On Wordstock, Day 1

or

On No Ghosts That Anyone Was Particularly Afraid Of

Wordstock! The somewhat confusing literary festival! The one with that chair on fire! My impressions of day one were hampered by an inability to take notes (a problem I will come to resolve on day two) and a blinding hangover (a problem I will emphatically not resolve on day two). However, here are some general thoughts to warm us to the subject.

 
Thoughts!

Maybe it’s just me, but the combined reliance on a bright red and white color theme, interrogatory declarations, and the occasional volunteer arm patch/sticker things lent the fest a somewhat totalitarian air. Everyone was very nice, this is Portland after all, and the actual administration of the fest felt very loose. It’s just that someone made some very intense design choices. It wasn’t a uniformly bad choice, I’m sure it contributed to a sense of convention energy, but I like to buy books in a more cozy setting. For instance, the actual chair looks cozy. I wish they’d done more with that. Also, there were a bunch of people wearing sandwich boards. I’m not sure what that was about.

More of the same after the break, but then I dish on Sweet Valley High.

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On Crows and Their Names

Out and about in Old Portland Town, I happened upon an odd tableau.

The sun was being sunny, and I was skirting Hawthorne along some residential side streets. Main drags are well and good, but I’ve found the real action is off to the side a few blocks. Anyway, I came upon one of those mid-century separate entrance apartment complexes that dot Inner Southeast. Upon one particular stoop was perched an exceptionally grizzled crow. In a distinguished way, you understand. But grizzled. He had ruffled, old looking feathers with almost a salt and pepper coloring. Do birds go grey? I feel like this bird was going grey. Anyway.

At a ninety degree angle, a middle aged woman in gardening gear crouched in the bushes.

“Come here, my baby” she cooed.

I stopped walking and took in the scene.

“Is that your crow?” I asked. I am, if nothing else, fairly direct with strangers.

“Oh yes” she said and slowly approached the crow, “that’s my crow. Come on baby, let’s go inside,” she said (to the crow).

The crow, obediently enough, hopped from the stoop to her garden gloved hand. She held it aloft, proud as a falconer with an especially proud falcon.

“Well, not really” she said.

[note: this next part I am not completely sure on, since there were a lot of conceptually odd phrases getting thrown around, so I may not get the wording quite right]

 ”They had him at the old Chinese restaurant,” she continued “but they tore that down and left his mother and brother to die. I took him in and raised him since.”

“Oh wow” I said.

“His brother is buried over in the backyard over there” she gestured over her shoulder at the back yard. “I don’t really know if I own him or not” she said, looking fondly at the crow.

“Hmm” I said. I should have said that with crows, possession is nine tenths of the caw. Or asked, rhetorically, if anyone can really own a crow? I mean, really own it? I of course said neither. I just gawked at the crow. The crow looked back at me, I must say, imperiously.

“His feathers [wings?] were sheathed, you see,” she said.

“Hmm” I said. Revealing this fact seemed to deflate the crow a little, as if he knew that I knew something unflattering about him now, and the whole dynamic was changed. He shifted uncomfortably on his perch, like a schoolboy in the presence of both his mom and the cool kid from school who’s in the sixth grade.

“I’m not sure of his sex. But if he’s a he, his name is Merlin. If she’s a she, her name is Merlin Monroe.” 

“I like that,” I said, and chuckled. I really do like that, too. It’s clever.

“Well, have a good day” she said, and we parted ways. The crow, having regained some of his composure, hooted at me as I walked away.

On Readings

David Mitchell read at Powell’s the other night, and it was fantastic. (Thanks to Grant for saving me a seat. It was packed when I got there) I didn’t take notes, because when I do take notes they are almost exclusively drawings of dragons wearing different kinds of hats, instead of whatever it is I am actually taking notes about. The “quotes” in this article are therefore just muddled recollections. But as far as I can recall, they bear at least a passable resemblance to what was said . In any event, I feel qualified at least to point out the areas of the reading that lent themselves to greatness:

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