Wool + Love = Felt, or Bear Necessities

[This article first appeared in Shuffleboil in January 2008.]

I was once given a Chatty Cathy doll. For those too young to remember - Cathy spoke when her cord was pulled. I proceeded to destroy her.

My mother had told me of a harsh-sounding cure from her childhood called a "mustard plaster", meant to stop coughs. I slathered mustard on Cathy and she never spoke another word. "Talk to me, Chatty Cathy! Don't you let go!" But she was gone. Thus ended my sole foray into medicine.

Years later I met one of Cathy's descendants at Interval Research (Paul Allen's former think tank) during a talk about the development of the Furby - another talking doll. If held, it said something nice. If ignored, it complained. The Furby which the speaker had brought along kept interrupting him in morose tones. Finally the speaker turned to the Gremlin-like toy, ripped out its batteries and went on with the talk.

Chatty Cathy and the Furby - thirty years apart on a continuum of increasingly complex and expensive toys. Give me crayons. Give me Silly Putty. Give me Play Doh, a jump rope, a real guitar.

Give me Rebekah Hope's Beasts - toys as art. Art as toy.

Much of Rebekah's work can be classified among the low- power consumption, platform-independent comfort devices known as toy animals, but it is much more than that. Rebekah Hope is a practitioner of the American crafts tradition, and an artist of note.

I met her in a coffee shop, surrounded by a tornado which turned out to be one of her sons. At the vortex, Rebekah sat stabbing a needle into a chunk of wool. Her apparently idle stabbing had purpose. The wool took on an appearance. Something emerged - eyes, paws, slumped shoulder, an expression, life. A Bear. This was my introduction to needle-felting.

Rebekah is always making something. She sews and knits and crochets and makes things out of wool the way other people doodle or shoot hoops or meditate, and has been doing so since she was a small child. Raised in a family of modest means (toys were handmade), Rebekah learned a range of skills from her parents (her mother a seamstress, her father a restoration craftsman and former leatherworker and glassblower) and her grandmothers, prolific knitters. She did it all, even tie-dying and macrame (remember friendship bracelets?). In her first job at Terra Toys in Austin, where they proudly sold "no toy advertised on television", she sanded wooden toys for painting.

Needle-felting came years later, when Rebekah was herself a mother and someone gave her a piece of wool 'roving'. The wool felt warm and alive. Just exploring, Rebekah began to poke. As she poked the wool became denser. She discovered that if she poked in a line, she got a line. A line could become a curve, then a shape. She learned how the material reacted, how to give it layers and colors, and incorporate other materials within it. Each creation starts from a pile of wool - Rebekah is influenced by the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, whose adherents admired works created from start to finish by a skilled individual.

Her first full-blown creation was a bird made for her middle son - his Lucky Squeeze Bird. [He - the son, not the bird - serves as a consultant on the accuracy of each animal's gender and other zoological details.] Art as Toy.


Nowadays her portfolio includes more than Beasts. This ambitious tableau, an Ark of hopeful emigrants, is based on a children's book called McMurtry's Wall. Made after the flood in New Orleans, it shows a family casting off for parts unknown in a cramped boat, because life is too hard where they are. They carry all they need - sheep, dogs, a rainbow, and each other.

Her work continues to advance in sophistication and control. The Fairy Godsister, inspired by an internet pen pal, took shape while Rebekah sat in a bar.

[Did I mention she works all the time, anywhere? Sometimes these dextrous musings result in inventions, the latest being beautifully decorated medicine bottle carriers, which make the standard plastic item easy to carry, and anonymous. Prescription meds as Art. Whose business is it what's on the label?]

















It's hard to look at one of her pieces without picking it up and Toying with it. Witness the Tree of Life - one of a series, each with its own personality (and fruit).

Rebekah accepts commissions (see rebekahhope.blogspot.com) but not "customers". Rather, she has "patrons" and prefers personal contact. A customer orders a product. A patron has wishes. These are respected, but in each piece, Rebekah strives for what she calls integrity - a complete vision. When it's right, she says, it feels magical.

Her creations are popping up in homes from the USA to Europe and I suppose someday I'll be staring longingly at her work through a gallery window. But I got in on the ground floor - I am the proud recipient (patron!) of a Bear. While I write, it sits on my desk - thin, tired but optimistic, digesting the dreams of the long winter, making plans for the future.
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A different kind of writing

The summer issue of Glimmertrain mentioned a PEN campaign to write letters to the President and Supreme Court Justice of P. R. China, in support of imprisoned Tibetan writers.

