Read Michael Parker's Blog Post for today. He provides a link to the first issue of Small Potatoes, which is dedicated to the survivors of Katrina. He also gives a short review which is better than what I could try to duplicate here.
Pris
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Who's linking to your blog???
A friend just sent me this site. Type in your blog URL in the box up top and the display will show you in several search engines where a link to your blog is found. It's mind boggling how links can spread...and thanks to all of you I found who have a link to my own blog!
Go to Wholinkstome.
Pris
Go to Wholinkstome.
Pris
The author in her youth:-)
Seated second to left with the awful glasses. This was my junior year and I was junior editor of the school paper, due to be editor my senior year, but I ended up skipping that year and going on to college. To think, what great tomes I might have written?? Click to enlarge.
Small town living is special. Links between people last since most of us returned to Pageland over the years until our parents died. I just got an email from the person in plaid standing, just over my left shoulder, yesterday. The boy in glasses, far left, grew up two doors down from me and, while he's not a great correspondant, we've also stayed in touch.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Watch this spot!!!!
It's almost out! The Most Intriguing (and Sensual) Male Poets Calendar of 2006. It sizzles. All that's left to do is proof the print copy and they'll go on sale. Save room on your holiday shopping list. You're gonna want this calendar. It sizzles. It sings. It's hot! A copy of the cover and the sales link will be on this blog and other blogs over the net as soon as we approve the print. We should be ready to roll within a week. Maybe less.
Calendar created by Jenni Russell, Pris Campbell and Didi Menendez.
Pris
Calendar created by Jenni Russell, Pris Campbell and Didi Menendez.
Pris
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
In Memory
Ernest Walker, my first father-in-law. I just received word from my first husband that he died last Friday. I never lost my bond with my first in-laws. Denise, his wife, died a few years earlier. Rest in peace, Ernie.
Pris
the candles
are doused on his old mantlepiece
white doves singing
Pris
the candles
are doused on his old mantlepiece
white doves singing
Almost adoption time
These are the kitties who, just born, weathered Wilma with us, first in the garage and then into the house. They're growing daily and are now eating solid food, as well as nursing. Best estimate is that they'll be weaned in a few weeks. We have a home for one and have finally decided to adopt all out to good homes, as cute as they are, and just keep the mama. We already have a dog and two pets are about all we can handle right now.
I'm going to miss them rushing into the house from the garage, their primary home (since they still aren't potty trained, but are learning), though.
Pris
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Black Russians and memories
The end of our wedding party in Hawaii. Some of the ship's officers and wives are in the photo. Stan and Sharon, the subject of this post are standing, to far right, with Stan's head partly chopped off. Ken and Toby, also mentioned are left, on the sofa. Toby is wearing her maid of honor dress and Ken is the one with the tiny round glasses. Click to enlarge.
A good friend of mine and I are writing something together and, last night, we inserted a passage where two of the characters are drinking Black Russians. For those of you who've never had one, the drink is a deadly mixture of chocolate flavored brandy and vodka, made even more deceptively deadly since it tastes like a sweet chocolate soda.
The last time I had a Black Russian was years ago and the night was memorable. But first, some background.
My second year out of graduate school, I moved to Honolulu to work and live while I waited for the man I'd met that last summmer to return from his first tour of duty as a junior officer on a supply ship in Vietnam. Our wedding party, held at one of our navy friend's base apartment, also marked the first party since the ship's return. Four of us couples had become tight. One of those ideal situations where we four wives liked each other and also liked the husbands and vice-versa. All of us around the same age. All of us eager for war and danger to be over.
About a month after the wedding, Stan and Sharon were transferred to California to another ship. The crushing news came, not long after that, that Stan and Sharon had been in an accident following a party with too much drinking, much as the parties we had trying to live life while we could and forget everything else. It could have been any one of us, but it was Stan and Sharon. Stan was hurt, but Sharon was killed instantly. They were a couple who laughed a lot together and loved well. Letters were all we could do. There was no internet. No way to have immediate contact.
Ken and Toby were the next to be transferred. Newport. Before the ship went back to Nam. My husband had seven more months in Vietnam before he, too, was transferred to Newport and we renewed our closeness with Ken and Toby.
