The Fashion Olympics

Sujata Massey

Moody blues at a a Taj Resort in Goa

I didn't know what to wear.

I was planning to meet my writer friend Marcia Talley for lunch at a good local restaurant. She always shows up looking splendid, usually in some classy, colorful jacket bought in a faraway boutique. I wanted to match her energy, but my mind was scattered. Then I remembered where my clothing ideas live. I only needed to open my phone, and go into my digital wardrobe app, Indyx, to look at various garments and coordinated outfits on file. And voila.I pulled myself together on a cool spring day in blue and cream. I spotted a long chiffon floral skirt with a navy ground. I could wear it with an Eileen Fisher cotton tee in sky-blue cotton, and pulled it all together with a cream-colored vintage wool jacket from Italy and my mom's diamond hoop earrings. Dressed in a flash, and no double-thinking.

Marcia and I unexpectedly sharing a dark floral moment

This is what it means to be alive in an age where glamour has trickled into practically every subconscious. It used to be that movie actresses, fashion stylists and museum curators were the only ones who took photos of garments and filed them away. But not anymore. Even though it seems as if we are in the midst of some pretty hard times, computer-assisted style and beauty seems to be everywhere. 

The current four-day period we are in--May 1-4, 2026--are what I consider the annual Fashion Olympics. The Devil Wears Prada 2 movie is releases tonight, and you better believe I'm going. On Monday, Vogue Magazine and E! will live-stream the Met Gala, a very expensive and fabulously dressed benefit party to support the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Gallery. Two events; hundreds of quality outfits.

Fashion has been around since looms were invented, but it seems only recently that things became so ubiquitous  

My theory is the escalation began with the face, during the years we were shut inside and seeing each other’s faces close up on zoom only. The pandemic is when Emmy-worthy makeup videos began lighting up YouTube. Skincare and makeup tutorials run between 30 minutes and an hour, mostly. Many of these videos are titled with the acronym GRWM.  It stands for “Get Ready With Me” and signifies a bathroom or bedroom film shoot in which the YouTuber in a robe delivers a monologue about makeup—and often, many more topics on their minds—whilst putting on her makeup. Instagram and TikTok abound with short reels that famously illustrate ‘hacks’ to make grooming and fashion easier, for both guys and girls. My favorite mini-tutorials are scarves. Clothing tutorial videos are also making a far reach. My secret obsession are the videos about scarves. I have witnessed so many permutations of scarves and pashmina shawls turned into blouses, skirts and dresses. Why am I so hesitant to actually leave the house in a scarf being not-a-scarf?

Video is more effective at telling fashion and beauty stories than print ever was. I say this as a continued paper magazine subscriber, and someone who toiled in the American newspaper world before throwing it all in for a ticket to Japan. Oh, those were great days at the Baltimore Evening Sun. The surprising perk the paper gave me was the fashion beat, which included two annual trips to New York to cover the spring and fall fashion collections. Naturally, I felt like a country mouse at these events. I carried a forgettable tan leather bag o hold my reporters bookbooks, and black Prada or Chanel purses dangled from the arms of editors dressed all in black attire. It was an era when fashion journalists, top store buyers and a few socialites still had top status at the shows, and these ladies got the first three rows.

The Baltimore Evening Sun was no Dallas Morning News—that wealthy community's fashion section was legend—but it still was a bona fide publication. And it was a high fashion dream for a girl from St. Paul Minnesota, someone who unsuccessfully auditioned at age 14 for the Dayton's fashion show, to get to see the country's most important clothing collections unveiled before stores had bought them. There I was, seated at the Plaza Hotel ballroom watching the models stroll with power and insoucience, showing off the collections of Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and Carolyne Roehm. Just--wow.

The PR heads for these design houses—the sainted souls who actually added me to the guest lists—couldn't have that my inclusion would spur hundreds of Baltimoreans to seek out their styles. Yet I came to New York, with a brilliant staff photographer, Patrick Sandor, a dear deceased friend I still think about, decades later. Patrick clicked gorgeous photos and while I took notes on the repeating style elements—the trends! Our articles flew out on the precursor to the Internet, the 'wire service',  to be reprinted by other papers across the country. Patrik and I got into those shows only because we had that kind of reach.

