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The City of LeavesBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com I remember New York in every season. I remember the way its wintry winds nibble on my bones. I remember how its spring conjures flowers in unexpected places. I remember how its summer woos sweat out of my every pore. But mostly I remember New York at its autumnal finest because those memories are the sweetest ones. Sometimes I think that I love New York in the fall so much that I place memories from other times of the year in September or October or November just to make them fit my romantic notions.
I have never lived in New York, but I have spent stretches of time there for all kinds of reasons. When I grow nostalgic for the city, I imagine all the deciduous leaves in Central Park suddenly on fire in the soft sunlight. Red and orange leaves litter the ground, with children trampling all over their messy piles. I'm leaning up against a tree, wearing a peacoat, sipping coffee or tea, maybe cider. At a moment's notice, I could hop up and walk over to a museum or a theatre or a bookstore. Yet languishing there, forgetting where I am and at once being acutely aware of my location, feels right, too. Of course, a crisp afternoon dedicated to doing nothing in particular in Central Park is a predictable fantasy. But I like to picture less glamorous places, too. Harlem calls to me. Chinatown calls to me. Brooklyn calls to me. Astoria calls to me and even Flushing calls to me. I yearn for the grunts and groans of the Subway. I want to zip into tiny shops whose names are written in a language I do not know. I'd like to get lost, make New York my Tokyo and meet my Bill Murray just for the conversation. As long as there's that autumn breeze and a pumpkin spice latté with my name written on it, I'm game. People talk about the people of New York luring them to this insomniatic hive. While I've always appreciated the city's buzz and diversity, it would not be the same without that fall tinge. Everything's always so alive in New York but fall casts the wisdom of impending death upon it—the wisdom that makes living that much more precious. Fall challenges me to live because winter—death—is so near. And there's no other place where you can live or die the way you can live and die in New York. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I can't believe it's not a butterfly! Wait...By The Picture Pharmacist QuailBellMagazine.com Dear fledglings, It is a truth that everything looks better drenched in butter. Don't believe me? Download this butterfly, pop it into PhotoShop, and turn it into a butter mama. Maybe toast it a little bit around the edges, too. Feathery hugs, The Picture Pharmacist
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Bailey's Crossroads—the Culture PitBy Brainy Bird QuailBellMagazine.com Sprawl is not conducive to creativity, and the less-than-charming Bailey's Crossroads of Fairfax County, Virginia only illustrates that point. Bailey's sits like a beached, morbidly obese whale on a sandbar. It is unsightly and unmoving, at least in terms of intellectual and community productivity. Looking for a town square? A proverbial commons where neighbors can exchange news and ideas? Try the Best Buy or Ross Dress for Less. That mess of urban planning at Leesburg Pike and Columbia Pike is meant for retail therapy and bumper-to-bumper traffic, not cultural exchange. This is certainly not the fault of the people who live there, but the fault of developers and the government officials who let Big Business have its way for decades. Bailey's Crossroads marks the junction of Alexandria and Annandale, Virginia—suburbs of Washington, D.C. The areat is named after the family of Barnum & Bailey Circus fame because they once owned the land there. Perhaps one of the more diplomatic descriptions of the area is CaliTerp07's on a City-Data.com forum: “eclectic,” “a mix of older housing, tear down/rebuilds, high rise condos/apartments and businesses.” Bailey's Crossroads as we know it today mushroomed without anyone planning and enforcing a true vision. It is a patchwork of incongruous architectural styles and run-down but bustling shopping centers.
The population is largely immigrant (especially Latin American) and about 13% of residents live below the poverty line. There is no Metrorail and many residents rely upon buses for transportation. Violence, especially by the hands of gangs like MS-13, is relatively high. In 2011, only 23.5% of Bailey's Crossroads residents had obtained a Bachelor's degree in a county where over half of all adults have a four-year college degree. With a per capita income of $24,091 and a median household income of $51,650, Bailey's Crossroads is one of the poorest neighborhoods in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan region. According to an infographic by Washington City Paper, these statistics make Bailey's Crossroads economically comparable to Brentwood, the neighborhood surrounding Northeast Washington, D.C.'s Rhode Island Avenue stop on the Red line. Unlike Brentwood, Bailey's does not suffer from urban blight. It suffers from the opposite problem: overdevelopment. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Never throw away art.By Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Exactly a dozen years ago today, my 7th grade English teacher stared at a somber group of twelve-year-olds and paused before explaining the most memorable homework assignment we'd have that year. Our task was to express our feelings about the September 11th terrorist attacks on an 8.5”x11” sheet of paper, using words and images. The next day, each of us would present our piece. That night, I craned over the sheet of paper for a longwhile, overwhelmed by the thought of consolidating everything I was experiencing in such a small space. It was an exercise in clean design and concise diction. While I can't recall exactly what I drew, I remember a crying woman in profile, awestruck before the crumbling Twin Towers. There were a few other things crammed in there, plus a journal entry of sorts squeezed into one of the towers. For whatever reason, I chose light pink paper. My father was speechless when he saw my little creation later that week. “Does this really keep you up at night?” he asked, brow scrunched in concern. “Does it really haunt you?” I muttered no, not wanting to worry him. I couldn't shake the memory of tossing and turning the night before the attack. The school year had just started and already I felt restless. I wanted to escape, though to where, I had no idea. Certainly I hadn't anticipated the mental escape that would follow the attacks. Suddenly I was stuck in a daze and not just one of innocent wanderlust.
