My Pulpit

Sometime in the mid-90s, I sat in a church pew, in a small church in Detroit, Michigan. I’m wearing pants that are either too small or too big, a white button-down shirt, and a very uncomfortable tie. This was a typical Sunday for my family. My father was the pastor of that church. A charming, passionate, devout missionary. He’s jumping up and down. Shouting. Running up and down the aisle, getting his conjuration juiced up for our lord and savior. There’s an art to preaching. There’s an art to having to know how to get people attracted and stay enticed with Christianity. He had it. He knew he had it. I wanted it.

For my entire life I’ve been chasing that feeling. That sort of rock star admiration. Even though he was spreading the word of God to the masses, let’s face it, he was a rockstar. People flocked to see him. People paid to see him. He booked jobs across the world to do what he did. Without realizing it, I began to seek that sort of love. I thought I wanted to be a preacher like him. What exhilaration he had to feel, having all those eyes on him. All those ears opening to him. Somewhere along the way I lost sight of the church. The question now is, where will I find that admiration?

When it comes to art, story reigns king. Let’s look at our first rock star. Don’t laugh, but yes, I’m talking about Jesus.

As I said earlier, there takes artistry in keep the masses invested in what it is you do. And how was it that he kept his flock, flocking? Parables. He knew how to pass out parables, like he was passing out hot cakes. With these stories, he was able to tap into their senses, for his teachings to well, make sense. Did I want to be a storyteller this entire time?

During the winters of Detroit, there wasn’t much playing outside. We had to find somewhere to go while we waited for our parents to pick us up. I walked into the Colman A.Young center, on a Friday. It was movie day. I sat down, and for the first time I saw Tom Cruise. Mission Impossible 2. That’s what I wanted to do. Be an action star. But…I had to learn how to act first.

Speeding up this story, I’m now studying Theatre in college. I spent most of my adult life chasing the dream of a storyteller. An older professor of mine told us, you must jump in the pool. Don’t wait for anyone else to jump in. Go get it yourself. So, I spent years writing scripts, discovering poetry, directing failed projects, acting in projects that weren’t mine, failing repeatedly. I refused to call myself an artist because of my failures. Again, I found myself questioning, how can I find that admiration?

Somehow, I found myself in the service industry.

For years I didn’t really care much about it. I was lucky enough to land a gig that changed everything. You see, I’ve realized there’s a bit of artistry in everything. If you’re willing to search it out. Care. Once I leaned into that notion, I became so appreciative of what I do. I get to meet new people, tell them my stories, and listen to theirs. I get to touch people with my presence, and the drinks I create. I tell my staff often, everyone that walks through that door is our friends for the night. We get to change someone’s day. Blessings. What a blessing it is to find your place in society. Art is not only about paintings and symphonies. Art is about people. Stories. Experiences. Trust. Time. Love. There’s honor in people trusting you with their stories, and with their time. With my training and experiences, I bartend like no one has bartended before. I fill my days with creativity, stories, and just darn fun. I admire the ones that sit at my bar, and therefore they admire me. It took stepping behind this particular bar to finally say, hell yes, I’m an artist. I’m a rock star. I found my pulpit after all.

Aaron Ivory

has been tending bar throughout Memphis for the last decade. Although he despises the term, mixologist, he enjoys getting to create fun new cocktails. He has been acknowledged for his work in Memphis Magazine, along with other local and national publications. Before spending his days behind bars, Aaron studied Theatre Performance at the University of Memphis. There he found his love for writing poetry, plays, and screenplays. He hopes to be able to share his work someday.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Ever-Shifting Intimacies of Cinema

The typical movie theater screen falls between a width of 45 and 65 feet, with a height ranging from 20 to 30 feet.

In an average household a television might measure 55 inches? 65 inches? 85 the most?

Laptop screens come in around 13 to 15 inches.

The most common iPad screen size is 11 inches.

iPhone screens range somewhere between 6 and 7 inches.

As technologies (and their sizes) constantly change, so too do our options to undergo the wizardry of cinema. However, one must wonder if the ways in which we now take in film are enhancing our experiences or corroding them.

Art, of course, and the ways we perceive art always need to change. The static is stale and stale is death to creativity. Furthermore, change is inevitable. But there are always those who will romanticize and adorn the past while scorning the present and foreseeable future.

Sometimes I think of acclaimed writer and critic Susan Sontag’s 1995 essay “A Century of Cinema” in which she explores, from her perspective, the decline of both the cinema and the very concept of the cinephile, the devoted and inspired moviegoer who seems to have seen every flick ever made and knows everything about them. Sometimes I wonder what she would say about the state of this art form now - 30 years later. Well, I know what she would probably say about the continued survival and growth of franchises (and it wouldn’t be positive).

It strikes me as ironic that during the time Sontag wrote that piece about the dimness of cinema, I was a child experiencing my own excitements towards film. The Friday evening trip to Blockbuster was ritualistic anticipation incarnate. First was the smell. If you ever walked in one, you know it: a bouquet of popcorn and plastic. I recall I was allowed to rent two items every week. I either went with two movies or one movie and one video game. In terms of the movie, I had a usual rotation. You can count on one hand the film or bundled episodes of a television show on a single VHS I would want. Looking back now, I wonder why my parents didn’t just purchase these items for me instead of spending who-knows how much renting Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman over and over and over again. Actually, this intrigues me as someone who now partakes in the throes of filmmaking. My instinct as a child was not to watch all the movies. Rather, I wanted to study a selective group of movies and understand them inside out. I don’t think I was cognizant of this process at the time but in retrospect I believe that’s what was transpiring. I could repeat all the lines from the 1990 version of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or 1995’s Mortal Kombat. I would even write down the lines on loose-leaf as if I was scribing a novelization.