But what did I wear when I was in New York? This was a constant stressor. I was in my early twenties and living on a typical young reporter’s budget, with no ‘fashion closet’ like the ones Vogue and Elle reporters could access. I knew how poor my shopping-mall-purchased clothes were in comparison. If you saw the original Devil Wears Prada scene where Meryl Streep disses Anne Hathaway in her preppy cerulean sweater, you get it--although words were never spoken.

On the plus side, this was the late 1980s and early 1990s, a golden age for street style. All sorts of creative people in the fashion industry, or aiming for a place in it, were sitting around me in the deeper seating rows at the Plaza Hotel. They wore artistic, vintage, and often hand-made ensembles. Admiring them, I realized I could also attempt something different from what the Black Cashmere Mafia wore. So, the second year I traveled to the collections, I chose to wear a salwar kameez suit: a traditional two piece ensemble, with scarf, that I’d bought recently on a trip with my father to India. The tunic had exquisite applique on all the edges. The colors--pink and green and orange--were vibrant and quite an original clash. The response? People didn’t look past me, and even a few photographers said they liked what I wore. I wasn't high fashion, but felt like I occupied space in the room. 

In gowns with Anne Murphy of Malice Domestic 

In my thirties, I went through long periods of not thinking much about clothes. Life as a young mother with a book due each year felt too busy for more than sweaters and jeans. Yet for the times I left the house and playground to attend publishing and bookstore events, I dressed. I realized my closet was an untapped vault. It held half a dozen different  vintage silk haori coats collected during my years living in Japan. I also had plenty of silk tunics and dresses from Indian venues as varied as the inexpensive Fab India and the designer boutique Ritu Kumar. I often mixed these clothes with velvet or silk pants, long earrings, and twisted ropes of pearls. I l could enjoy color, pattern and ornamentation to my heart's content. Inside my house, I was a peasant; and outside, I played princess.

A beaded velvet maxi dress from Ritu Kumar

 

As my career rolled along, and just as I seemed to be getting into an individual style groove, 2023’s big style shift—Quiet Luxury—stopped me short. 

QL, as illustrated by E!

What is Quiet Luxury? First off, it's about touch. Cashmere, linen and silk. I have no argument with these fabrics; I buy them when I can. But for this particular incarnation, there was no pattern or bold colorway. Hues of choice are beige, white, and soft versions of browns and grays. Throw in blue jeans and diamond earrings, and expensive loafers, and you are there. Timeless style, with flat shoes and logo-less bags. The fashion is to look like you don’t follow fashion. I tried to resist the pressure of QL. Still, by the summer of 2023 I was hunting for vintage Bottega Veneta handbags--admiring their woven leather patterns and lack of logo. But at least the bag I bought from a second-hand seller in the Netherlands isn't beige. It's purple.

I believe it served as an necessary transition from two years of quarantine. The pandemic made us accustomed to dressing in sweats and athleisure for almost two full years. Once you’ve live with an elastic or drawstring waistband, it’s hard to say goodbye. The relaxed styles and longer tops of quiet luxury hid weight gain and were comfortable, yet the luxury element made us feel we could wear it out socially, and of course to work. Most of it was bought online, at an iconic retailer called The Row, as well as cheaper brands like Quince.  Even though we are three year’s past pandemic, the QL influences continues. Pantone’s official color of 2026 is a creamy white called Cloud Dancer. White and cream linen pants and jeans abound. And speaking of light colors and fabrics, have you seen the milkmaids? Last year, low-necked, bosom-forward dresses seemed to be a staple at riverfront cafes. I don’t think this boomlet is over yet—not with the plethora of conservatives advising women how to please men.  

"Raw Milkmaid Dress" sold by Evie Magazine

The retail business doesn't judge. Retailers require big shifts in fashion taste so they can stay profitable A less dramatic example han tradwife dresses is denim. I watched skinny jeans morph to flare jeans into mom jeans to barrel-leg jeans--over the span of ten years. I read online that 2026 is bringing jeans in cream and various earth tones (Quiet Luxury!) And to go on the feet, I'm fascinated by 'ballet sneakers' that for some reason are perforated and tied up in with ribbons rather than shoelaces.

Kenneth Cole's Annalise ballet sneaker

Now that I’m older and don't see every day as a race for survival, I slip into restaurants and museums wtih friends or alone, whenever I can. I enjoy not only the food or art, but also the interior design, and the aura of the other guests and staff. It’s like entering a specially designed world. And when we wear something that blends with the elegant atmosphere of the restaurant or nightclub, or the eclecticism of the museum or gallery, we become part of a living tableau. I might only be a small dot in on an impressionist’s canvas—but nevertheless, a speck of something that is real and combines with others to build a picture.  

