not native fruit

rilke/niels lyhne/danishness?

In "Letters to the Poet As A Young Man" Rilke recommends that his student read the nineteenth-century Danish writer Jens Peter Jacobsen in order to meet the master of contemplative literature.  So, of course, I had to check Jacobsen out.  Our local library had in its possession his novel Niels Lyhne (pronounced Nils Lu-na), so I checked it out.  And as promised, it is one of the most precious, ruminative pieces of self-absorbed fiction anyone, even Marcel Proust, could ever desire.  It is absolutely beautiful, as well.  So attentive, so in tune with the silence of the contemplative life.  I've only just begun it, thumbed through and read a few paragraphs here and there, so I can't say much more about it just now.

I'm not sure if this is really something ethnically Danish, or if it's more symptomatic of the nineteenth century, generally.  The nature-writing is superb.  Not grandiose, as much American nature writing is, but homey.  Not ecstatic waterfalls, but cottage gardens. 

Sometimes I wonder if my contemporaries among the Danes 'rebelled' against this melodic sweetness and love of nature.  It still shows up in some of their films, like "Italian for Beginners," "Mifune," and others - urbane Danes rediscovering their rustic roots.  Maybe that phase of rebellion against the past is over, over there, because after all, over here there is a kind of revival of Bertram-style nature writing, for example, Thirteen Moons.  The pendulum appears to have swung yet again.  Thirteen Moons, by Charles Frazier is lyrical, descriptive, attentive, contemplative - all my favorite things, by the way. 

Sometimes I feel like my husband and I have not made such a great adjustment to 'modern times.'  We seem to be holdovers from the nineteenth century, and now we're living in the twenty-first.  Not sure if this 'backwardness' is related to being part native american and delaware moor, two cultures self-identified with the past, yet embedded in the present-day just like everyone else.  Sometimes we think it's the spot we live in, here in Berkeley, on the grounds of former native american settlements.

I've heard it said that many Danes are surprised and perhaps a bit discomfited that American Danes seem to be stuck in an image of 'danishness' that belongs to the nineteenth century.  That's when they left Denmark to emigrate to America, and Denmark has become 'frozen' for them as it was at that moment in the past.  Every year there are various festivals of Danishness that celebrate the 'Denmark that was.'  This disparity in self-image creates a rift with contemporary Danish Danes.  These are some of the strange facts of ethnicity.

For an example of sentimental, nature-loving, nineteenth-century Danish Lieder, try picking out the tune of "Vandring i Skoven" (music notated in a previous post, Wandering in the Forest.)

current reading

Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier, author of Cold Mountain.  If you liked the 'nature writing' and the 'Native American' writing in 'Cold Mountain, you will love this book.  Although there is not exactly a gripping plot, for history buffs the creation and dissolution of the Cherokee Nation ought to hold plenty of interest.  And there is a tragic love interest for the ladies. (I don't know how else to phrase it.)

Here is an example of his writing I find beautiful, informative, humorous and captivating:

“Three days (later), Bear and I  went walking up the cove to Granny Squirrel’s cabin.  The bold creek ran white over green rocks and the trail was muddy from spring rain.  Bear was dressed in his best old-time fringed buckskin shirt worked with beading or red and white.  And contrary to the law of things that says old folks, no matter what height they once attained, will end up squat and humped and hobbled, Bear stood tall and lean and straight, and he walked with a long loping stride that left me puffing trying to keep up.  He had pulled just a part of his long hair into a plait terminated with a large amber bead, and the rest was let to swing free about his shoulders.  He carried a long rifle dropped across his left forearm, but it was more as a fashion accessory than as a weapon, a defining implement that made him feel young.  And it was important for him to feel young, for we were on a mission of love.

“Granny Squirrel’s cabin was about the size of a pony stall, and the roof shakes were as mossy as the creek rocks, and it was pressed down into the head of the cove as tight as a tick in the intricate folds of a hound’s ear.  Speckled chickens moved in a body across the dooryard.  Red peppers hung in lapped strands from the porch rafters to dry, for she liked her food with a great deal of pepper and sage to the point that no one else would eat it, and that was the only secret of her longevity that she would share with others.”  (pp. 283-84)

Returning to A by Dorien Ross: story of an American woman who travels to Andalucia over a period of twenty years (beginning at age sixteen) to study flamenco guitar with gypsy masters of the art form.  If you've ever fallen in love with an instrument, a music or a culture, you will resonate with this book.  It came into my hands at a significant moment, just as I am in the process of reconnecting with my own Moorish roots.  I had my own love affair with flamenco when I was a teenager, too, so the book is doubly meaningful to me at this time of remembering.

