured to the right is the Merlin machine. After being fed 25 cents, the starving wizard will measure your personality with the shake of his hand. The light on his chest says that I'm "royal," but I'm going to be honest here and say that I didn't give him a quarter. Now that I'm looking at this picture, it seems like Merlin is staring at my chest. Hmm. Perhaps my reaction to that is the real test of my personality.

Now I'm back to the old schedule and the piles of work look especially mean. I guess they missed me. But it's invigorating to get a taste of something different, an extra flavor that adds a spring to your step and a light to your weary eyes (corny? Nah...). Breathing in the dust of another world makes me appreciate what we have now... and inspires me in my writing and life.

To work, to work!