Today I don't know where that pink sheet of paper lives, other than in my memory. Whether my parents have it tucked away on a bookshelf or threw it away long ago, I'm not sure. Yet the question of where it is makes me wonder about all of the writings and drawings produced on paper every year. My high school Earth Science teacher regularly reminded the class of factoids like, “Americans throw away enough garbage in a year to reach halfway to the moon,” and “40% of all American garbage is paper.” My question is, how much of that is art? How many poems scrawled on napkins? How many pages discarded from sketchbooks? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Suburban Terror or Harmless Prank?By Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com Throughout history, there have been many legends and stories of werewolf sightings written and passed on by word of mouth. These stories date back to early European times when most history was communicated orally and seldom written down. Back in the 1700’s, werewolves were made out to be bloodthirsty beasts who only wanted to kill when the moon was full. These stories of “wolf men” also hinted at their ability to shape shift from a man into a wolf. Werewolves, much like vampires, have been portrayed lately in movies and television shows (ever heard of "True Blood" or Twilight?) as handsome, young men who woo women with their charm. Stories have been handed down to us about “wolf men” for centuries and it wasn’t until recently that I found out that my new town of Richmond, Virginia has a werewolf legend as well.
The most recent of these werewolf sightings have occurred in Henrico County, a suburb of Richmond. Most of these sightings have taken place at the Confederate Hills Recreation Center at Lee Avenue in Highland Springs. There have been quite a few incidents of these sightings in this area. Some of the first sightings were indeed pranks and the proper measures were taken to prove so. However, the newest sightings have not been proven to be pranks. In fact, many of the inhabitants of the neighborhood have had more than one sighting of this so-called werewolf. Those who have seen this creature all say that it is covered with black hair with touches of silver. Many have even said that it was walking upright until it noticed it was being watched and then ran off on all fours. Many say that they hear it howling at night and more so on nights with a full moon. Everyone that has seen this so-called werewolf have never gotten a feeling that it wanted to hurt them. One woman even said that it came so close to where she was sitting that it almost showed its face, but then as soon as she realized it was there, it ran off into the woods. A few other onlookers have said that the wolf man seems playful and has chased them around like a puppy, but has yet to harm anyone. It runs away scared when people attempt to chase or hurt it. Perhaps it is more afraid of us than we are of it. If there really is a werewolf in Henrico County, clearly it does not want us to get a full view of it. It could be a different set of people trying to pull a prank or perhaps it’s just a lonely, aging, hairy man who is trying to scare people. If we ever find out, I’m sure the story will turn out to be a great one. Until then, keep your eyes open for him to meet the so-called Richmond Vampire. We could have a movie series on our hands here at Quail Bell HQ! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rat BrainsBy Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com One of my favorite books and animated films as a child was Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. Like The Witches and Stuart Little, the story never allowed me to look at rodents the same way. I imagined their voices, their thoughts, their motives. Solving a maze was never just about finding that hunk of cheese; these creatures had a higher purpose. A couple of years ago, I stumbled off of the Chinatown Express at the birth of a crow that never came from a cock anywhere near Manhattan. That rooster was perched somewhere in my mind, poised to peck some seed the moment it roused everyone from their sleep. It was simply answering the call of duty. That duty was to wake everyone this instant or else, soup time. Too bad for him it wasn't working for me. I was still half-asleep and none of the shops were open yet, so coffee or tea was out of the question. But as heavy-lidded as I was, I know what scurried before me was not a dream: rats, a whole pack. There were maybe six or seven rats zipping in and out of holes dug in a patch of barren earth on the very edge of the sorriest excuse for a park I can recall. These rats might as well have been on Mars, under a rock. That's how far removed they seemed from the rest of the world. Did they notice me? Probably not. And even if they did, they didn't care. I had nothing to offer them. All they needed lied in or around those holes. They likely ate scraps from the Chinese restaurants and markets. All day, everyday, they listened to the discordant symphony of traffic, footsteps, and zealous vendors. One-thousand years from now, they and their kind would still be there. I'd be lucky to have a direct descendent alive then.