But back to Blockbuster. What made it special for me, like most things that are special, is that it wasn’t at my fingertips. It was a once a week event where I could indulge with our television screen before the school week began again. Thus, I immensely looked forward to it.

The theater was also a special place. Friends had their birthday parties there. We took class trips to watch (debatably) age-appropriate films. The room would darken and in the mystery of blackness magic would commence.

When a teacher would roll out a TV on an AV cart, we knew the class would be an exciting one. We would race home from school in time to watch a show. We would wake up on Saturday mornings to see cartoons. We perused the TV guide to ascertain our options. To be clear, however, I don’t mean to paint an unrealistic picture where our lives revolved around TV and film, as that wouldn’t truly be the case. As children we split our time between playing outside (sports, manhunt, riding our bikes, etc.) and playing inside.

As I grew older, I viewed the theater as a sort of sacred place. I never truly enjoyed going with a group of people as I found them ultimately distracting (though I can think of a few distractions in the theater I was glad to experience #yolo). I also preferred to visit during the afternoon, as there would be less people in the space. I was delighted when I was the only one there as if it were my own personal theater. I remember my dad telling me when he was young he loved the crowd because the audience participation made it fun. He has a point. The movie theater is indeed a collective social phenomenon. But I needed to focus and so I demanded absolute silence in service of the reverence required for a proper viewing. I smirk now at the ridiculous level of seriousness I always had for film. In short, I will shush you.

I take you on this little trip down memory lane only to present a juxtaposition. I have become increasingly aware that many people nowadays, in particular young people, have an extremely different relationship to cinema.

I teach undergraduates at Long Island University and so I often jump at the opportunity to question them in regard to how they view film. It should be of no surprise that those studying film express great enthusiasm as one would expect (though I do worry this too might somehow shift in the future). Theatre majors too are able to really discuss film in an analytical way, though I have noticed an abundance of actors who have barely seen a significant number of films (which always shocks me to no end).

And then I come across comments that, at one point in my life, I would have never expected to hear. Students tell me they don’t really like movies. Many view them as mere ambience – something to put on in the background to quell a saturation of silence. Others watch but not intently. They spend half the movie scrolling on their phones or laptops, often ironically watching video reels on social media. They enjoy certain shows, especially ones that make them laugh. But what I so rarely see is even a degree of infatuation. Films almost feel like old news.

Ironically, almost all of them have seen a few Marvel movies; the superhero trend continues. I don’t particularly mind this as our modern mythical heroes can serve as a wonderful entry point into true cinema. Also, superheroes rock. I grew up an avid comic-book reader and adored seeing many beloved characters on the big screen for the first time. But Martin Scorsese was right to liken those films to theme parks. They have a different purpose and function than films than are generated first from an artistic need to exist. But they are extremely accessible and that is a net positive in my book.

One semester I performed a little experiment. I decided to show two films during the duration of my English course. We watched The Matrix during the first half of the semester. It astonishes me how maybe 1 or 2 students will have seen the film prior to watching it in class every time I show it and get this: last semester one student even felt it was a rather slow-moving movie – The Matrix! For the second film, during the second half of the semester, I did something a little different. I brought a microwave to class with movie theater style popcorn, candies, chocolates, and sodas. And yes, I checked first for allergies. Together we sat in the classroom with the lights off, munched on traditional movie-going fare and watched Spike Jonze’s Her on the projector. Other students gathered outside of the classroom as they thought, at one point, we were watching pornography. Kristen Wiig’s off-camera portrayal of SexyKitten always creates quite the stir. On the surface, students often think I am doing something “nice” by bringing in snacks. But when the film concluded, and before we delved into our analytical discussion of it, I asked them to reflect on the experience of watching the film in relationship to the food. The consensus was that the food essentially helped them remain focused, interested and invested. It acted as an aid, supplying a continual need to refuel, which ultimately allowed them to make it through the film nearly uninterrupted. It also harnessed that communal experience (dad should be proud). Many stated they hadn’t been to an actual movie theater in years, some since they were children (I wonder if this has anything to do with the heightened awareness and fear following the 2012 Aurora, Colorado shooting during a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises). I like to think this little classroom investigation provided something of value: a peek into the power of cinema.

It’s not just the frequency of watching film that has changed but how we watch has morphed as well.

Streaming has replaced physical media (I am an adamant advocate of physical media and still request my SAG-AFTRA screeners to come in the mail). I find it interesting to note that far more students watch episodic shows than films. We tend to binge- watch on-demand products, devouring and consuming them like fast food commodities.

From the big screens of the theater, we turned to the television screen, and then to the laptop, next the iPad, and now people watch shows and movies entirely on their phones, ushering in the next generation of the ever-shifting intimacies of cinema.