My travel uniform for fall in Europe

This is why I think fashion is a form of public service. I’m not advising anyone to shop hard to fit in with other people. Dressing in a way that makes you feel like your best self is the advice I gave someone who asked what to wear at a party at my house. And this is what I need to remind myself. On days when I’m not feeling great, comfortable sweat pants seem like the only possible choice. But even if the sweats are cashmere, it doesn’t make the day better than the one where I put on real clothes and some earrings. 

You might think that caring about clothes is trivial; that it has no relevance when the world is in crisis. However, costumes and streetclothes can be strategies of resistance. 

Minnesota protest cap for sale on Etsy

Remember the frog suits worn by protestors in Seattle last year during the ICE occupation, and the Minnesotans wearing hand-knitted red knitted caps, hats reminiscent of those worn in Norway during the Nazi occupation. In Ukraine, fashion designers are offering new versions of traditional chemises and shirt called vyshyvanka for people to wear and feel beautiful, strong and proud as the war drags on. 

Ukrainian designer garments

And perhaps most significantly, women in Iran have been beaten, tortured and killed because they refused to wear the hijab and showed themselves to the community with uncovered hair, and wearing modern clothes that express themselves. 

Fashion being dangerous enough to cause execution seems all the more reason to give clothes their proper respect—and to be grateful for my ‘what should I wear’ moment, every morning, whether at home or away. 

 

Sujata will speaking about mystery writing with fellow writer Amin Ahmad at McIntrye’s Books in Fearrington Village, North Carolina at 11 a.m. on Saturday, May 9. She hasn’t yet decided what she’s wearing. 

They shall grow not old...

2026 Anzac Day dawn service at the Wellington Arch in central London

Craig every second Tuesday

Kia ora and gidday everyone,

In the past few days a rather significant day for Australians and New Zealanders has passed by again. 25 April may just be a date on the calendar for most countries, but down in New Zealand and Australia, and for others all around the world who have links to our two nations (including Turkey), it is a very special, and sombre day; ANZAC Day. A public holiday, but more akin to one like Memorial Day in the United States than its more festive holiday brethren. 

For more than a century the 25th of April has brought Australia and New Zealand - along with our diaspora around the world, to a pause, a special and sombre day where we remember the soldiers, sailors, and others who have served (and are still serving) our countries in wars and conflicts all over the world. Anzac Day, as that date is known in our part of the world, has been commemorated every year since 1916, the first anniversary of an ill-fated battle. 

One hundred and 11 years ago, on 25 April 1915, our two nations first fought side by side under the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) banner – our soldiers landing together at dawn on a desolate beach on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey. The campaign and landing were a military bungle by the British commanders (including the First Lord of the Admiralty, a certain Winston Churchill) - but the attitudes, actions, and courage of the Australian and New Zealand soldiers both at Gallipoli and over the many battles and years since, stoked a burgeoning sense of independent identity and nationhood.

Anzac. It’s a powerful word for anyone from our end of the world. 

Despite being about as far away from the main First World War conflict as you could be, more than 100,000 New Zealand troops and nurses served overseas during the First World War, from a population of just over one million. 42% of men of military age served. The losses were huge. You've only got to drive around New Zealand and spy the war memorials in various rural towns, where there are dozens of names listed even from tiny farming communities, to realise the impact the First and Second World Wars had on a couple of generations. Service, sacrifice. 

Anzac Day has been a part of my life since I was a Boy Scout marching in parades in Richmond, a small town in the Top of the South Island of New Zealand, or learning about the Anzacs and the Gallipoli campaign at school. Later I had the privilege of writing about Anzac Day for several magazines, legal and lifestyle, including interviewing several serving New Zealand military personnel (including a Brigadier General) about Anzac Day's ongoing impact.

part of a multi-page feature I wrote on Anzac Day for WildTomato magazine in 2009

Then in 2011, I had the privilege of attending an Anzac Day dawn service, following a chilly overnight stay on the Gallipoli Peninsula itself, camping out with hundreds of fellow Kiwis and Aussies by the beach where the Anzacs landed in 1915, waking for dawn service then hiking up the steep cliffs for morning services at Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair. You can read more about my thoughts on that experience at a prior Murder is Everywhere post. 