Speaking of rats and descendents, my sister bought two rats this summer, one of whom hatched a diabolical plan like the rats in NIMH. Just a couple of days after she had settled in our house, the rat birthed eleven little ones. They resembled alien spawn. Suddenly thirteen rats inhabited the rusty cage sitting on her floor. The situation could have only been more dramatic had it happened on Friday the 13th. The problem was eventually resolved with a series of Craigslist encounters, with a handful of strangers buying up the pups. My sister even turned a profit. Maybe that rat knew my sister needed the money. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The kind of flea you WANT.By QB Social Butterfly QuailBellMagazine.com Well, well, Quail Bell(e)s, it appears that Washington, D.C. will be getting a tad more otherworldly, which is exactly what we want. Thanks to the scoop from BrightestYoungThings.com, we now know that the District is welcoming the District Flea at 945 Florida Avenue Northwest from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Bring your pocket change and an open mind. There will be artisans, crafters, jewelry-makers, food trucks, antiquers, tinkerers, and more. Who knows what you'll find? If you're lucky, one of us. Or a vintage wedding gown! Or the oldest book you ever saw! Anyway, if you miss the market this time around, don't worry. It'll run every Saturday through September 19th. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
They call me the cheese-slinger.By Anon QuailBellMagazine.com About this time last year, I was poised for the international study abroad experience of a lifetime, but, first, I became a cheesemonger. A cheesemonger is exactly what it sounds like—a monger of cheese. For two weeks, I peddled over 200 types of cheese in a Parisian-style “fromagerie,” except without any of the glamour of being young and fancy-free in Europe. Instead, I was young and poor in a bland, upper-middle class suburb, and I needed a lot of cash fast. If all went according to plan (and it ultimately didn't; but that's another tale), I was going to be living it up in a foreign country for five months with every joy and benefit, save for the fact that I could not legally work. I had a scholarship and small stipend for food, but I was responsible for all other expenses. That meant I had to spend as many hours working as I could right up until my very last moment in the United States. The other catch was that I had to have the money deposited in my bank account before I left. After all, how was I going to access the checks sitting in my P.O. box if I was thousands of miles away? I couldn't and, thus, the hustling began. I hit the pavement with a fury one day late last fall, wearing my Goodwill blazer and dollar store eyeliner. I waved my resume in a recycled folder and donned my brightest smile. I was twenty-four years old and had never worked in a restaurant or done retail. My resume, despite all the awards and publications, meant nothing. I had always written, tutored, photographed, and dabbled in other creative things that usually paid well but almost never immediately. I needed something where I'd walk home with a pocket full of bills at the end of the night or at least was guaranteed a check every two weeks, instead of possibly in 30 days.
I marched into places that weren't hiring and filled out paperwork I knew nobody would ever read. Three businesses later, I was trudging down the sidewalk when I noticed a 'Now Hiring' sign in the window of a cheese and wine shop. I was lucky enough to stay with a French family one summer in college. I was also wise enough to actually pay attention to what they fed me. Because of that—and really only because of that—I am smarter than the Average Bear when it comes to cheese. Yet, as I stood there tugging on my threadbare sleeve, I couldn't get past the wine part. 'Dammit,' I mumbled, 'If only I drank in college.' I am a lightweight, a prude, a weirdo, whatever you'd like to call me because not only had I never flipped burgers or folded sweaters on a shop floor before, I had a drop's worth of knowledge about wine. While I very good at pronouncing the French and Italian names of the wine world, I had no friggin' idea how Bordeaux tasted any different from other red wines. I thought I was fortunate enough to even know Bordeaux was red. I couldn't have named a “dry” wine if my life depended on it. And in that moment, my life kind of did depend upon it, but here's the thing: I'm really good at bullshitting. I can talk just about anyone into or out of anything, even when I have no expertise on the matter. So I cleared my throat, puffed out my chest, and walked into that shop like a star sommelier. Sometimes you gotta walk the walk. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Strange UnityLocated on the shores of Lake Superior, this old edifice was built in 1889. Had it served any other purpose than to hold the detritus of society, it would have been condemned and torn down years ago. They will never again build a prison on prime lakefront property, but at the time it was built, in the wilds of Northern Michigan, it seemed a safe and remote location to house criminals. Marquette is Michigan’s toughest prison. The name Marquette has even been turned into a verb and a noun in Michigan prison parlance. It means an exceptionally mean look on your face, as in “That motherfucker is Marquetting me.” Everyone there hates everyone else. The blacks hate the whites, and vice versa. The Mexicans hate the blacks and whites and this hate is also returned in kind. The guards hate everybody and, quite understandably, are universally detested. The individuals inside of these factions also hate each other. You may find a few people to associate with, but you will find no friends in Marquette. Those that you associate with will steal from you in an instant, if they believe they can get away with it, or that you won’t retaliate. Fear and intimidation are the tools of this society. If you ever let on that you fear someone, your time there will be a far worse hell than the hell that the state provides. So it was in this setting that my day began as usual. I sipped my insipid coffee and concentrated on my crossword puzzle. I tried to ignore the noise, while I waited for the doors to break for chow. There was very little variation in our breakfast menu. We had either oatmeal or grits. This was invariably complimented with milk, a juice and cold dry toast. After breakfast, I returned to my cell to await “yard.” Yard is, perhaps, too grand a term for the area we were allowed for our exercise. At 100’ by 60’, it seemed much smaller when populated by 300 inmates. We had yard one block at a time. This woeful little plot was totally devoid of vegetation. An abandoned and deteriorating four-story garment factory and Six Block made up two sides. The other two sides were composed of a 20’ tall wall, made out of the same native sandstone as the rest of the prison. These walls were topped with the ubiquitous (in prison) walkways, razor wire, and gun towers. As a consequence, our view was limited to the sky or to other inmates. I went years without seeing a tree, or a blade of grass. This bleak tableau did nothing to foster any improvement in one’s attitude. It certainly didn’t help in my, so called, “rehabilitation.”