And intimacy is indeed the correct word here. We hold actors and grand sets, distant planets and visual effects, in our very hands while slouched over, peering into a small little screen. Our fingers accidentally muffle the sound as they glide over our phone’s speakers. We are constantly adjusting the volume based on what’s going on in the external world. We have the power to manipulate our screen’s brightness on a whim. We have control over the art and it’s literally in the palm of our hands.

Does this perhaps have anything to do with why films don’t seem to possess the same magic they once did? Or is it because such magic is so easily exposed nowadays? You can easily lookup a tutorial for anything related to film on YouTube any second of any day. We don’t have to wonder how effects are accomplished. We can just Google the answer. We don’t even have to type it out. We can ask Siri or Alexa. Hop on ChatGPT and learn the intricacies. Knowledge may indeed be power. But it may also be the slayer of the spellbinding.

More interestingly though, how does this change in cinematic intimacy steer our perception of film itself?

In 2022 a film I directed entitled The Concertgoer was released and I had a peculiar experience. During the editing process I watched the film an ungodly amount of times as all directors do. Then I showed some friends and colleagues on my laptop, perhaps my iPad, I even watched it on my phone on the go. But when the film was screened at New York City Short Comedy Film Festival, I felt as if I was watching an entirely different film. I couldn’t quite place my finger on why, but it felt like the level of intimacy, the relationship between the film and I, had wildly changed.

Fun not-so-factual fact: If Joaquin Phoenix’s character Theodore from Her could date my film he totally would.

That’s when I realized it. Much like how Nicholas Carr, in his famous article “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” warned us that the Internet might have detrimental effects on our cognition and our capacity for both concentration and contemplation, the ever-shifting intimacies of cinema might be rewiring our very understanding of film and our ability to ingest it.

What does it mean to be truly immersed in a motion picture? Well for starters it means you can’t simply swipe to the next video to simulate a need for fast-paced, highly engaging, and personalized content. A true piece of cinema isn’t an algorithm designed for you. It is instead a privilege we have to be able to witness the execution of another’s vision and what they have to say. If you watch a film and constantly think, “I would have done that differently!” instead of, “Why did the director make that choice!?” I think you are approaching the entire encounter in the least interesting way.

Immersion is complete absorption, an unrelenting engagement. As we climb up the ladder of technology by exchanging the theater for the TV for the laptop for the iPad for the iPhone, are we simultaneously losing, bit by bit, the very ability to immerse ourselves in the ceremony of cinema?

This ever-shrinking immersion coupled with the total unbridled access streaming provides and the removal of the ritualistic elements of a tradition is reducing our very desire for cinema. It’s been dragged out of the dangerous and cryptic darkness and into the over-saturated florescent lights of life. Ever-exposed. Disallowing us to yearn for it. The seduction of cinema has seemingly expired.

Until, of course, it resurrects. And it shall. Even if it looks different. Trends halt, change directions, come full circle, retreat, and surrender to the whims of supply and demand. And as the moneymaking capitalistic machine of the movie business churns out cog after cog, we all know where the artists are - even though we can’t see them. The artists are in the dark. We don’t know them yet. But they have something up their sleeves. Just wait. You’ll see.

Onwards and Upwards, Always,

G

One Character in Search of a Filmmaker

Transcript of an interview between fiction writer Dennis Pahl and a character from his forthcoming collection of stories The Museum of Lost Things (Unsolicited Press). The interview took place in the winter of 2024 at an undisclosed location in Queens, New York and before a fully packed auditorium of film buffs, educators, and students of contemporary literature.

Dennis Pahl: Let me first thank Gregory Cioffi for the invitation to tonight’s discussion. Mr. Cioffi, the filmmaker, fiction writer, actor, teacher—I’m not sure how many other hats he wears, a lot I guess...Mr. Cioffi has asked me if I wouldn’t mind contributing to his blog, as he’d always been interested to know my thoughts on the question of adapting short stories into films...my own stories, in this case, which he, Mr. Cioffi, with his prodigious talent, has played a major part in converting into short films. He wanted to know, from the perspective of the writer, what it means to translate a work of fiction into film? What is the process reimagining fiction as film, and how does it alter, if it at all does, the nature of the original story? Does the endeavor have, in the first place, any merit? Or it is always and inevitably doomed to failure, I mean, destined to distort and destroy the original story in the process?

I don’t, of course, mean to sound cynical by asking this last question, nor do I wish to imply that Cioffi, in his filmmaking, has reduced my stories to ashes. No. On the contrary, in many cases Mr. Cioffi’s screenwriting and directing has mainly served to beautifully enhance the stories, even if, on occasion, some distortion of the original story takes place. And I’d argue that it is exactly such distortion of the original that is needed for a successful adaptation. “Destroying” the original is, in other words, not always a negative thing...It means, very often, creating anew, leaving behind the original text and translating it into a new language, the language of cinema: reshaping it according to a new perspective, that of the filmmaker. Out with the old, in with the new? Not entirely, but there is admittedly some degree of destruction along the way. It can’t be helped.

But I’m really getting ahead of myself, am I not? I’d much rather find a way through this puzzle, through the enigmatic re-imagining of fiction into film, by allowing another voice, another being if you will, to enter into the picture. And that voice to which I allude belongs to none other than one of my characters, who has done us the great honor of joining us tonight. That’s right. Who better, after all, to speak on the subject of turning fiction into film than one who is directly involved, who knows the process from the inside—that is to say, a character from my fiction? And not just any character, I should say.