At some point, Stan's ship was docked in Newport for a time and so we arranged our first evening together. We all went out and ordered Black Russians. After a couple of drinks, Toby and I went with Stan out to the car where the three of us wrapped our arms around each other, Stan in the middle, and sobbed about Sharon. Stan was like a brother to us both and that time, though sad, was good, too.
Stan's ship left, though we'd seen quite a bit of him while it was there, and correspondence petered off. Howard and I eventually got a note that he was out of the service and working on his B.S. in business at the U. of Illinois, the place I'd received my own Ph.D. and met Howard who'd started grad school in Philosophy before the war days. Howard's parents also lived there, so the next visit out, we arranged to see Stan who'd remarried by then. Knowing the new wife would be possibly intimidated by old friends of Sharon's, we'd talked about ways to make her feel accepted. We wanted Stan to have happiness again.
We were met by a woman with a hostile look on her face. Instead of a hug, as was usual, Stan quickly thrust out his hand for a handshake. For the next half hour, time dragged, Stan looking to his wife for approval before he said anything, while she sat there glaring at us. We'd intended to invite them for dinner, but it was clear that this half hour would be all we would see of our friend. We said our goodbyes and left.
"That's how Stan is punishing himself," I told Howard as we left.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"He's made sure he can't be happy again by marrying this woman," I told him.
Yes, Stan had changed. The twinkle had gone from his eyes. The old Stan was no more. We'd seen the old Stan emerge during his time in Newport, so it wasn't just Sharon's death. It was how he had decided to let it take its toll.
He later sent a note that he had taken a job in New Jersey, just across from Manhattan. By this time I was working to put Howard through law school in Boston and Ken and Toby were living near Manhattan, Ken having found a lucrative job in advertising in the city.
Ken saw Stan once when Stan came into the city for lunch. He told us the same thing. He didn't really recognize the man he used to be friends with. No more laughter. No jokes. No lightening up. The lunch dragged and they never arranged any more of them.
So, when I think of Black Russians, I think of that night when Stan was still Stan, when we all held each other and cried, so full of love, so full of the belief our friendship would hold, no matter what.
I still wonder what happened to Stan sometimes. I still remember his laugh. It came from his heart and you couldn't help but laugh with him and adore him.
Note: We've scattered now. Ken and Toby later divorced. She lives in Sydney, Australia. I don't know where he is. I'm still in touch with the other close couple on the sofa. They live in Albany where he's a lawyer and their one child multiplied to four and they now have grandchildren. Nancy, mid-bottom, was the ship's captains' wife. Career. We lost touch, too, after transfers. The Hawaian woman to the right was killed shortly after this photo, too, by her nephew when she spent the night at her sister's home, sleeping in her bed. The son, who was mentally disturbed, thought he was killing his mother in the dark room. He got Gladys, instead. Howard and I divorced after law school. Something just went dead between us, too. We still exchange a sparse e-mail note occasionally and I saw him when I returned to New England three times in the eighties before I got CFIDS and couldn't travel. He remarried finally in around 1990 and has adopted a Chinese daughter. He's also done very well for himself as a lawyer, both monetarily and in his work. I'm glad about that. I like success stories.:-)
A good friend of mine and I are writing something together and, last night, we inserted a passage where two of the characters are drinking Black Russians. For those of you who've never had one, the drink is a deadly mixture of chocolate flavored brandy and vodka, made even more deceptively deadly since it tastes like a sweet chocolate soda.
The last time I had a Black Russian was years ago and the night was memorable. But first, some background.
My second year out of graduate school, I moved to Honolulu to work and live while I waited for the man I'd met that last summmer to return from his first tour of duty as a junior officer on a supply ship in Vietnam. Our wedding party, held at one of our navy friend's base apartment, also marked the first party since the ship's return. Four of us couples had become tight. One of those ideal situations where we four wives liked each other and also liked the husbands and vice-versa. All of us around the same age. All of us eager for war and danger to be over.
About a month after the wedding, Stan and Sharon were transferred to California to another ship. The crushing news came, not long after that, that Stan and Sharon had been in an accident following a party with too much drinking, much as the parties we had trying to live life while we could and forget everything else. It could have been any one of us, but it was Stan and Sharon. Stan was hurt, but Sharon was killed instantly. They were a couple who laughed a lot together and loved well. Letters were all we could do. There was no internet. No way to have immediate contact.