There was a dearth of recreational equipment. Two basketballs and hoops, one chin up bar, and a pile of weights was the entire inventory. As a result, you had to be ready to race to the yard the minute the doors broke. If you were quick, you could claim a piece of weight-lifting apparatus or a basketball. Of course, you had to be willing to fight to keep it. There were always challenges. You also had to make sure that you took your prize to the area occupied by your particular faction. You weren’t necessarily safe in your own area, but you were, at least, safer. On that day, I was lifting weights with an acquaintance named Oz. Shortly before 10:00 a.m., another white prisoner, called “Cowboy,” (everyone has a nickname) stopped and announced importantly, that two planes had just crashed into the World Trade Center. As soon as Cowboy left, Oz opined, “He’s lying. I could believe one plane, but not two.” We continued with our workout. You don’t let many things alter your daily routine. There is a certain comfort in having a daily regimen. I guess it allows one to operate on autopilot. Before long you are scarcely aware of the passage of time. We exercised until 10:00 a.m. This would allow us time for a shower before count, at 10:30 a.m. (when we have to be in our cells and on our bunks). The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
From the AshesDear fledglings,
We would like to remember this painful day in our nation's history with, of course, a look to the past. We hope that looking at these vintage images of the Pentagon and the World Trade Center will inspire you to create. Write a poem, journal, work on your scrapbook, take a photo. Take care and best of luck during this time of reflection. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Friend of the Devil is Friend of MineBy Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com Previously, I touched on the story of Blues legend Robert Johnson and the deal he made with the devil to become a famous musician, as told on one of my favorite television shows, “Supernatural." According to "Supernatural," Johnson made a deal with the devil at a crossroads and then died at the early age of 27, rumored to have been taken to Hell by hellhounds. Hellhounds:
A hellhound has been described in folklore as a supernatural dog that has come up from Hell to take those who've broken a deal with the devil. Many cultures and religions have their own version of hellhounds. The oldest of these stories dates back to the ancient Greeks who spoke of Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guarded the gates of Hades to prevent those that had crossed the river Styx to escape. In other religions and cultures, these dogs have been known to protect and guard the homes of the dead, such as burial grounds and cemeteries. Hellhounds have also been called the Black dog, Black Shuck, and Devil Dog. The descriptions for all of the different names all seem to have a few things in common. The dogs seem to always have black fur, glowing red or yellow eyes, super strength, super speed, a foul odor, ghostly and phantom characteristics, and sometimes even the ability to speak. Many legends say that if you look at the dog right in the eyes, you will immediately die. Regardless of what the legends call them or describe them as, they are messengers of Hell and here to collect what is owed to the devil. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Art of Using Melted Candle StuffToday I stepped out of my comfort zone and made a video tutorial! I just snapped a few pictures as I worked, so the video is probably more illuminating: I've always loved writing letters and have often dreamed of the days of yore when people sent letters calligraphied on parchment, sealed with wax. There's something so romantic about it. Then, after I made the blog post about glass nib pens, I just had to get a wax seal kit.
I bought some sealing wax but didn't want to spend $20 or more on a stamp that I would only use when sending those long, rare, handwritten letters, so I decided to make my own. I tried using buttons as a stamp but we didn't have any pretty ones that worked, and I wanted to make my own cool design. Several months ago I saw this Pin and memorized the steps from the photos. I just spent a couple of minutes searching, and it looked like this idea originated from this post on a design blog called RageHaus. Anyway, here's my spin on the DIY wooden sealing wax stamps. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I'd like to see you slather some BBQ sauce on that.Myth: Did some Victorian women really have their lower ribs removed in order to have a smaller waist? Short Answer: No. Long Answer: The idea of using extreme surgery to fix some unsatisfactory part of one's physical appearance is extremely new. Unnecessary surgery is only possible with highly developed, modern surgical practices. In the early 19th century, surgery was mainly confined to amputations and the removal of external problems. Anesthesia of any kind was first used around the 1840's, which allowed surgeons to start fixing internal problems. The risk of infection was also extremely high, with the germ theory of disease first being applied to surgery by Joseph Lister around the 1870's. However, it would take quite some time for surgery to become as sterile as we know it today. Instruments were just beginning to be sterilized, but there were still plenty of ways for bacteria to enter the body. Antibiotics were only just starting to be discovered around the same time, but the science wouldn't really take off until the 20th century. Eakins' famous painting, "The Gross Clinic" (1875), shows a typical Victorian surgical scene. The surgery is performed in an open auditorium with several spectators, and the doctors themselves are wearing street clothes and working with their bare hands. Even if the instruments were sterilized, it would still be extremely easy for an infection to take hold and the poor man being operated on would die.