So...without further ado, let me introduce Professor Protivnik, who’s been kind enough to come here tonight for this one-on-one discussion. [Turning to the PP, sitting beside DP] I’m so happy, Professor, you were able to make it here, to be able to temporarily rip yourself away from your usual fictional environment, from the printed page you inhabit, and be with us, on stage, in this wonderful auditorium. Indeed, let me commence by saying what an honor it is to have you, fully present, before such a fine group of film fans and artists and generally anyone else interested enough to come to this event, even if only out of a lack of anything better to do with their time.

Professor Protivnik: Well, the pleasure is all mine. Thank you so much for that warm introduction—and for the invitation in general. I’m equally honored to be here, in front of not only such a welcoming audience but also before my very own author, whose generosity and graciousness cannot be overestimated. Forgive me if I stumble at times, or if I speak in banal clichés. I almost feel as if I’m not in control of my words tonight.

Perhaps it’s a case of nervousness, I don’t know. Let me simply say at the outset how thankful I am that you’ve allowed me to exist in the first place, although I’ve come to feel, after having a role in so many of your stories, that I seem almost to have a life of my own, quite independent of you, my creator. That’s probably what made it in fact possible for me to escape, albeit temporarily, from the pages of the literary text at all. It’s always great, dear friend, to be part of your fictional world. I mean that sincerely. And I’m most happy to discuss the journey from short story to the silver screen, or is it video? Though perilous at times, and even thankless, the journey has been as incredibly illuminating as it has been absolutely joyful. I look forward to many more such adventures, even though, to be honest, no one—neither flesh-and-blood human beings nor fictional characters like myself—can really be sure about the future, can they?

Still of Professor P

DP: No, I suppose they can’t. But let me reassure you that, as far as I’m concerned, you have a wonderful future, at least in my fiction. But to start things off: let me ask you about your character’s debut appearance on film, when you first decided to try your luck on screen, in the film called “Evening Class.” I want to know: Was it difficult? And what did you think of the screenwriter Mr. Cioffi, who rewrote you, reinvented you for the film? Did he treat you well? Or did he, as a screenplay writer, take liberties with your character? Was he as easy-going and caring and sensitive to your needs, as many say? Or was he, like some other screenwriters or directors in the profession, the proverbial pain in the ass? [Chuckles from DP, but at the same time there’s the look he has of being quite serious about the question.]

PP: Actually he was a delight to work with. Except, of course, for those moments when I wanted to kill him. Or to kill the actor who played me. Maybe I wanted to kill the director too, I don’t recall. It’s hard to say where to direct your anger when you’re in the middle of being toyed with so much by others who are not the original author. The film director, whose name escapes me now, was a decent enough fellow, and quite talented too, but he was one who followed quite literally Cioffi’s screenplay. It’s not always, I must admit, an easy transition from page to screenplay. And once you start shooting the film, you can’t help but also think how different the actor is from you. Dan Capalbo, the actor in question, doesn’t even remotely look like me, and yet he does a damn good job in spite of this...

Headshot of Dan Capalbo

DP: Hold on a second. What do you mean he doesn’t look like you? I, as your author, as the original writer of the short story on which the film is based, never even tried to describe what you looked like. So how could you say that about the actor chosen for the part?

PP: No, you didn’t describe my looks, but there’s a feeling, you know, a feeling I get when you put me in the situation, in the fictional situation, and the feeling sort of summons up an appearance, or at least it does in my head. Or in any reader’s head. And no two readers of a work of fiction conjure up the same picture of a character, do they?

DP: Yes. I suppose you’re right about that.

PP: Damn straight I am... And in film, the actor’s appearance, whether you like it or not, fills in the gap for the reader’s imagination. In effect, it kills the imagination once and for all about what the character could possibly look like. It totally limits it. That’s what I meant before about “destroying” the original story. The instant the imagined character is given a face, any face, not just Capalbo’s face, you’ve just interfered with the reader’s imagination and boxed it in, reducing it to one look. One face. Now my character, for all eternity, is the face of the actor’s. The filmmaker, together with the screenwriter, has just killed me for good, for all time, thank you very much Cioffi...

But seriously: the real question, if you don’t mind my saying so, is that of whether the film version “got me right” in other ways. Was it faithful to the tenor of the story, knowing that the genre of film, by its very nature, operates within a whole different sphere, within a whole different field of language from that of the short story? Of course there are limits to film as well, since it cannot always go so deeply into the internal life of a character, never mind the sheer external appearance, the physical look, of that character. I say “it cannot always” do so. Because we know directors, such as Igmar Bergman and Andrey Tarkovsky, great geniuses each of them, who can penetrate just as deeply as any novelist, doing so purely through visual imagery and, sometimes, through dialogue. But let’s be honest: your characters, no hard feelings, are not exactly the deepest. Nor, probably, are they meant to be. I don’t really hold that against you as an author. After all, you’re not attempting to be Henry James, are you? I mean, I’m resigned to the fact that I’m not especially psychologically deep as a character. But at the same time I wouldn’t call myself totally shallow...

DP: How do you even know so much about the art of filmmaking and its history?

PP: How do I know? Didn’t you create me in your own image, at least partly?