Ken and Toby were the next to be transferred. Newport. Before the ship went back to Nam. My husband had seven more months in Vietnam before he, too, was transferred to Newport and we renewed our closeness with Ken and Toby.
At some point, Stan's ship was docked in Newport for a time and so we arranged our first evening together. We all went out and ordered Black Russians. After a couple of drinks, Toby and I went with Stan out to the car where the three of us wrapped our arms around each other, Stan in the middle, and sobbed about Sharon. Stan was like a brother to us both and that time, though sad, was good, too.
Stan's ship left, though we'd seen quite a bit of him while it was there, and correspondence petered off. Howard and I eventually got a note that he was out of the service and working on his B.S. in business at the U. of Illinois, the place I'd received my own Ph.D. and met Howard who'd started grad school in Philosophy before the war days. Howard's parents also lived there, so the next visit out, we arranged to see Stan who'd remarried by then. Knowing the new wife would be possibly intimidated by old friends of Sharon's, we'd talked about ways to make her feel accepted. We wanted Stan to have happiness again.
We were met by a woman with a hostile look on her face. Instead of a hug, as was usual, Stan quickly thrust out his hand for a handshake. For the next half hour, time dragged, Stan looking to his wife for approval before he said anything, while she sat there glaring at us. We'd intended to invite them for dinner, but it was clear that this half hour would be all we would see of our friend. We said our goodbyes and left.
"That's how Stan is punishing himself," I told Howard as we left.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"He's made sure he can't be happy again by marrying this woman," I told him.
Yes, Stan had changed. The twinkle had gone from his eyes. The old Stan was no more. We'd seen the old Stan emerge during his time in Newport, so it wasn't just Sharon's death. It was how he had decided to let it take its toll.
He later sent a note that he had taken a job in New Jersey, just across from Manhattan. By this time I was working to put Howard through law school in Boston and Ken and Toby were living near Manhattan, Ken having found a lucrative job in advertising in the city.
Ken saw Stan once when Stan came into the city for lunch. He told us the same thing. He didn't really recognize the man he used to be friends with. No more laughter. No jokes. No lightening up. The lunch dragged and they never arranged any more of them.
So, when I think of Black Russians, I think of that night when Stan was still Stan, when we all held each other and cried, so full of love, so full of the belief our friendship would hold, no matter what.
I still wonder what happened to Stan sometimes. I still remember his laugh. It came from his heart and you couldn't help but laugh with him and adore him.
Note: We've scattered now. Ken and Toby later divorced. She lives in Sydney, Australia. I don't know where he is. I'm still in touch with the other close couple on the sofa. They live in Albany where he's a lawyer and their one child multiplied to four and they now have grandchildren. Nancy, mid-bottom, was the ship's captains' wife. Career. We lost touch, too, after transfers. The Hawaian woman to the right was killed shortly after this photo, too, by her nephew when she spent the night at her sister's home, sleeping in her bed. The son, who was mentally disturbed, thought he was killing his mother in the dark room. He got Gladys, instead. Howard and I divorced after law school. Something just went dead between us, too. We still exchange a sparse e-mail note occasionally and I saw him when I returned to New England three times in the eighties before I got CFIDS and couldn't travel. He remarried finally in around 1990 and has adopted a Chinese daughter. He's also done very well for himself as a lawyer, both monetarily and in his work. I'm glad about that. I like success stories.:-)
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Want to see if you're being plagarized??
Kim Komando to the rescue again. If you take a phrase from one of your poems, essays, short stories or whatever, go to google and PUT IT IN QUOTES, google will search for that exact phrase. I just tried it. I copied and pasted not even a complete sentence from a poem and boom, there it was on Google with a link to where it was on my blog.
I remember a while back someone was posting plagarized poems on a board I posted to off and on. Wish we'd had that tool then.
Pris
I remember a while back someone was posting plagarized poems on a board I posted to off and on. Wish we'd had that tool then.