Dawn on the 25th of April at Gallipoli in 2011

The couple of times when I've been back 'home' in New Zealand during late April over the past decade or so (eg once when Miss 11 was very little, another time when she was seven years old), I attended Anzac Day ceremonies in the smalltown of Brightwater and in my hometown of Richmond, Nelson in the top of the South Island of New Zealand.

The place where I used to march in Anzac Day parades as a little kid in the Boy Scouts, joining the then-current military personnel and the veterans wearing their medals. It's different now, as I'm older, am a father, have friends who've served or are still serving in various militaries, and have experienced loss more directly in my own life. 

This year, after toying with it a few times in recent years, I finally got myself (and Miss 11) along to the dawn service in central London, at Hyde Park corner and the Wellington Arch, gilded by the New Zealand and Australian War Memorials. It's a place I've visited plenty of times over the years, during daylight hours; I've even taken quite a few visiting Kiwi and Aussie mates past it as party of lengthy strolls around central London. 

Miss 11 by the NZ War Memorial at 4am on Anzac Day

Dragging Miss 11 out of bed at 3am so we could get the night tube into town made me remember the times I'd gotten up early with my Dad when I was little - though that was almost exclusively to watch live sports being played on the other side of the world. FA Cup finals, Rugby World Cup games, etc. To enjoy sporting contests that some fans treat as life and death, but really - as much as I love sports, and appreciate LFC legend Bill Shankly (who famously said, "Some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that") - something like Anzac Day puts that into true perspective. 

More than 2,700 New Zealanders and 8,700 Australians died at Gallipoli. 

Many thousands of others were terribly injured. Young men and boys from across our nations. While the numbers are horrifying enough, time and distance perhaps underplays them. Despite being about as far away from the battlefronts of the First World War that you could get, and in no direct danger ourselves, New Zealand sent more than 42% of its men of military age overseas to fight alongside the UK and other allies. 

Anzac soldiers landing at Gallipoli were faced with steep terrain and deadly artillery

To put it in perspective, the losses at Gallipoli, given New Zealand's population at the time, are the equivalent of the United States losing just under 900,000 people in a single military campaign today.

It's hard to fathom. 

You can see why it was such a big deal for Australia and New Zealand, and why Anzac Day was commemorated since 1916 (the one year anniversary of the landing) even as the war raged on. 

The Princess Royal (in green) laying the first
wreath on behalf of the Royal Family

So, 111 years on, Miss 11 and I were among the several hundred people gathered in the centre of London under a dark sky, listening to a karakia and haka from Ngāti Rānana London Māori Club  welcoming the Princess Royal to the dawn service. Listening to poems, prayers, odes, and remembrances that did not glorify war or conflict, but called for peace and human connection. 

To honour those who'd given their lives, by valuing and protecting life.

After wreaths had been laid and the Last Post rang out, we all dispersed, moving on with our own days and our own lives. A sombre start to a Saturday, but like memento mori, a reminder to be grateful for life, and the costs that others have paid for the freedoms we often take for granted. 

Afterwards, Miss 11 and I strolled down Piccadilly looking for an early-morning cafe to have something to eat, before strolling around an oh-so-quiet central London then later heading to parkrun at Bexley. On the other side of the world, my compatriots had been attending services and starting a public holiday long weekend with family and friends. Our Anzac Day was a little different, but I was glad I took the time this year to attend the London dawn service, to remember and reflect. I'll leave you with the words of the Anzac dedication, read out at every service: 

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.”

Until next time. Ka kite anō.

Whakataukī of the fortnight: 

Inspired by Zoe and her 'word of the week', I'll be ending my fortnightly posts by sharing a whakataukī (Māori proverb), a pithy and poetic thought to mull on as we go through life.

Ko te manu e kai ana i te miro, nōna te ngahere. Ko te manu e kai ana i te mātauranga, nōnā te ao

(The bird who feeds on the miro berry has the forest. The bird who feeds on knowledge has the world.)

The native New Zealand wood pigeon (kereru) is fond of miro berries

April in Manhattan

Annamaria on Monday

My blog Bro has gotten us ready for May, and to tell you the truth, I am ready to see the end of a month that has brought us so much woe.  But before we leave it, I want relive the beauty it also brought, which I enjoyed so much that it made my heart sing.