If you survived all of that risk, there would still be the pain that comes post surgery. Painkillers as we know them today didn't really exist in the Victorian period, so for pain control a person had to turn to some sort of drug that was probably not very safe. For a point of comparison, remember when you had your wisdom teeth out? I recently had mine taken out, and even with my sophisticated, modern pain medication I was still pretty miserable for a few days afterwards. Now imagine an operation that didn't use modern surgical practices, and didn't involve modern painkillers to control post-operative pain. No one in their right mind in the 19th century would voluntarily go under the knife unless it was absolutely necessary for their survival. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Angel-makers, baby-killers—take your pick.It was a problem that was all too common during the 18th and 19th centuries. In an era before contraception and abortion became widely safe and affordable, women who found themselves pregnant and unmarried were often faced with harsh choices. Though abortions were still available to those who could afford them, they were extremely dangerous, not to mention illegal in most places. Some desperate women resorted to infanticide of their newborn infants, though the ones who were caught often faced imprisonment, or even execution. And then there were the economic and legal barriers women trying to raise children by themselves faced. In the United Kingdom, for instance, the English Poor Laws declared all illegitimate children to be the sole responsibility of their mothers until they were sixteen years old. Mothers of illegitimate children were also deemed "immoral" and banned from mixing with "respectable" women in the workhouses that were often the only real alternative for women left to fend for themselves. In some countries, women who had given birth to illegitimate children were often sent to Magdalene laundries while their children were abandoned to orphanages until they were old enough to be put to work (typically before puberty).
Even the traditional practice of "abandoning a baby on a doorstep" was illegal and mothers faced prosecution if caught. Being an unwed mother was considered a dark sin in many households and social services as we know them today were nonexistent. Those women who could not be safely married off (usually in marriages of convenience) were sent away to prevent bringing shame to their families. And thus the "baby farming" industry sprang up in many countries. The term "baby farming" was first coined in a British Medical Journal article published in 1867, though the practice was already well-established by then. For a modest fee, women in need could arrange for their newborn babies to be cared for and educated with no awkward questions being asked. Pregnant women could conceal their pregnancies by appearing to take a rest holiday in a country setting far from home. After giving birth, they could recover and return to their normal lives with nobody being the wiser while their infants were left in the baby farmer's care. Unfortunately, there were no real child welfare laws in place and no safeguards to prevent actual abuse taking place. While most baby farmers were conscientious in caring for their charges, the prospect of turning a quick profit drew in many unscrupulous people as well. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
3 Twisted Russian Folktales To Fuel Your NightmaresThe Russians have given us a lot—such as vodka, bears and snow—but they also have some super creepy folktales. While we Westerners tell fairytales to young children that are full of whimsy and far-away lands, the Easterners' take on these stories is a little more, shall we say, horrifying. In the United States, these tales, or Skazkas, would be told to fellow adults, not kids, because of their pant-wetting nature. Here are three Skakzas that may be unsuitable for children: The Death of Koschei the Deathless
We're off to a good start with a contradictory title, but that's how they rope you in, isn't it? "The Death of Koschei the Deathless" is about the titular Koschei, a villain who cannot be killed by conventional means. His soul is kept inside a needle, which is inside an egg inside a duck, which is inside a hare, which is inside a locked iron chest, which is buried under an oak tree on the island of Buryan in the middle of the ocean. So, it's pretty secure, then. The hero of the tale is Ivan Tsarevitch, who leaves home after his parents die and his sisters get married. He comes across a warrior woman called Marya Morevna whom he marries and they go off to live in a castle. Marya announces that she is to go off to war but, while she's away, Ivan isn't to open the door of their dungeon. Big mistake, because Ivan obviously opens it as soon as she's out the door. In the dungeon, he finds an emaciated Koschei, all chained up and nasty. Koschei asks the gullible Ivan for a drink of water, which he agrees to and fetches him 12 buckets, which he promptly drinks. The water brings back the villain's powers, so he vanishes into thin air, presumably leaving Ivan utterly pissing himself in terror. Ivan discovers that Koschei has kidnapped Marya, even though she's an awesome warrior woman, and chases him down. Because Ivan is clearly a little weakling, unlike his wife, Koschei kills him, stuffs his carcass in a barrel and chucks him into the sea. (Again, this one's not really for kids.) Fortunately Ivan is resurrected by his sisters' husbands who happen to be bad-ass wizards who can also transform into birds of prey. They tell him that he needs to get a magical horse from Baba Yaga, a witchy woman who tests him. He passes the tests, finds Koschei, kills him and burns his body. (Again, not really one for the kiddies.) It begs the question of how he managed to kill the immortal with physical weapons, but who am I to judge dead Russian storytellers? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Because We Are Not T-Bone SteaksBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com By now you've probably read Ferret Steinmetz's viral essay, “Dear Daughter: I Hope You Have Some Fucking Awesome Sex,” and, if I'm lucky, my response to it. If not, put this heartwarmer on your reading list. Renew your faith in humanity and throw away your chastity belt (the literal, physical object, not your vow of chastity if you so choose to keep it.) I gravitated toward this essay not only for its feminist themes and damn good writing, but also because it's a prime example of how parents should communicate with their children: honestly. For those of us who plan to procreate one day, we shouldn't aspire to be Calvin's dad in “Calvin and Hobbes.” Because if we keep up that act long enough, eventually our kids will start to see us the way Dilbert sees his boss—ridiculous pointy hair and all. More importantly than that, lying to our kids affects what sort of character they develop. Now I'd like to respond to a new favorite of mine, “Seeing a Woman: A Conversation between a father and son,” an essay by Nate Pyle on his blog, From One Degree to Another. The blog is about Pyle's struggles to follow Christ. Though Pyle is a paster living in Indiana, his posts do not read like many 'holier than thou, you lowly pagan' blogs. Pyle admits, “I have found that following Jesus is not a black and white, cut and dry endeavor. It is not simple as so many have made it out to be. At times it is confusing, difficult, and unnerving. But it is always exciting.” I'm excited about Pyle's essay, “Seeing a Woman,” because it is black and white about a topic that's too often and unnecessarily debated: Men, not women, are responsible for how men see and treat women, regardless of how women dress. My favorite quotes:
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I have complicated feelings about clothes. I love clothes and yet I hate clothes—and the latter does not make me a closet nudist. I love clothes because of that ray of self-esteem that illuminates my mind when I look in the mirror, confident that I look attractive. I love clothes because of the fun and creativity that goes into making a “perfect” outfit. But I hate clothes because clothes have in many ways oppressed women. Too often clothes have been tied to shame and submission.