DP: I suppose so. Well, in any case, I’m glad you at least understand where I’m coming from as a writer. I just wish I knew where you are coming from as a character, since sometimes I feel as if you do things unexpectedly, without my full knowledge. Sometimes I get the feeling l I can’t always control you. No, you’re not so deep, nor were you meant to be, as you perfectly understand. But there are things about you that even I, as an author, find pretty mystifying. I’m not, after all, some kind of literary critic of contemporary literature, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you half the things a critic would be able to say about you, as I’m mainly, in the process of creating my short stories, simply allowing my unconsciousness, my inner logic, to unwind and go where it will. And there are times, as I set you or another other character in motion on the printed page, I have no idea of what you will do next...

PP: That’s comforting. Thanks for letting me know. Next time I get back to the written page I’ll be sure to consider what you just said and maybe, just maybe, I’ll start to feel a little freer, despite the constraints of all those words, of all that verbal machinery, if you will, with which you end up surrounding me.

DP: Be my guest. Go nuts with your life on the page. It’s no real concern for me. I trust your instincts. Sometimes they are better than mine. But let’s not drift away from the main subject, your transformation onto the screen. Let me pose the question: Do you feel you were well represented, given a faithful portrayal, in the film version of “Evening Class,” a story about a professor of literature whose students one night mysteriously disappear, leaving him, the dedicated instructor, to lecture for two and half hours each Monday evening in front of a completely empty classroom? How did the film version of your life story work out?

PP: Well, it’s always the case, isn’t it, when the director takes the original story and, for whatever reason, whether due to his own whims or creative interests or personal bias, decides to turn the tables, so to speak, and switch everything around. As I feel, Cioffi, the screenwriter here, gave a lot more weight to the character of the janitor, who ends up one evening substituting for me, Professor Protivnik, when I, as the tired professor, hand over my tweed jacket to him and let the janitor just sit there in an empty classroom, covering for me while I sleep in my office...and then, lo and behold, just when the janitor is sitting there, it’s then that all the students who had disappeared suddenly return to the classroom, and he, the janitor, is now stuck in front of a classroom of full of students having no idea what to do, having never taught a class in his life, let alone a class in Western literature.

I thought Robbie Tann did a wonderful job with the role of the janitor. I like the way he acted confused at first about the situation, but then gaining confidence, started to tell to the students his own life stories, many of them quite fantastical, while they stared at him in awe, glued to his every word. Yes, it was a nice touch in your original story, but for some reason, in the film version Professor P ends up like a big bore, a tedious professor in comparison to the dynamic fabricator of stories, the janitor, who wins over the students totally. Personally, from my own perspective as an instructor, as Professor Protivnik, I was a bit offended. I felt I did not get the sort of respect as a lecturer that was granted to me in the short story. Nor did I think the students were represented in the most balanced way, as foolishly inept, lazy, unambitious and easily conned by the janitor. The students, in the short story version, were plainly satirized just as much as the old style professor, myself. But for some reason the screenwriter for the film, Cioffi, seemed to identify with the students, as if he were himself a sort of student of Professor P’s. Let’s call it the bias of the filmmaker, a personal bias of which he may not even have been conscious: it’s amazing how this can help transform the whole meaning of the original short story.

DP: Are you saying the director purposely manhandled your short story and twisted it in directions you did not intend?

PP: Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. But give me a break. I don’t think I’m as tedious and tiresome a professor as some might make me out to be, or as the film makes me out to be, and certainly I’m not as pedantic either. And yet that’s how the film version ended up, at least in the minds of some audiences—student audiences, I should add—that went to see it. All of them were cheering along with the students portrayed in the film, cheering, that is, for the janitor. And few were aware of how both the janitor, with his lunatic-like but entertaining stories, and the unserious students, were meant to be objects of satire, of mockery, in the original short story. By the way, wasn’t Mr. Cioffi, the screenwriter, once a student of yours? I think I heard that somewhere.

DP: In fact, he was. But that was a lifetime ago, and as I recall he rather enjoyed my courses, all of them. So the suggestion that he was biased in favor of the students just doesn’t hold water, as far as I’m concerned. Now, I wonder if we can we just change the subject perhaps...

PP: Yes, that’s just like you—to want to change the subject and pay no attention to my humiliation on the silver screen...but this isn’t the time, I guess, for personal grievances, so let’s just, as you say, turn to another topic, shall we?

DP: I’m glad you see it that way. For a moment I thought you were going to lose your temper, right on this stage, right in front of this otherwise welcoming and altogether attentive audience, and that would be such a shame. But I know you better. And if the next film where you played a part is any indication, I’m all too aware—and why shouldn’t I be, as your author—of your penchant for getting a little excitable while, at the same time, having the good sense and innate wisdom to contain that quick temper of yours and act in a completely rational, sober way. Especially when you’re put to the test...

Now, speaking of this other Cioffi film project, the one to which I just alluded, “The Museum of Lost Things,” let us know, would you, something about that. This is the film where you, Professor P, now simply called P., are given the chance to explore the more personal, as opposed to the professional, side of your character. Here, to allow the audience some idea about the story, your character has a big role to play in the “inside story” of the general plot. Here, yours is a love story, a story of forbidden, adulterous love, far removed from the world of the classroom, although it’s possible you had originally met the young married woman you end up having an affair with in the very classroom you taught in “Evening Class.” Is that right?

