Monday, September 26, 2011
Robert Goble's Blog: Whittling and Magical Doorways: As I think of ways to describe a town punctured with magical doorways to a hidden world, my boy takes an interest in pocket knives. I figur...
Sunday, September 25, 2011
As I think of ways to describe a town punctured with magical doorways to a hidden world, my boy takes an interest in pocket knives. I figure he's old enough to learn to safely whittle under my supervision, so we both select a stick from the woodpile behind the house, then set out on the road to find a quiet place where I can teach him the art of whittling.
We drive around the West Point of the Oquirrh mountains--all the while I point out landmarks like Dead Man's cave, the site of the old Arthur mill at Kennecott where my grandfather worked as a welder for forty years, the old, crumbling concrete highway along the hill, Goshute Indian and pioneer camp sites, Black Rock and what's left of its beach, and many other sites riddled with my own memories of my own father taking me for rides along that same highway.
We soon pass the Great Salt Lake, and I fight the sun with my visor. My boy talks of everything that seems to come to his mind, and I listen and smile and try to pay attention to both him and the traffic. I turn off the highway at Lake Point (still thinking of magical doorways) and follow a small road lined with dry fields and old homes. We reach the foothills of the same Oquirrh mountain range, but on the west side that overlooks the Great Salt Lake and the Tooele valley--our destination. After a small hike, we find a place to sit on an outcropping of ancient, fossiliferous, Pennsylvanian-era limestone, and we pull out the pocket knives and begin to whittle together under the sunset.
Late September sunset in Lake Point, Utah
Friday, September 23, 2011
Reds and oranges are beginning to spread through Coon's canyon in the Oquirrh Mountains. The earth, in its Autumnal Equinox, dances with the sun, and around my house bright September light shines through trees that seem at rest. I breathe cooler air and lay hung over from a night of coughing and phantom nerve pain in my neck and shoulder. I stare at a plate of potato hash covered in ketchup, take a sip of orange juice, and my head nags me for caffeine and dark chocolate. Ideas for a new chapter begin to form, and as they do, I turn to Francesca Woodman and Joyce Tenneson for inspiration.
To see photos by Joyce Tenneson, click here:
To see photos by Francesca Woodman, click here:
Sunday, September 18, 2011
To see the photo by Vadim Stein, click here:This September couldn't be more beautiful. The sun and temperature are the most friendly they've been in a long time for a Sunday walk, and I'm behind an open window, listening to cars pass, and fighting off a cold. But I'm also thinking about how to finish one of the largest chapters in my new novel, a dark fantasy called: Pony Rides the Sunbeam.
My mind seems to be drawn to dance, especially ballet. I watch stories told in pantomime, grace, and fire, and I fantasize of being a dancer. Something about a Vadim Stein photo of two dancers encapsuled in fabric haunts me for several minutes, then Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake catches my eye. It's the scene where Prince Siegfried sees Odette as a swan on a lake. It's a dark and magical moment. I let the story pass, but grasp the feeling. That's what I want: the feeling.