April in Paris   

Famously, the song April in Paris wins people over.  It makes us want to see those chestnuts in blossom.  And to want to find a true love.  It offers us a glass of wine in an outdoor cafe.  Paris, the lyrics say, makes you want to long for love.  It has you asking, "Whom can I run to.."

Spring in Manhattan on the other hand gives us more than longing. The song, though not so famous, shows people in love and were they go as their love flourishes.

Spring in Manhattab

Springtime in Manhattan delivers more than just chestnuts in blossom.  

Here's what it looked like this April.

    

I am signing off today with these words of Mohandas Gandhi, who is pictured here in Union Square on April 1.

 

When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always

 

The Meaning(s) of May Day.

Jeff—Saturday

Friday is the first of May, a national holiday in Greece.  It’s a day filled with traditions, some brought on by thoughts of rejoicing at the end of winter, others by memories of a day sacred to organized labor, one that most Americans know little about—but we’ll get to that later.  Anyway, I thought, “This is a perfect subject for this week’s post,” and began to write, accompanied by this nagging sense of déjà vu all over again. 

Sure enough, I plowed back through my old posts and found I’d written about May Day a dozen years ago.  I thought to reinvent the wheel—or in this case the springtime wreath—but decided it more in keeping with the national labor strikes aspect of this day to simply do nothing but tinker with the old piece. Besides, the history behind this worldwide May Day hullabaloo has not changed. 

Did you know that May 1^st celebrations go back to ancient pagan days and that virtually all northern hemisphere cultures had some sort of “spring rite” festivities?

Why of course you did.

The earliest festivals were linked to the Roman goddess of flowers (Flora), Germanic celebrations of what is now called Walpurgis Night (named after the patron saint of those suffering from rabies, it’s also known as “the witches sabbath” coming precisely six months after All Hallows Eve—interesting combination), and the Celtic Beltane (a springtime festival of optimism).

Walpurgis Night Fireworks

May 1st ends the hunker down winter mindset, and harbingers the coming joyful days of summer. 

On Mykonos locals take great pride in fashioning circular wreaths out of grape vines tied off with bunches of wildflowers (aloe, statice, geraniums, daises, lavender, and the like), angelica, olive, rosemary, wheat, bay leaf, and for some, whole cloves of garlic.  They’re quite beautiful and for those wreaths proudly hung on front doors which survive another Mykonian tradition—wreath heisting by neighborhood children—they’re burned on the day of the Summer Solstice (June 22^nd) as the adventuresome jump over the flames three times making a wish as they do…probably not to burn off their you-know-whats in the process.   

Did you also know that May Day is International Worker’s Day?  If you live virtually anywhere outside of the U.S. you probably do.  Inside, likely not.  The U.S. has stuck to the first Monday in September as its Labor Day and Americans generally associate May 1^st with a communist or socialist workers holiday, complete with grandiose military parades in such places as Russia, North Korea, and Cuba. 

May Day Demonstration London

I’d venture to say most Americans have no idea that International Worker’s Day is officially celebrated in most countries around the world not to glorify any foreign ideal or event, but to mark what occurred in Chicago, Illinois on May 4, 1888.

Permit me to lift the following description of what happened from Wikipedia’s entry, “The Haymarket Affair.”

“The Haymarket affair (also known as the Haymarket massacre or Haymarket riot) refers to the aftermath of a bombing that took place at a labor demonstration on Tuesday May 4, 1886, at Haymarket Square in Chicago. It began as a peaceful rally in support of workers striking for an eight-hour day. An unknown person threw a dynamite bomb at police as they acted to disperse the public meeting. The bomb blast and ensuing gunfire resulted in the deaths of seven police officers and at least four civilians, and the wounding of scores of others.

“In the internationally publicized legal proceedings that followed, eight anarchists were convicted of conspiracy, although the prosecution conceded none of the defendants had thrown the bomb. Seven were sentenced to death and one to a term of 15 years in prison. The death sentences of two of the defendants were commuted by Illinois governor Richard J. Oglesby to terms of life in prison, and another committed suicide in jail rather than face the gallows. The other four were hanged on November 11, 1887. In 1893, Illinois’ new governor John Peter Altgeld pardoned the remaining defendants and criticized the trial.

“The Haymarket affair is generally considered significant as the origin of international May Day observances for workers.  The site of the incident was designated a Chicago Landmark on March 25, 1992, and a public sculpture was dedicated at the site in 2004. The Haymarket Martyrs’ Monument in nearby Forest Park was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and designated a National Historic Landmark on February 18, 1997.”