There's a tale from the 12th century authoress, Marie de France, called “Guigemar.” This love lais tells the plight of Guigemar, a man incapable of falling in love. While hunting one day, he wounds a white doe, wounding himself in the act, too. The doe curses him before dying, saying that his wound shall only heal when he suffers for a woman and she for him. Shortly thereafter, Guigemar stumbles upon a magic boat without a crew. When he boards the boat, it takes him to a land where a jealous king hides his wife from the rest of the world. The imprisoned queen may only have contact with her servant and a priest. Though most of her prison is walled, all that separates the queen from the sea is her garden. One day, Guigemar's boat docks by the garden, where the queen and her servant find him. They tend to him, putting him up in a gilded cage, and that's when Guigemar and the queen begin to fall in love. Neither one knows if the feelings are reciprocated, but the queen's servant acts as Cupid and the couple eventually consummates their love. When the king's chamberlain rats them out about a year and a half later, the king banishes Guigemar. Before he leaves, the queen ties a knot in Guigemar's shirt that only she can untie and he gives her a belt with a knot only he can untie. (Thanks for the refresher, Wikipedia. And that's not the end to the story, in case you're curious.) The tale resonated with me when I first read it back in college because it's rooted in equality. This is not just another tale of the all-sacrificing, starry-eyed female killing herself to remain beautiful in her lover's eyes. Guigemar has to wear the goofy knot, too! That point, of course, brings me back to Pyle and his point that if you love a person, “you do not reduce them to an object” because doing so means “you give up your humanity.” You do not force a woman to bind her feet or wear stays, unless you plan on suffering with her. And when's the last time you saw a man endure painful or embarrassing fashion as an act of love and devotion toward his wife or girlfriend? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
History and Southern Show Biz in NashvegasBy Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com The first time that I had the chance to go to the Belcourt Theatre in Nashville was actually my first time ever in Nashville. I had been working for a company that allowed me to travel a lot on the job, and I fell in love with the city the second I got there. I immediately found Hillsboro Village, the artsy part of town, and that's when I saw The Belcourt Theatre. I've been a film lover from an early age, so I immediately wanted to view something there. The Belcourt is a very significant theatre whose history dates all the way back to 1925. Located in the heart of downtown Nashville, the Belcourt Theatre was once home to the Grand Ole Opry from 1934 to 1936. It has served as a theatre and also an art gallery. The non-profit theatre has goals of engaging, enriching, and educating through film while doing so in a gorgeous historic venue. Talk about breathing power into art and film.