PP: Not really. If you recall, if you were paying any attention at all—even to your own story—all those students of mine completely disappear in both the written story and the more or less (probably less) faithful film. I’m surprised you can’t remember your own plots.

DP: Well, that’s why, I guess, I have you tonight—to remember for me.

PP: Okay. Whatever. As it occurs to me now, that theme you have, the one about disappearances: it’s one you often play with, isn’t it? Isn’t it a running motif, a recurrent issue for you? Very interesting, I find—just as long as you don’t make me disappear.

DP: Why would I? You’re practically indispensable to me. And as for the theme: yes, I do indeed have a certain theme that keeps recurring in my fiction. It’s that of losing things, of things suddenly slipping from our grasp, going oddly missing, the past fading away, losing pens, umbrellas, loose change, friends, lovers, you name it—it’s a motif I’m always coming back to in my collection of stories, named after the title piece “The Museum of Lost Things.”

PP: Yes, I heard, though word of mouth, the whole collection is being published by Unsolicited Press, is that right? Congratulations! It’s about time. I’ve been waiting a hell of a long time to reach a wider audience, no disrespect to the present audience. I just think it never hurts to get acquainted with more people, more readers who could possibly interpret me, dig a little deeper into my stories, find out that I have potential... Perhaps it will take a literary critic, ultimately, to get to the bottom of my life. Perhaps I’m more profound as a character than you think. Who knows? Anyway, I’m glad your manuscript has finally found a home. It may give me a new lease on life.

DP: Thank you very much. Now...getting back to “Museum”: Were you able to enjoy the film version? Did you find that it did justice to the original story?

PP: Justice? It did more than justice. And did I find it enjoyable? Not sure what you mean by that question. Are you asking me if I enjoyed your story about having me lose the girl and bury myself in the throes of depression? Would you find that enjoyable—and then to have it done to me again, repeatedly, on screen? Do you think I’m some sort of masochist? How many others would enjoy that?

DP: Wait a second. Did you forget something? You realize that you’re only a character in fiction.

PP: Okay, you’re right. Sometimes I forget. Sorry. So...what you want to know, basically, is whether my character in the film was faithful to the original story. Is that it? [DP nods his head.] Knowing I’m kind of an unfaithful character to begin with, at least as you make me out to be, a kind of foolhardy adulterer in the story—I guess I can say I’m faithful to that role: faithful to the role of the unfaithful husband who finally deserves what he gets in the end. I think Dan Capalbo, who plays me again in this film, is a more than capable Professor Protivnik. (Despite his not exactly resembling me.) In fact, he’s almost a perfect fit for the character of the story, especially in terms of his portraying the personal side of P’s life, not just his academic life. He looks pretty beaten down in the film version, and I almost feel sorry for the guy. He definitely wins my sympathy. First he’s beaten down in the classroom; now he’s beaten down by a love affair gone awry. And the actor looks it all over. It’s written all over his face. Actually, when I think about the actor who plays me, I almost feel better about myself, about being a character rather than a real human being. Just looking at the poor guy, this actor, in that role doesn’t make me at all envious of the lives of real people.

The main character in the story proper, the frame story—as opposed to the “inside” story where P is developed—is also quite interesting, and few perhaps would know, even if it’s partially indicated in the story, that while he is not given a name, he is really me in disguise. Or let’s say another version of me. As portrayed in the short story and in the film version, P. is just a projection of the main character who one day wanders into an obscure museum in downtown New York and finds there, in each of the exhibition rooms, all the things he’s ever lost in his life—things such as books he mislaid, umbrellas he lost, hair that’s no longer on his head, and a love that somehow got away... Yes, this guy is also me, though not named as such. You were pretty clever about disguising me, though some people, some discerning readers will guess right away.

DP: I’m glad you’re sharing that secret with the rest of the audience. It’s true, I’ve given you a double part to play, and I think in doing so I’ve added another dimension to your character. You’re not just the serious professor. You’re also the foolish romantic who falls hopelessly in love, thinking he can retrieve not only his lost past but also his lost love as well. How mistaken you are.

PP: I guess you modeled me, at least partly, on some of those romantic fools walking around in novels by Vladimir Nabokov and Thomas Mann, is that right?

DP: A good guess. You’re pretty astute.

PP: What do you want? You made me a literature professor. I’m supposed to know something about that world, am I not? And I’ve read more books than you can probably imagine. One day, in one of your works of fiction, you’re probably going to have me write a book, you’re going to turn me into a writer, and then I’ll know something about what it’s like to be you. But then you might have to worry I could replace you... I could end up inventing you, instead of it being the other way around. Wouldn’t that be something?

DP: Well, I don’t think there’s a chance of that happening. But it perhaps shows that you have more depth, and more potential, than I give you credit for. So let me ask: If you fancy yourself so literary, and you happen to be the alter ego of the narrator-writer in the “Museum” story, what is it about the film version of the story, I’d like to know, that you find most interesting or different? Can you elaborate on that a little?

PP: As you know, the main character in “Museum,” besides being literary, also has a fascination with classical music, and the rich musical score of the film, especially the use of Chopin preludes and some of the piano sonatas and string quartets of Shostakovich, gives a haunting quality that underscores the mood you were, most probably, trying to create in the story. I felt, in this story, closer than I’ve ever felt to music. Actually, before this story, I never knew I had any musical inclinations whatsoever. And the film only helped to enhance this in my character. Would you agree?