This book consists of strings of pure poetry running through an almost abstract narration, reminiscent of jazz.  Published by City Lights Books, it brings you into a world few can penetrate.  At the same time, it is an adventure story of youth that anyone can relate to.  It's important to also mention that it is a tale shot through with grief over the loss of a beloved brother. It's a coming of age story, beginning in childhood and ending with that experience we call 'coming of age.'

When I read this book, I feel a kind of rippling of flamenco music through the cells of my body.  It must all be stored there, along with many very deep emotions.  I feel the currents of these emotions running through this narrative, and found I had to read the book like poetry, just a page or two at a time, allowing it to work on me, like eating a box of fine chocolates, one at a time, savoring each morsel

Here are some excerpts of the book:

“I was sixteen the summer my brother Aaron’s hair grew below his ears, almost touching the collar of his Oxford blue shirt.  Our parents disapproved.  That extra two inches became a source of tense excitement for me.  Watching his hair grow.  Would it actually grow over his collar after he arrived in Berkeley or during our last summer home together?

“Waiting for him to leave, I practiced nightly in my bedroom.  Windows opened wide.  Crickets pulsing.  The fat leaves of summer pressed against the screens.  In pink shorty pajamas, legs folded under me, hunched over the guitar, I played my few melodies.  On my guitar case I had written a large sign, “I am not a folk singer.”  I had already learned three falsetas.  Puberty had begun for me as a quest for music. 

“When the napkin arrived from Bar Pepe, innocently enough, at our house on Sunnyridge Road I was not surprised.  Ordinary envelope.  Foreign stamp.  I never doubted that it would come.  I had secretly written to the author of a book about the gypsies I had discovered in my guitar teacher’s studio.  I snatched the letter from the foyer table and opened the envelope.  Inside was a thin triangular napkin with a hand-drawn map in blue ink.  Bus station: Sevilla.  Pueblo: Morón.  A crooked winding road connected these two points.  A small childlike drawing of a bus traveled the line.  “Ven, si tu quieres.”  Come if you wish, is all it said.

“When I first entered Morón de la Frontera, it was like alking back into a dream that felt more real than waking life.  It was a dream of a past that I had no knowledge of, but I immediately recognized it as the missing dimension.  It was a more remote past than Eastern Europe, which was too soaked in the blood of my people to walk again in this life-time.  But Morón with its charming vital small town life, Morón with its heritage of art, Morón with its castle crumbling on the hill; Morón would do just fine.”

Her writing about the music itself never failed to bring back vividly to me my own experiences of this music I too had loved, meshed with a particular person, in my youth.

“Soleáres was thought of as the mother of all the forms.  Soleáres — to be alone.  Morón was the region famous for this form.  The loneliness of the soleá cante was nowhere more deeply expressed.  I knew that alegrias can be heard for what it is only by young people with old souls or old people with the souls of children.  A genetic Gypsy characteristic.  At sixteen, I was neither young enough nor old enough to hear it for what it was.  Perhaps I had no alternative but to learn the soleá.  And so for the next decade I played only soleáres.  The song of loneliness.  Its compás.  Its falsetas.  And its chords which called forth the deep song.”

The Birth of Black America by Tim Hashaw, subtitled The First African Americans and the Pursuit of Freedom at Jamestown: I'm a little heavy on the historical reading these days.  I grew up in a black city, Philadelphia.  Before and during the Civil Rights movement of the nineteen sixties, I felt close to various black friends, was identified with black people, as a friend and supporter only perhaps - never quite understanding the connection, just recognizing that it was there - and only since taking my dna test, have I realized the connection was more than skin-deep (in fact, in terms of skin-color there is no obvious connection at all - it was always a connection more at the level of the heart and soul). 

I'm pretty sure my African connection comes through my part-Tuareg great-grandmother, but nevertheless, another branch of my family is represented at Jamestown, probably among the servants, and I'm interested in seeing how these two branches moved around, eventually intertwining just after the Civil War.

Albion's Seed, about early British populations in America.  Four "British Folkways": New England Puritans, Pennsylvania Quakers/middle class, Virginia aristocrats, and Backwoods Border Reiver types.  Easy reading with enough historical data to make it interesting.

Need More Love by Aline Kominsky Crumb: nothing 'historical' here, although my own personal history does relate to this book!  Anyway, I'm really impressed by Aline's verve and joie de vivre, and am pleased to find the book very woman-centered ('Aline-centered') and not as 'R.Crumb-centered' as I expected it might be, although there is plenty of material here for the afficianados of the "R" variety of Crumb.  A positive and humorous read, and best of all, inspired me to break out the old colored pencils and pastels.  Thanks, Aline!