The Chinese government has different priorities, and problems (like major floods), but in the run-up to the Olympics, image seems to be on their list of concerns. Writing was one small thing I could do, that many people can do. Tibetan writers are thrown in prison for writing; I can write in comfort, and did.
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Chris Cochems - Found Beauty

Chris Cochems catches lovely moments in nature - I was very taken with this harbor seal and calf. See his other work at Found Beauty.
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In Memoriam Rory Root 1957-2008

Sad news of the passing of Rory Root, proprietor of Comic Relief, Berkeley California's wonderful bookstore specializing in graphic novels and comic books.

Rory was a master bookseller, hugely knowledgeable about, and a champion of, graphic novels. He was a friend to writers, certainly to this writer. I was already a steady customer when I hesitantly approached Rory about stocking my book, Scamorama. He was kind and encouraging. Seeing my book on those shelves was a high moment for me. Comic Relief is not a chain store, with buying decisions dictated from headquarters; it survives on the thin profit margin that is the lot of the independent. Rory's gesture of confidence meant a lot.

The store's 20th anniversary party, in its newer, larger location, was crammed with happy long-time customers. Rory was surrounded by people who liked and respected him - evidence of a career during which Rory not only kept a bookstore afloat for 20 years but created a social center and an oasis.

Rory often sat outside the store in the evening, making conversation. It was a pleasure to spend time with him. Talk would spiral from one topic to another (he seemed to know about everything). That is how I will remember him.

At www.comicrelief.net you will see many accolades to Rory. You will also see that the fine staff are carrying on. I encourage anyone visiting Berkeley to stop into Comic Relief. You will be in heaven when you step through the door.

Follow-up:
Comic Relief later split up into two stores, Fantastic Comics in the same location, and The Escapist on Claremont Avenue between College and Ashby. Two, count them, two comic book stores!
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Fan Fiction: The Last Stand

[This piece first appeared in Shuffleboil in December 2007.]

Warning: character disrespect, non-consensual immersion in fan fic. To my beta, John Mitchell, with chocolate and tears!

A literary review of fan fiction — stories based on books, comics, and television shows, written by fans — proved a challenging assignment. I had not realized just how much there is and how various — some too embarrassing to admit having read.

I refer, of course, to the bad porn. Only the best porn wanted here. Not that I’m so high-minded, but I backed slowly out of certain sites. [It was research!]

In fact, some fan fic is quite good, with beautifully described characters, relationships, action, and scenery, deep exploration of alternative pasts, presents and futures — and sometimes even well-written sex (if that isn’t an oxymoron). There’s worse stuff in print.

But what to review, of the many thousands of fics?

And in one column? The way in to the subject was unclear. Then a friend lamented that there would be no more Harry Potter. Bingo. There can be more. There is more. Nyah nyah.

Some worlds are so richly imagined that they escape their creators.” Star Trek,” “Sherlock Holmes,” “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “X-Files.” ‘Fan fic’ is modern folklore. It is also a serious literary movement with web archives, ratings, editors, and awards. One of many such sites, fanfiction.net (which has a broader collection than most) hints at the scope: television, movies, books, cartoons, games, and musical theater. Rounding a few numbers:

BOOKS (303 books, authors or genres listed): Harry Potter - 330,000 entries Lord of the Rings - 40,000 Twilight - 10,000 Da Vinci Code - 210 Symphony of the Ages - 1

TELEVISION (595 shows listed): Buffy: The Vampire Slayer - 32,000 CSI -18,000 Stargate - 17,000 Man from UNCLE - 191 Taxi -1

Take Buffy. Buffy was brilliant, and not in the casual British sense (a brilliant lunch). The premise is, at first glance, queasy-making: A long line of teenage girls slay demons and die in the line of duty. It’s just like that. Each new Slayer has a Watcher — a scholarly guidance counselor with sword-fighting skills who runs interference with the Council of Watchers (like a museum run by the CIA, only British). Think girl gymnasts and middle-aged male coaches. Queasy-making.

Looked at another way, it was a story of female power. Buffy *fought*, and won. Comedy and tragedy arose from the demands of slaying the undead while keeping up grades and a social life. Slayers are not supposed to have friends. Buffy had friends. They saved each others’ lives, fell in and out of love, went through hell, and grew up. Built literally over Hell, Buffy’s high school was oddly like mine, and possibly yours, which was the point. The writing, acting, and often music were head and shoulders above anything else on (broadcast) TV. Buffy staved off mediocrity right to its brilliant end in 2003. I salute its memory, but it didn’t occur to me to improvise on the theme.

It occurred to a lot of other people, who churn out stories piggybacking on canon (Buffy-Angel) or flouting it big time (Oz-Giles), re-imagining imaginary pasts to suit themselves, and imagining futures. Just as with Robin Hood stories, except: “It’s Mutant Enemy’s world, please don’t sue.” You wouldn’t see this in a Robin Hood story. Nobody owns Robin Hood. (Do they? Next of kin?)

