The Fairies, a Sort of Castle, Some Very Unusual Gowns , A Small Calamity

Did you know that the fairies live in a (very) small castle and must sleep in their fancy gowns?

The castle, though magical, is somewhat makeshift, constructed  of colored, magnetic tiles, the entire edifice 
occasionally given to collapsing. These shiny, clicky "building blocks"- in attractive, primary hues for kids- can all fall in on each other if you're not careful about how you touch and maintain the structure. In truth, it all seems for show. The whole house can dissolve in the night even if you are careful. The tiles are pretty but will not hold, especially if you use them to create anything more ambitious or permanent than say a small tower. This can be quite disconcerting to a just about four year old who is counting on these shiny blocks to house her fairy collection.

The fairies who inhabit this little palace have their issues too. Only five or six inches high- if that- their diaphanous, resplendent costumes actually are painted right onto their little plastic forms (in bright though matte shades)! This necessitates sleeping in the outfits of course, since anyone can see that such apparel simply cannot be removed, ever; in fact, it quite defines them. 

As always there is lots of pink among the colors, even in their hair! I never realized (prior to meeting the fairies) that it was possible to sleep in a formal gown each night, no less one permanently attached. But now I know- this can happen.

The thoughts, observations and questions of a just about four year old who collects and nurtures tiny fairy dolls- regarding the many complexities of life- are truly amazing. As a member of that indomitable band of small, inquisitive persons not yet half a decade old, she seeks to find answers to a host of metaphysical and scientific perplexities; and in this  process of discovery there's a kind of valuable metaphor.

A fairy tale for the ages? Do not build a house to last by using colorful, smooth, and fragile magnetic tiles of undetermined composition; they may be pleasing to look at, clicky sounding and fun, but they're really not all that practical. Never glue your wardrobe to your own self for any reason whatsoever if you intend to change clothes, and finally,  demand a solid dwelling with a strong foundation! Who wants to live in a shiny albeit fragile home liable to descend into structural chaos at any moment? If you find yourself in this situation, just rebuild.

The Nootch pondered this complicated situation aloud one recent day- the collapsed castle, the fairies sleeping in their party dresses. Was she trying to reason it out, inside that adorably furrowed, just about four year old (and always thinking) brow, as she related the calamity of the magnetic fairy castle and the little figurines catching some zzzzzs, in their gowns? Didja ever?!? She just had to tell the story. It's the telling that makes it into a kind of sense.

This being the 21st century however, the Nootch utilizes the shiny, magnetic tiles not only to build sheltering homes for the fairies, but also to construct rockets, based on a recent fascination she has with "Lottie" the astronaut doll. 

So much to learn, so little time. . . . It seems like just yesterday she learned that some stories in books are only make believe.

What will the days, weeks and months ahead bring as she heads boldly and inquisitively towards her fifth year? 

It's mind boggling. Impossible even to try to imagine. 

But however things change or reshape themselves, there will be many more thoughts, puzzles to solve, much curiosity, probable and improbable solutions, fascinating mysteries. . .  all occurring everyday, no doubt!

Of this you can be certain.

What We Read Part Three: Choices

What we read is chosen for us.
In ancient Rome, money talked, self advertising helped, the term captive audience took on new meaning, from the story's "listeners" to its scribes. 

It was the custom of the time for writers to read their books to a select audience of friends before they were published, and it was fashionable to be seen attending such occasions, said H.V. Morton in "A Traveler in Rome;" these listening events also could become quite tedious,  equated once with the "terrors of Rome" like "the collapse of badly built houses" and "fires."

Following the long winded reading came the hard copy. After having read his new work in public, the writer would take it to a publisher, who employed a number of copyists. While a reader dictated a book, scribes wrote it down in black ink on sheets of papyrus, which afterwards were pasted together into a roll. Twenty scribes working several hours a day could no doubt produce a thousand copies which was considered a fair edition.

In the much nearer "old days"  of a century or two ago, getting published no longer involved papyrus (really a hassle to stick in your bag or unroll on a bus!), but it did entail having some talent and/or knowing someone and/or or using your luck and ingenuity. Stories abound about writers whose manuscripts were "discovered" and immortalized on the merits of the narrative.

In these times however, often it looks as if you just have to know someone. 

At least that's what it seems from the volume of crappy selections on store bookshelves, online libraries and even small, individually owned, slightly snotty, ol' time book shops, who after all just want to remain in business like everyone else. Readers get so frustrated with all these (un)literary and often boring "choices" they revert to the classics; soon they're devouring texts that once came with homework questions in high school, finding new meaning in them!

How many current titles on display will make it through the next fifty years? 

So many books, to choose from, but publishing is still a business with grand marketing schemes that not only reflect the reader's taste but create it. Like any fashion, some stories sell, others fall through the cracks- like those funny shirts with the big, silly holes in the shoulders they kept trying to peddle as elegant. The plethora of "choices"  (clever, fun "must reads" notwithstanding) still proves classics modern and old emerge only once in a blue moon.

Keeping all this in mind discerning readers, we've already bandied around the idea of a personal "Top Ten" (or three, or seven) of incredible, artful, life changing books that really did inspire; you heeded the call by contributing a bunch of important, beloved titles! Now let's get down & dirty & find some memorable lines to share- initially I had the notion of  readers choosing from three works to show why these reads wowed you.

I soon realized this was a bout of temporary insanity- who would want to deal with three excerpts, even short ones, for what feels like an "assignment?" But on the other hand, might not many readers involved with this blog very likely agree to doing one? These amazing first, last or in-between lines you submit will lead us to stories we should be tackling immediately (or again!), to say nothing of the bookish, cathartic value of thinking back.

Perhaps you choose to go "ancient Roman" on us & make a short video of yourself reading anything; I would post that too. Realistically though, you may just want to select an especially resonant line or two  from one of your favorite reads and email it in for blog readers to consider and enjoy.

It's food for thoughfulness, will help us through the winter, and the solitary pleasure of reading will not be diminished one jot by these simple though significant offerings.

To kick off this life affirming exercise not requiring any challenging yoga poses, here are two for starters (a compromise between one and three): the first about being young, carefree, and rich in New York's original gilded Age, the second telling of more modest circumstances and fewer opportunities during that same period-

The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the mall was ceiled with lapus lazuli, and arched above the snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her. . . . (Edith Wharton, Age of Innocence)
                                               vs.
When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skinned satched, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address. . . and four dollars . . . . It was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. (Theordore Dreiser, Sister Carrie).

Oh, those marvelous "splintered crystals" under a blue sky that shone on May Welland; ah, that scrappy "yellow leather snap purse" and the absence of prospects it intimated for Carrie Meeber! 

Remember, old or new,  "classic" or not, so many really good reads and fantastic lines, so little time. . . .  What wowed you? 

Some readers have had trouble posting comments. You can always email them to me (nystoryweaver@yahoo.com) and I will post them for you.