The Belcourt Theatre was chosen to be one of the theatres to participate in the showing of Sundance Film Festivals movies and is one of several partners of Film Forward, an international film touring program designed to help educate filmmakers and film fans. The theatre has also partnered with many schools in the Nashville area to also try and educate students through film and art. Movies are shown 365 days out of the year and the theatre has some special movie features, too. The Belcourt show midnight movies which have featured the “Friday the 13th” films and have an outdoor cinema feature that happens on Saturday nights in June through September. The theatre also caters to children and hosts kids shows on Saturdays at 10 a.m. In the next few months, I have planned a trip to one of my top five favorite cities, which is—surprise!—Nashville. I plan on visiting the Belcourt again to get my dose of nostalgia. They are currently showing a bunch of Woody Allen films and it would be great to actually get there in order to see a few of them in this setting. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bonded From Wearing Grandma's Dresses The first time I wore Grandmother Edna’s dresses, it was summer. I was about ten years old when we spent hours every day at the playhouse my father built—a small building in the backyard with green shingles on the roof and openings for windows Dad never finished. My mother told me: “Here, go and play with Grandmother Edna’s dresses and her Votes for Women sashes.” I dug into the box. My brothers and younger sister weren’t all that interested in dressing up, so I had the cardboard box to myself with its musty-smelling thin fabric, lace, and flowing long skirts. I marched in imaginary New York City suffrage parades and wrecked the dresses, tearing and dragging them through mud. They’d been stored since Grandmother Edna’s death in 1934—remaining unwashed after she wore them. The sensation of dressing up like Edna never left me. Throughout life I’ve always loved high collars, long skirts, petticoats, and broaches worn at the neckline. BONDED THROUGH WEARING EDNA’S CLOTHES When my grandmother’s clothes touched me, we bonded. I confided to Grandmother Edna Kearns in whispers, became convinced she worried about me and protected my secrets. My friends heard every story my mother told me about Edna’s horse-drawn wagon, the “Spirit of 1776,” how she wrote articles for New York City and Long Island newspapers, and marched in Votes for Women parades, especially the big one down in Washington, DC in 1913. Edna’s archives fell into my hands in 1982. They’d been stored for years upstairs in my Aunt Serena’s closet. My mother and I sorted newspaper clippings and letters in an attempt to make sense of all this suffrage history. There were names of organizations I’d never heard of, plus events and speaking engagements spanning more than a decade from about 1911 through 1920. GRASSROOTS ACTIVIST AT THE TURN OF THE 20TH CENTURY Only years later did I recognize that Grandmother Edna's archive was one of a grassroots suffrage activist at the turn of the 20th century. And then it became much more than that. I learned about organizing for a cause as I sorted through Edna’s archives. Edna covered every inch of Long Island. In her free time, she participated in or organized events in New York City, such as a pageant at the Armory or being part of a suffrage program at the Metropolitan Opera. Though I’d never read Grandmother Edna’s writings all the years of storage in Aunt Serena’s closet, I was surprised to discover my own writing at the newspaper where I worked was almost identical in style to Edna’s. More than one person among my friends and family says I have Grandmother Edna in my DNA. And it all began with playing dress-up. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ruell & Ray/Pointer BrandJeff and I took a road trip to Bristol, Tennessee to visit Ashley James of Ruell and Ray in the historic Pointer Factory, where her brand is made. Join us as we explore how a pair of jeans is made and how a brand is formed.
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A Writer's LifeBy Two Men Have Words QuailBellMagazine.com Dear fledglings, Because we know that so many of you Quail Bell(e)s are also writers—or at least the type of person who respects an artist's soul—we thought you would appreciate this video. Enjoy! Or groan. Or do both. We won't say it's a free country. Brian Manning reminded us of that. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Kafka's Famous Novella Makes a Commercial DebutWorried that the modern world is losing interest in classic literature? According to this article, there’s at least one classic book that is making a nice comeback in an interesting way. The Metamorphosis is perhaps Franz Kafka’s most famous work, and it’s making an appearance in none other than a Charmin toilet paper commercial. Who would have thought Kafka’s serious novella could be used in such a charming way?
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The Day We Can Stop CountingI was perusing one of my favorite reference books, called The Book of Women's Firsts. As you might guess, this tome details the names of women who did something first, and yet are not well-known for their accomplishments. Here are a few examples: Phoebe Couzins The first woman to become a U.S. Marshal (1887). Theresa West Elmendorf The first woman president of the American Library Association (1911). Carol Esserman The first woman police officer to kill a suspect in the line of duty (1981). [Wouldn't you have thought the date would be earlier?] Susan R. Estrich The first woman to be president of the Harvard Law Review (1976). Dorothy Fields First woman to win an Oscar for songwriting (1937). Emma R. H. Jentzer First woman special agent of the Bureau of Investigation (Predecessor to the Federal Bureau of Investigation) (1911). Arabella Mansfield Babb First woman to be admitted to the bar (1869). Cissy Medill Patterson First woman to publish a large metropolitan daily newspaper (1934). Hazel Brannon Smith First woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing (1964). When Tiny Fey became the third woman to win the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor in 2010, she acknowledged that it's important to take note of the women who did things for the first time—and yet she wished we didn't have to do it. She said, " Apparently, I’m only the third woman ever to receive this award, and I’m so honored to...be numbered with Lilly Tomlin and Whoopi Goldberg, but I do hope that women are achieving at a rate these days that we can stop counting what number they are things." It's a good point, but until we reach that moment when women and men are acknowledged equally for impressive work done (always), I think it's good to take note of women's accomplishments as often as we possibly can. Do you know any impressive women who were the first to accomplish something great? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Fable of Social MediaBy Sidney Shuman QuailBellMagazine.com When I was young, Aesop’s fables were my favorite forms of folktales. The animals were all entertaining, the stories were short, and the themes were obvious. My favorite fable was always the story of the spider and the fly. The spider tempts the fly to come into its web with many lies of the beauty and happiness the web will bring to him. The fly finally is wooed by the lies and flies into the web. The spider gets the fly trapped in its web and eats him. The moral is to be content with one’s own life and to trust very little. When I first read this fable as an eight year-old, the moral to the story was clear to me, but I was unable to apply it to my life at the time. I appreciated my own life for what it was because I did not know what else was out there (or particularly care). As I get older, however, I have realized how meaningful this short fable is. I look through my newsfeed on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. My friends and people I follow share the upper points of their lives either in photographs or words in posts and status updates. Sometimes when I am feeling down, looking at those posts makes me feel complacent about my own life or even jealous of others’ lives. Looking at a superficial portrayal of one’s life and comparing it to my own is not only impractical, but it keeps me from enjoying and appreciating the little things that make up my life.
