Trapped in the multi-verse

I am trapped in a writing multi-verse. I am working on a book review due in two weeks. I have read the book (it was great!), made my notes, sketched out the points I want to hit in the review. I know more or less how I want to wrap it up. If only I knew how I wanted to start it. So far I have ten different ways in. It's the opposite of writer's block, but just as painful. I have leaned on Taylor Swift, radioactivity, crafted mother-daughter analogies, evoked rom-com scenes, tread closer to personal grief than one should in this sort of writing. I am no closer to getting that first paragraph out than I was at 10:30 this morning. 

I just. Need. To. Pick. One.

  

Bibliophilic blind dates

 

When I was visiting Crash and his partner in London I paid a visit to House of Books in Crouch End which has a delightful assortment of books to "blind date". Wrapped in brown paper and twine they remind you not to judge a book by its cover. Clues to the content are printed on the wrapping, but no titles or authors. I bought two - both tagged Noir. I was intrigued by the biopunk set in Thailand and what was Tartan Noir going to be? 

I unwrapped the surprises last week while at the beach on vacation. I am halfway through the biopunk novel, which turned out to be The Windup Girl which won both Hugo and Nebula awards in 2010. It's set in a world where global temperatures and sea levels have both risen. Reading it on a steamy summer day at the beach adds to the atmosphere which Paolo Bacigalupi evokes. A world with no ice, no AC, and where generippers try to stay ahead of the plagues.

Tartan noir? It is a mystery by Ambrose Perry!

In Torrents of Light

For a fleeting moment the heavens opened, and God’s glory spilled forth. Time itself gave way, the ancient prophets Moses and Elijah come to converse with Jesus. Hearing this account two millennia later, I feel as if the entirety of the Gospels has collapsed into this one moment in time, fragments of encounters swirling in torrents of light. 

Hovering behind Peter’s wild desire to hold onto the moment, I see Jesus in a garden gently telling Mary Magdalene not to cling to him. Listen to my son, says a voice from a cloud, and I see spit and mud and a deaf man who can suddenly hear and be heard. Ephphatha! Be opened! Rise, says Jesus, and Peter comes to him across the water, a paralyzed man rolls up his mat, and a young girl gets up from her death bed. 

And always, do not be afraid. Resounding over and over. On a storm-wracked sea. To a worried father. To his disciples gathered for one last meal. To the multitudes. To all of us. 

I wonder what the conversation was as Jesus walked Peter, James and John down the mountain. Or perhaps I don’t, for all these Gospel stories end the same way. We want to cling to the God of glory, to fall at the feet of the divine. Instead Jesus reaches for us in the dust and says, get up. Be opened, that you might hear my voice, that you might be my voice. And above all, do not fear. Walk with me and be transfigured. Walk with me and transfigure the world.

From Give Us This Day August 2023

Blisters, irony and mercy

It is cold and rainy in London. Yes, it is July. Yes, I brought my umbrella. And yes, I’ve been walking everywhere or taking the buses. Yesterday I wore my “conference flats“ which are great for walking many miles in city streets. My day was ending with a visit to the theater, so I thought perhaps an upgrade from my sneakers was in order. 

My trusty flats have never given me blisters. That is until yesterday. Fifteen minutes into a twenty minute walk to the Underground the back of my heel was hot. By the time I got to Russell Square for a lunch meet up, it was raw. I grabbed a bandage from my little first aid kit in my bag and patched it. By the end of lunch, I’d patched the other heel. On to my next meeting. By the time I arrived, I had another blister. You would’ve found me sitting on the (very clean) floor of the  bathroom of the very prestigious journal publisher patching up my foot. 

When I left, I hit the button on my app for navigating the city for “less walking“ and was relieved to find I could catch a bus right in front of where I was that would take me straight to dinner.

By dinner, two more blisters had blossomed on my now sopping wet feet. My feet have not been such a hot mess since I did ballet in graduate school. As we headed home from the theater, my companions pointed out the perch I could lean against in the bus stop. “Ah,” I said, “a misericord. A mercy seat.” For sure it was a mercy for me at this point, at least as much as its predecessor must’ve been for the elderly monks of old. “Not really,” responded one. “ It’s unwelcoming urban architecture. No place for someone to lay down and sleep.” I sighed. There is an irony in having  a mercy seat that doesn’t offer mercy to those most in need.

Broken threads

My maternal great-great grandmother, Leah Lopes Dias Mercado, is buried in London. She rests in the Sephardic Jewish cemetery at Mile End, or what is left of it after much of it has been taken over by Queen Mary University’s expansion in the 20th century. One of the buildings that was erected is the chemistry building, which now abuts the northeast edge of the cemetery. I wonder if my great great grandmother would’ve been pleased to discover that her great granddaughter and great great granddaughter were both university trained chemists.

I visited her grave this week in between London rainstorms. Finding the university was no problem, getting in a bit more of a problem. It’s an urban campus and closed, except for those with IDs. When I asked to visit the cemetery, the security guard told me that I needed to have arranged for that ahead of time by email. I had checked the university website, which did not mention that and asked her who I could contact because I was only here from the US for a short period. At which point she said, “Well, just this one time!” and waved me in. The graveyard is just 100 feet or so beyond the entrance. It was also locked up. But as I circled it for an entrance that might be open I found the spot where people clearly climbed over the wall, and I followed suit. I was a little worried that I might get booted from campus by security for trespassing, but thankfully was left undisturbed.

I had an index to the burial ground, but it was still challenging to find her grave given how worn the inscriptions were on most of the graves. I found a grave where the inscription was legible and a relatively uncommon name, Jane Botibol, wife of Isaac. As I tried to find it on my online index on my phone, it finally popped up and turned out to be only three graves away from Leah. It was an extraordinary experience to stand there, and to pray for her, and to wonder what her life must’ve been or like that of her daughter, my great grandmother, who was orphaned at 12 and eventually immigrated to the US. I left two pebbles on her grave so that she might know she’s remembered. There were a few others, and I wonder if family members here in London might’ve left them. I washed my hands and did not dry them and wished I  I knew more about this part of my family, but I fear too many connecting threads have been broken to ever know much more.