book talk

My book talk at Third Place Books in Ravenna went, in my opinion, quite well! Good turnout, mostly friends, friends of friends, and family, some of whom hadn't seen one another for years, and were stunned, as they admitted later, at how everyone had aged. The audience seemed pleased with the powerpoint pictures, particularly the one of Stevo -- Stevo's was the missing face in Lola's Luck. Stevo's studio portrait was taken by an agreeable gay couple who once had a studio on University Way -- they loved his arms and draped them fetchingly beneath his chin. My low-pixel camera shots of Machvaia, taken by a cheap camera, suffer from the comparison with Stevo's finely rendered studio shot. The only way I could bribe Stevo to patiently sit and be posed was to promise him a pitcher of martinis. The camera clicked as I came through the door with his reward and he beamed. Enticingly.

STEVO

Those who have read Lola's Luck will remember Stevo. He called me several weeks ago. We hadn't talked for more than twenty years and I went into catatonic shock. In fact, when we hung up, I made a list of all the things I might have said to ease my frustration.

We laughed about the name I chose for him for the book, Stevo Polo -- Polo is his favorite aftershave. He wanted to be in the movie, not as romantic lead, of course, but rather "an older man." There is no movie, I explained and I could tell he found that hard to believe. Apparently, the big Hollywood Movie rumor, and big Hollywood dollars, is making the Roma rounds.

He asked some personal questions, of course, and admitted he is now living with an American woman, not the Spanish lady of an earlier time, but someone else. He still lives in a jealous world, I note, and is apparently no more available for contact by telephone than he was when he lived with wife Tutsi. But he is still alive and that is very good to know.

Watching The River, a Renoir movie from the 50s, a movie I picked up at Scarecrow Video, I realized the world, and myself, had drastically changed. Why did I ever like it, I wonder? This time around it struck me as irritating and racist. The Indians are pretty much props to the central story. I am left wondering, after the white boy is killed by a snake, what happened to the little boy who was his Indian friend. This movie was done by a Frenchman; I always expect the French to be astute, philosophical, broad-minded. I would bet that was the case, for Jean Renoir, and the way The River seemed to me at the time. Times do change.
My brain is not wired for computers and I have a twitchy eye. Last week, grandson Marcus created my blog. My web site took more steps; granddaughter Elicia did the CD, a chap I paid signed me up with godaddy, and, after that, a sweet young man from upstairs with baby Connor on his lap finally got it up and running. A friend, my masseuse Patricia, managed to make the flyers for my book talk next month. My son Colin showed me how to put some Gypsy pictures on a thumb drive; pictures will add imagery to my talk. I have never felt more helpless, and now I find my own egocentric face in the "friend" category on my blog. How did I do that? Can I take it out?

Last night a Machvanka called -- I will call her Lana. She called after 10 pm my time. She is on the east coast and I always think that she calls when she is alone and can't sleep, when her husband is out with the "boys," drinking, gambling, making good luck with good times, something no upstanding Machvaia wife would ever complain about.

We always talk about her mother, a woman who, three years ago, left this world for The Other Side. Lana misses her mother and asks me, her senior by a generation and an old friend of her mother's, why that excellent woman no longer appears in her dreams.

But remember, I say, she came just last week when you were full of sorrow. She came as a pretty butterfly and geve you healing kisses all over. Remember?

Lana does remember but wonders why the kisses were so strongly suctioned that she had to wrestle each of them off?

That's because, I venture positively, she really wanted you to notice her, to pay attention and stop the bad luck of grieving. Too many tears can make you sick.

When Lana calls, we are joined in a comfortable conspiracy of remembering and cherishing her mother. Lana calls me several times a month.

Friday afternoon on the computer

All this is so unfamiliar. This week my actor grandson Marcus Ho who was briefly in Seattle, set me up and showed me what to do. But my age is against me and I don't recall the particulars. I do know that my understanding of the world and how it works is at war with my HP Pavilion Slimline.

Of course, as a writer, I have used a computer for decades, at first like a glorified typewriter, and then for the absolutely necessary email exchanges with my publisher. Those first few computers were my very talented, innovative friends; I talked happily to them while I typed: I felt a serious sense of loss when they had to be replaced: when I moved a large section from one manuscript position to another, copy, post, I gratefully toasted my aides with second cup of coffee and, remembering the typewriter hours required to perform the same function, sincerely wished I might do more to return the favor in kind.

That is no longer the case. Now my computer is a machine. Not my machine, exactly, although I paid cash and it sits on top of my desk. As a temporary guest, out of date, as I understand, the moment it was hooked up, I am not foolish enough to invest HP with personality. My HP has a temporal nature; I understand it won't wear out, it just, after a time, won't play well with other systems. My computer is in disguise and, in reality, possessed by a little squat Hindu god who seems devoted to instructing me on the value of impermanence.