DP: Most definitely. And that’s, as I think of it now, most likely where the short story genre falls short in comparison to the film version. Just to add my own two cents, if you don’t mind. How can literary art, literary prose even begin to compete with the richness of mood established by such a musical score? Only in film it seems possible. Indeed, the short story, however much it wants to, will never approach the sense of musicality it longs to achieve. God knows I’d kill to be able to invest the written work, my own short stories, with music, and yet as much as I try to do so in the phrasing of certain sentences, in the overall rhythmic pulse of the prose, it never really lives up to that ideal. That kind of musicality can only truly manifest itself in a film production, no?

PP: Early on, there’s a staircase scene, with a long spiral staircase leading down into the depths of the museum, and here is a scene that was not in the original story but only added later, after the film was made. The scene is filled with music. And the richness of that the background music lends, I think, some added depth to the character, if I don’t mind saying so myself. I’m glad you used some of those visual elements later on, when you revised the story. The mood of that particular setting, together with the music, is chilling, I think.

DP: Yes, filmmaking offers, at times, the possibility of developing an interesting, no, a fascinating relationship with the original short story—which can, after filming, be re- imagined and revised to include elements, or even whole scenes, from the film that had never existed in the story from the beginning. Indeed, the relationship between film and fiction can be that close, each one giving birth to the other, and being in effect the springboard for further invention. And so I ask: How did you enjoy your alter ego’s new scene in the short story (made after the film), with that walk you take down that haunting and harrowing staircase?

PP: For me, it was extra special. I couldn’t imagine how well scenes from the film could then be readapted to the short story. These scenes could never, perhaps, have been imagined before the film was made. The revision of the short story, remade from scenes in the film, is like turning the story inside out. Which one is the adaptation, the story or the film? It’s a bit dizzying, if you ask me. Like going down that long, never-ending spiral staircase. Just thinking about it makes my head spin. And of course the whole idea of it captures the essence of the labyrinthine structure of your story, I think. Correct me if I’m wrong.

DP: No, you’re onto something. It never occurred to me before this moment. I suppose the director, Cioffi, would be happy to hear it.

Still from “The Museum of Lost Things”

PP: Another thing about the film is the way the main character, the guy who walks into the museum, is telling the whole tale of his adventure to a waitress in an all-night diner. In the story version, the main character—a version of me, let’s not forget—is all by himself, as a narrator, explaining to the reader how he stumbled one day upon this strange museum no one has ever heard of before, a museum that, as it turns out, is totally devoted to his own life and all the things he’s ever lost, which includes, among other things, a long-forgotten manuscript, a love story he once wrote and abandoned, a story that eventually comes alive as the “inside story” about P and his romantic longings... Funny, but I never thought of myself as the romantic type until this story came along. And I guess I am a kind of writer after all, just like you. The film version created something new, but also something that was the same, if that makes any sense. I have to tell you, I almost felt like a different person after the film version, and yet it was all so familiar too.

DP: Isn’t that experience you just described what Freud once referred to as the phenomenon of “the uncanny”? You know: where the familiar suddenly turns strange, like when you stare for a long time at a familiar picture, and then after a while the picture begins to break up in your mind, right before your eyes, and you begin only to see pieces, fragments—a nose here, a chin there, a certain expression in the eyes—and now what had been familiar is all de-familiarized, strange, other. Is that a person anymore you’re looking at, or is it, you wonder, a strange and foreign object?

PP: Freud? The uncanny? How am I supposed to know such things? I’m only a character in fiction... You want me to be a philosopher as well? Look, I know you’ve tried to explore more aspects of my character in other works, even at times going into my domestic life—one of your stories, for example, being about my relationship with my French-speaking dog Henry who in the story becomes, of all things, a “person of interest,” as it were, a kind of suspect in connection with a heinous crime committed right outside by apartment window, on the street below. Cioffi even made a short film about it called “A Bite Out of Crime.” I’m not sure how it was received, or if anyone saw it. And then there was the other story, a very short one, where you had me searching, hopelessly, for a lost coin all over the floor of my apartment. I almost destroyed my knee in the process, thank you very much, Mr. Author...

You know, with all due respect, and no ill intentions, I’ve had enough of answering any more questions for now... I think I’m done. My character, truthfully, is just not used to so much introspection and self-analysis. It’s pretty tiring, I must confess. So, if it doesn’t seem too horribly abrupt or discourteous, and if you don’t mind so very much... [Here DP, looking a bit embarrassed and taken a little off guard, waves awkwardly to the audience, signaling that the discussion, being videotaped, will have to come to a conclusion, at least for the time being, and be picked up, perhaps, at a later date... The audience, generous, warm, and not suspecting of anything having gone amiss in the program, shows its good-natured appreciation with a hearty round of applause. Smiles and nods from DP and PP, who turn and shake hands, bidding each other and everyone else a fond farewell. Until next time.]