That ends today’s history lesson. Now go outside and enjoy the sunshine!

––Jeff

Extending Life

 Michael - Alternate Thursdays

Extending human life has always been a thorny issue. I’m not talking about exercise and healthy eating habits, but some form of medication. What could that be and, more important, what would be the consequences? Most of the novels and movies that have used this as a premise have focused on a way-out discovery – perhaps in the Amazon, on an isolated island, or somewhere in the Kalahari Desert – where, to this day, a variety of rare and undocumented species exist.

The discovery provides the backstory of the novel, but it’s usually the social, financial, and political implications that provide the substance. In his book, The Trouble with Lichen, John Wyndham explores the discovery of a lichen-like substance, discovered by accident, that causes aging to slow. That's where the story starts. The implications create the backbone of the book. A beautician uses it to do what all beauticians claim to do – to keep your young looks. The fact that her treatments actually work don’t make people happy, certainly not the ones who don’t have it. Some of the ones who do receive it somehow feel hoodwinked. That seems strange, but it’s totally believable. Read the book if you want to know why.

In Dying to Live, we postulated a plant in the Kalahari, known only to the Bushmen, that offered remarkable healing properties and extended life. A Bushman is discovered dead near the Central Kalahari Game Reserve in Africa. Although the man looks old enough to have died of natural causes, the police suspect foul play, and the body is sent to Gaborone for an autopsy. The pathologist is greatly puzzled. Although the man is obviously very old, his internal organs look remarkably young.

That’s the premise, but our story is about the stampede to find and obtain the plant by people for their own ends. The book is actually about greed, not longevity.

When the book came out we often asked people at launch events whether they would be keen to live very much longer that the usual life span. Many didn’t. Maybe there’s a built-in lifespan in our psyches as well as in our bodies. On the other hand, some very rich people have their bodies frozen until the day they can be resuscitated and whatever ails them (even if it’s just old age) can be cured.

In another story, a team of scientists go to study the people and environment of Easter Island (Rapa Nui). They discover a lot of interesting things, but the microbiologist in the group becomes fixated on soil samples that have a surprising lack of fungal life. He observes that the material kills yeast in a petri dish.

Yes, that Easter Island

As the story goes on, the material reaches a laboratory where a team led by a scientist named Sehgal discovers that the active ingredient, which they believe might be a new antibiotic, is actually a byproduct of a bacterium that doesn’t want competition from fungi for the nutrients in the soil. They isolate the material and name it Rapamycin in honor of its original home on Easter Island. While investigating its properties, they discover it produces strong anti-immune reactions. That dangerous side effect spoils its antibiotic properties, the research goes nowhere, and the drug company closes it down.

The twist is that Sehgal then smuggles a sample of the drug from the laboratory to his new home in the US and continues to push the drugs properties. Eventually, the research is restarted, and Rapamycin is approved by the FDA for use in suppressing immune reactions for transplants. But there’s another twist.

In the experiments and trials to obtain that approval, scientists notice that mice being used as test subjects live longer than those in the control group. Subsequent trials indicate that mice may live up to 20% longer when regularly treated with Rapamycin compared to the control group.

So far there isn’t that much interest in the story. The only twist worth a book would be Sehgal smuggling the drug home and carrying on the experimentation. The actual twist (as you’ve probably guessed or already know) is that this isn’t a novel. Not even a novel based on fact, but actual fact. There’s even real science that may explain how the drug works, and that may be the most interesting part. But where is all the greed, the social upheaval, the mad rush of legislation, the crowds mobbing the drug stores? It isn’t there. Is the drug too dangerous to take regularly? It doesn’t seem so, (but it’s early days yet and it can produce significant side effects).

Maybe we already have the Bushman’s longevity drug available for some $100 per month, but no one is really excited? Well not quite. Online “clinics” offer antiaging regimes including use of the drug “off label” i.e. not for its recommended and approved uses. The costs are much higher than the prescription rates. Some subscribers do suffer undesirable side effects under the very lax medical regime of the “clinics”. Do the participants live longer? How do we know? Is this just another Invermectin - a miracle drug against parasites, but with no scientifically established properties against Covid? Or do we really have the prototype of a drug that can extend life?

Would you want to live an extra twenty years?

When Pots--and Plots--get Root-Bound

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

One of my bamboo plants was starting to look unwell. A few leaves here and there turning yellow and dropping--nothing dramatic, but enough to signal that something wasn’t right, because my bamboo have always been among the healthiest of my plants!