This was to be a witty review of fan fic, not a lame attempt at writing it. But Scully had had enough. Enough of the pain and sacrifice, despite which the day might yet be lost.

They waited together, swords unsheathed — old alliances renewed by loyalty and, what could no longer be denied, love. All kinds of forbidden, non-canonical love.

From the crater that had been Gotham City, the Orcs boiled up out of their ships, wielding odd black squares. Scully’s heart sank. Briefcases. As the Orcs streamed upward, she strained to make out their chant. “Copyright. Copyright.”

There were so many. If Willow failed — The witch raised her Ring and the first wave of Orcs pitched headlong into her Wall of Energy. Scully had a glimpse of their surprised faces and then they were gone, sizzling into nothingness. On and on they came, and finally there were no more of them, only a heap of briefcases.

Dr. Robbins emerged from the undergrowth, pushing a gurney. “That was cool,” he said. Cigarette Smoking Man sat up, coughing blood. “I asked to be taken to Princeton-Plainsboro.” “You’re not dead,” said Dr. Robbins, “What’s up with that?” Scully’s pulse quickened as Cigarette Smoking Man balled up a bloody tissue in a muscular fist. Then her gaze was wrenched away from his sensitive lips and her momentary elation turned to dread. It seemed briefcases could, with encouragement, sprout legs and shoot flame. Dr. Robbins whipped out a tricorder. “I’m calling in our position. Hello, Romulan fleet?”

The sky lit up with laser beams that carved the briefcases into day-planners, then into number two pencils. The incoming thestrals made short work of what was left.

The Romulan commander wore her habitual holographic smirk. “Greetings, adored one. The Council of Watchers wanted *you* bombed, into . . . I believe the word was smithereens. I don’t answer to them. And their old spacecraft that’s blocking our driveway — Jupiter 2? Consider it towed.”

Scully was weary, but if Holmes were alive, he would need her. Cigarette Smoking Man, Buzz Lightyear, Peter Pan, Erik — girlish infatuations. This was the real thing. Arwen would just have to stand aside.

Halfway down the crater, Holmes, scraped and bleeding, was sifting the ashes for his broken wand. Scully held him while he wept. “I miss Watson,” he said. “I miss Fred and Sirius. But mostly I miss Mulder. Why did I not tell him while I could?”

Scully reached for the silken manacles. They would get through this. Shows would be canceled, romances with obvious potential left undeveloped, but fic lived on.

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The bear formerly known as Mohammed

I hope to become embedded (so to speak) in the teddy bear drop planned for Sudan. Apparently each bear will have its own little parachute and a bottle of Exlax.

The following piece first appeared in Shuffleboil in December 2007.

Recently, Angry Mobs filled the streets of a Certain Country because of an Improperly Named Teddy Bear. Many were interviewed in connection with this incident — the Teacher, the Teacher’s family, Dignitaries, Religious Figures, Diplomats — but not the Bear. Correspondent W. Wonka was dispatched to Country X to interview Mr. Bear, and here is his report.

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Midnight brought a knock at my hotel door. A skinny green individual, who would only give his name as Gumby, led me downstairs to a car. I was blindfolded and driven around in circles until I lost my sense of direction. When the blindfold was removed, I was in a schoolroom. Sitting on the teacher’s desk was Mr. Bear.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked. “I hope Gumby was not too rough with you. Ask your questions.”

Despite his lack of expression, Mr. Bear seemed nervous. He had Gumby check the room for microphones, and pat me down for weapons.

Here is a transcript of our interview:

Wonka: Thanks for agreeing to this interview.
Bear: My pleasure.
Wonka: How does it feel to be the center of so much attention?
Bear: I’m a bit overwhelmed. I’m just a stuffed Bear.
Wonka: Where do you come from originally?
Bear: Some people feel you can’t really remember your infancy, but I think I can. My earliest memories are of being a pile of fabric in a factory.
Wonka: From humble beginnings to a cause celebre. And now grown men march in the streets over your name.
Bear: And the news got out so fast. It must have been a slow news day in Khatoum. It seems some people never outgrow their interest in stuffed animals. But the machetes seemed over the top. We teddy bears are a peaceful people.
Wonka: What are you using for a name now?
Bear: I plan to stay nameless. And inanimate.
Wonka: Any plans to get out of the school mascot business?
Bear: Yes, I am available for commercial work and my agent is in talks with Gund. 
Wonka: Any words of wisdom for those who named you?
Bear: Yes, kids, stay in school.
Wonka: Is it true you’ve been offered political asylum at the North Pole? 
Bear: This interview is over. I’ve already said too much.
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