How people choose to portray their own lives via social media or any other public platform cannot be trusted; as they have just as many ups and downs as I do or anyone else does. I know this practically, but when I am bored and I look to my phone for relief and see someone else having more fun than me, the envy starts to kick in. When I remember the fable of the spider and the fly, I realize I must look at my own life experiences and wonder, “Would I really trade my wings for a web of lies?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Trapped—literally and figurativelyThe cage crinoline first appeared in the mid 1850's and would continue to be popular until the 1870's, when it transformed into the bustle. At this time in history, women had very few rights and were generally second-class citizens. They were seen as delicate, frivolous, submissive, and intellectually inferior to men. A woman was an ornament for her father or husband to show off. Women dressed in more colorful and decorative clothing (as opposed to men who wore dark, plain suits) to display their male guardian's wealth. This stifling atmosphere did its best to confine a woman to the role of dutiful daughter and eventually dutiful wife, leaving little room for any other aspirations. You probably see where I'm going with this. Women were metaphorically caged by society, just as their bodies were literally caged by a cage crinoline. Modern fashion historians aren't the only ones who picked up on the idea of the cage crinoline as a literal cage. Here a cartoonist from the period shows how useful this cage can be for men. Just as this was a period of female intellectual and social repression, it was also a period of sexual repression (although sexual repression was a hallmark of Victorian society as a whole, not just for the women of the period). With the crinoline covering the lower half of the body, a woman's sexuality was literally in a cage, inaccessible to anyone except her husband in the privacy of the home. Interestingly, historically men weren't seen as the more sexual beings. Women were considered the sexually rapacious gender, and men were simply poor victims lured in by those pesky horny females. Thus, the crinoline can be seen as a cage confining a woman's sexuality for the protection of men, just as one would put a ravenous animal in a cage for the protection of the people around it. Interestingly, with all of its symbols of female repression, many men thought the crinoline was incredibly stupid. It was way too big, taking up all of the room in carriages and making it that much harder to get close to a woman. Which leads to the other side of the social symbolism. In an increasingly industrialized society, cities were overcrowded and with any large city comes a large crime rate. Wearing a giant cage can be seen as a form of protection against the hundreds and thousands of suspicious strangers a woman might come into contact with walking down the street. Furthermore, caging a woman's sexuality can be seen from another angle. By putting her genitals behind a cage, a woman is at least symbolically protecting herself from sexual predators. In addition to this social protection, the cage crinoline offered health benefits. Before its invention, women achieved the fashionably wide-skirted silhouette by wearing many layers of heavy petticoats. This was not only uncomfortable but unhealthy and often led to a lifestyle low on exercise and heavy on fainting. The cage crinoline offered a much better alternative. It was significantly lighter, wasn't nearly as hot, and allowed for a greater range of movement. So on the one hand the crinoline symbolized female repression, but on the other it provided a sort of female liberation. It's all relative, huh? I'm no expert on gender studies, but these are just some of my thoughts on the possible symbolism of the cage crinoline. What do you all think? Is it a greater symbol of repression? Of liberation? A combination of both? Let me hear your thoughts!
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A Madrileño's Urban ArtBy Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com In my online searches for like-minded artists, I found Spidertag, a refreshing talent in the ever-changing world of street art. As street art becomes more popular, graffiti artists are starting to become a dime a dozen. But the Madrid-based Spidertag is different—he's funny, sarcastic, and even brilliant. Spidertag had always dreamt of becoming a superhero, and he found that, in a way, art has allowed him to achieve that dream. For as long as he can remember, he wanted to make art. He started doing graffiti around 2000, but didn't become Spidertag until 2008. Thanks to the Internet, he gained almost instant popularity all over the world, from Berlin to New York. As an avid reader of comic books growing up, Spidertag was inspired by the superheroes in their pages. He has been called street art’s first superhero because of his Clark Kent level of mystery. We never see his face and he likes to work on his art alone and at times where no one can see him. Spidertag says that abandoned walls and places in general also inspire him: “Like a spider building its web, I look for the best places to create my geometric webs.”
Spidertag creates his art by using a hammer, nails, and pure wood. Sometimes he will use spray paint or others types of paints, paper, and photographs. He likes to use a variety of materials and not just the stereotypical street artist’s selection. “I'm very proactive and I produce as much I as can," Spidertag wrote in an email to Quail Bell. "That's what matters. And the quality of my artwork. I'm interested in developing new stuff, experimenting more, and keep on doing the streets.” When we talked about his recent fame and popularity, Spidertag said, “It’s nice that people or the media like your job. But it’s not the most important thing. What matters is the artwork. What makes me happy is finding spots and to creating my geometries. I love art as a natural human expression. What I like about street art is the freedom to take what I want out of any structure. I do not feel that I am famous. David Bowie is famous.“ Whether Spidertag feels famous or not, he has earned a lot of appreciation from many people, including mine. Check out his work scattered across the web: |
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