Pris
Friday, November 11, 2005
A Tribute
The Kim Komando newsletter today featured this site, In Remembrance. It's a page of names with vidoes of music and photographs of young men lost in battle. You click on the name to see each video. I've watched only a few. More than that is just too much to see right now. Having had a husband in Vietnam on a ship and a brother in law in the jungles in that same war, you feel the pain of knowing you could very easily lose someone you love. Both, unlike the men on this page, survived their war.
To Howard, Paul, Ken, B.J. and to my online Vet friends, I'm glad you made it through. To the relatives of those on this page, my condolences.
Pris
To Howard, Paul, Ken, B.J. and to my online Vet friends, I'm glad you made it through. To the relatives of those on this page, my condolences.
Pris
Blood Is The Sinner's Revenge
Thorns slung 'round my neck,
I wait for that kiss
of betrayal,
the silence between
jagged breaths,
that soft clearing
of a throat ready
to speak about coinage
or refuge in Stockholm.
Here in my blue garden,
filled with the footprints
of whores and lost Jesuits,
my tongue has been
fed to
poets
morticians
liars
& weeping mothers...
a delicacy.
I bleed, but my tormentors
all face east, already blind
from the sun's cruel, scorching reality.
I wait for that kiss
of betrayal,
the silence between
jagged breaths,
that soft clearing
of a throat ready
to speak about coinage
or refuge in Stockholm.
Here in my blue garden,
filled with the footprints
of whores and lost Jesuits,
my tongue has been
fed to
poets
morticians
liars
& weeping mothers...
a delicacy.
I bleed, but my tormentors
all face east, already blind
from the sun's cruel, scorching reality.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
By the way...
If you haven't seen the movie, Crash, I'd recommend it highly. I rented it from Netflix. Stars range from Sandra Bullock on to other excellent cast and is one of the best statements on the complexities of both race relations and human love I've seen in a long time. It'll surprise you and move you. It did me. I just read that it has a shot at an Academy Award nomination. Hope it gets one.
pris
pris
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Sunday Means Forty-Second Street
(an older one)
Kneeling in the Forty-Second street alley,
cord tight above elbow bend,
vein swollen and ready,
Mother, on his arm,
watches and patiently waits.
Sundays, it's always the Square,
flashing sign drawing his eyes
briefly towards heaven.
His church.
She always told him to go.
Hard to remember her clearly now.
Life eats his childhood daily, fogging
memories of a figure in blue, scent
of gardenias in damp air, heels
clattering over hardwood floor.
She would like it that he comes here.
Everybody needs remembrance
of a mother's cool hand.
Pris Campbell
©2003
Published in Lotus Journal, June 2003
Kneeling in the Forty-Second street alley,
cord tight above elbow bend,
vein swollen and ready,
Mother, on his arm,
watches and patiently waits.
Sundays, it's always the Square,
flashing sign drawing his eyes
briefly towards heaven.
His church.
She always told him to go.
Hard to remember her clearly now.
Life eats his childhood daily, fogging
memories of a figure in blue, scent
of gardenias in damp air, heels
clattering over hardwood floor.
She would like it that he comes here.
Everybody needs remembrance
of a mother's cool hand.
Pris Campbell
©2003
Published in Lotus Journal, June 2003
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Mice Sing!
Everyone knows that mice squeak and squeal, but few realize that mice also communicate in the ultrasound range, at frequencies far higher than the human ear can detect.Now scientists conducting the first detailed analyses of those vocalizations have concluded that these sounds are much more than a high-pitched version of the simple hisses and grunts produced by many other animals. Rather they are complex patterns of chirplike syllables that meet the scientific definition of "song."
To read the rest of this article in The Washington Post, click HERE
mousespeak
what do they sing when
lobotomized
given lupus
lathered with cosmetics
drugged
shocked?
do they sing dirges,
compose symphonies of sadness,
or do simple tunes of longing
escape for their mates,
keening outside
on the dying grass?
Monday, November 07, 2005
Scuppernongs...
How many of you have heard about them?
Go to this Things Southern site, for a photo and discussion. You'll find a comment from me near the end. They grew behind my house in the Carolinas and the golden ripe fruit are to wallow for!
Go to this Things Southern site, for a photo and discussion. You'll find a comment from me near the end. They grew behind my house in the Carolinas and the golden ripe fruit are to wallow for!
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