And what was really odd was that this bamboo was in front of a big window with two other pot plants—another bamboo and a bonsai fig tree—and they all get the same amount of sunlight and water and the other two seem fine. So what was wrong with this poor bamboo?

So--after a very full week (including some Aunty Lee excitement now that the series is now out there) I finally took my poor bamboo plant out onto the patio for some investigative procedures...

My poor bamboo was completely root-bound!

When I finally managed to loosen the sides enough to get it out of its pot I saw its roots had taken over completely. They were a dense, tightly packed mass in the exact shape of the pot!

And there was almost no soil left. Water must have been running straight down the sides and out again without ever reaching the poor roots at the centre.

In fact, though I'd not realised it, my poor plant was dying of thirst and malnutrition, not to mention stress from overcrowding.

All from being severely root-bound.

And I realised that was pretty much the state my manuscript has been getting into recently. Everything inside it came about naturally and kind of works, but there's just too much stuff and it's all packed too tightly.

It's easier to tackle a poor root-bound plant. Or rather, there's a simple and slightly brutal method that usually works: loosen the roots as much as possible, remove compacted soil and dead roots and trim some of the roots before repotting them in fresh mix.

But that's where the difficult part comes in--I wasn't just trimming dead roots but some of the living, healthy ones too. Because there just isn't enough room for everything.

In my WIP the scenes I’m looking at are good scenes, funny exchanges and observations that I love. And all these fine roots/ threads/ themes have potential to grow into exciting developments.

The problem is, they all have HUGE potential, and given unlimited space, time and energy, I would keep and grow them all!

But I don’t have unlimited space, whether on my bathroom window ledge or on my calendar.

My bamboo might be happier flourishing in the wild with pandas, but in this dimension it's part of the green modesty screen in my bathroom that I enjoy tending to and that makes me happy every time I look at it.

Like for my WIP, my material is crying out for epic space but I'm working to fit it into a book somewhere between 75,000 and 80,000 words.

Even this post has to fit the space it’s given--so something has to give.

I trimmed my bamboo plant--stalks and roots both. I tried to be selective, but still—every cut hurt.

And when I've finished this, I'll head back to do the same with my manuscript.

I'm finally beginning to see that culling, cutting and editing isn’t about removing what’s bad or that doesn't work. It's just acknowledging that there isn't enough space for everything.

Too many roots, too many ideas...

It's not a bad thing. It's a wonderful problem because it means my bamboo was/ is healthy enough to expand to its limits.

My bamboo is recovering.

It's already looking much better!

Now I'll go trim and repot my WIP and hope it survives and recovers too and that both book and bamboo go on to flourish!

Happy Birthday, Karen Blixen

  Annamaria in Three Days Late

I apologize for going AWOL for a couple of weeks.  To be honest, I found myself with little time for writing anything at all, and I chose to devote what I had to finishing my work in progress, which was pouring into my head.  I am past 61K words now, and I see the ending coming, so though real life remains quite busy, I am happy to say that I am here with this tribute to Karen Blixe aka Isak Dinese. I first fell for her as a Lit major when I was assigned to read her short stories in Seven Gotic Tales published under her pen name.

Her name came up because I have an ancient copy of this handy way to keep track of friend and family birthdays.  I've had it since 1984, hence the clearly visible Scotch tape holding it together.

The entry at the top clued me in that it was time that I give Karen some attention.

Most American's know her as the person played by Meryl Street in the movie Out of Africa.  When her memoire of the same name first launched, it carried her pen name, already well known at the time. (Karen took the pen name, as many women did in the those days because books written by women were not considered important and mostly could't get published.)

Nowadays, if you search Seven Gothic Tales the answer you get may very well say "A book by Karen Blixen."  Only if the answer shows the book will it show the author as Isak Dinesen.  Either way, it is a masterpiece.

Eventually the area of Nairobi where she lived was named Karen in her honor.

Here below are some souvenir shots from my first time visit to Karen Blixen's house

"...at the foot of the gong hills."

Lucy, my guide, and a portrait of Karen

Karen's house, now a museum.

The Karen museum is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Kenya.  I'm not sure if it sells books, but I am certain that if you want fame, it helps if Meryl Streep pays you in a movie, especially of Robert Redford plays the love interest, and if the film is also a masterpiece.