Dennis Pahl,

who lives in Kew Gardens, New York, is a professor of English at Long Island University. He has published many scholarly articles on nineteenth- century American literature and his short stories have appeared in such literary journals as Confrontation, Epiphany Magazine, Vestal Review, The Absurdist Magazine, New Feral Press, and JONAH Magazine. He was chosen as a finalist for the 2023 Calvino Prize in Fabulist Fiction, and his collection of short stories, The Museum of Lost Things: Stories (Unsolicited Press), will be forthcoming in 2026. Some of his works of fiction have, with the help of screenwriter-director Gregory Cioffi, been adapted into award-winning short films.

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

The Princess and the Pea

My daughter Maya sleeps in my painting studio. In the evenings I kiss her goodnight though she is 21. Maybe mothers always do that. I pass my hand over her forehead like I have done since she was a small child. Her brow no longer needs to be unstitched though. Her forehead is smooth. She is at peace, or just tired.

When I peek into the room it is often still early; she is either lying in the dark or finishing a movie, laptop propped upon her bent knees, on top of the blankets. One of them is a Pepto-Bismol-pink uncovered comforter. I suggested putting a cover on it but she resisted – and I suspect it’s more than laziness. It’s a down comforter that I have had since my single days. I used it uncovered myself because I didn’t know yet about comforter covers, in my 20’s, sleeping alone after my married lover had left for the night. My mother died too soon in my life to give me advice about what kinds of sheets to get, let alone what kind of men to date. I didn’t even know about putting bleach in a wash until after I had my own children. It had felt luxurious, buying that comforter, cover or not. The other blanket is dense cotton, a flat pale blue. My then-husband and I had gotten it for one of our earlier beds. Maya doesn’t want a sheet either; she prefers to sleep directly under both of these artifacts.

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess.

The pull-out sofa she sleeps on is stiff, a cheap Ikea model, steel-gray, a pole running through the length. She keeps it open, untidied. It doesn’t pay for her to redo the couch every day since I am not working in the studio right now. She says she doesn’t feel the pole, but I think she is telling me a white lie. I believe she feels it, but doesn’t want me to think she is uncomfortable.

One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.

She has set herself up in my studio because she does not want to revisit her past by sleeping in her bedroom again; I sleep in her room. She does not want to sleep in her brother’s old room, either, for fear it would signal some kind of permanence, or normalcy. In his room, the chestnut platform bed sits bare except for a white mattress-cover, and her cat who snoozes on the satiny surface. From the outside, it is ridiculous that she doesn’t sleep there. She has no real memories in that bedroom. Three of the six dresser drawers are empty. Luna, her cat, is already warming the bed. But even that, she explained, would imply that she was settling back in, which I interpreted as meaning that she would not be the different, newly hatched creature she needs to be.

It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.

Sleeping in her bedroom would, she fears, mean she is still the girl who dwelled inside the four walls of her rape. She would be encircled, again, by the rape. Instead, she sleeps within the womb of my paintings. For now, she is neither the Maya of her earlier years nor a freshly revealed being. She waits within this multi-hued, slightly oily-smelling space, an in-between time. Paintings of every size lean against the walls surrounding her. At night, she peers over the edge of her laptop to the angles of honey-wood stretcher-bars that frame whatever she watches. She sleeps amidst work from the different times of my life as an artist; she sleeps within my past, next to visions whose original meanings are largely forgotten, or are irrelevant.

“Well, we’ll soon find that out,” thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.

She also sleeps next to a triptych that still pulses with its violent story: a painting of a rape. They hang one next to the other just above the couch bed, not turned to the wall. When I go into the room at night, I see her face illuminated by the computer’s glow. And, in that technological twilight, those paintings. What is exposed during the day: the tangle of bedding and the rape paintings; a painting of bodies on a raft done when we were figuring out how to survive; a painting I did of my middle-aged belly – a drawing of my son as an enraged adolescent glued to the upper-right corner. Nights, the rambunctious images slumber, save the rape paintings, which catch the glow of streetlights long after her laptop has been shut.

On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.

She sleeps by this shared history that will always, likely, remain crepuscular. I painted the rape triptych towards the end of the legal procedure following the charges she pressed against the rapist. The case now over, we are back home; she sleeps within my work like a fetus; she percolates not in my body but in my work, in the body of my work. She didn’t move back home; she moved into my work.

“Oh, very badly!” said she. “I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It’s horrible!”

There is a small glass-topped desk beneath two corner windows, just behind the side of the bed where she places her head. A pile of computer paper leans Pisa-like to the left of the rolling chair, another stack on top of the glass, another stuffed into the shelf underneath. They are all drafts of my recent memoir, about the rape from my – the mother’s – perspective. Maya sleeps next to all of it. Scattered pages blow off the most recent version when she opens the window before bed, littering the floor. White tiles speckled with type. She leaves them, the fanned paper making a half-halo seen from above, as she sleeps, waiting for either the full to arrive or the vanishing of the half.

Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.

Maya graduated from college last May, after finding out that she lost the case. Her valises line the wall where I normally prop my paintings while working. Clothing drapes across suitcases and boxes. One splayed heap is a collaged dirty-laundry mix of jeans, a blue striped sleep-shirt, beige linen pants, a teal turtleneck. Against the wall behind that jumble is a roll of paper on which I began a drawing. It also waits. I called this work an “infinite drawing” two springs ago, when I began it, implying that I would work on it forever – that it would never be done. They are both incubating, Maya and the drawing. Last week one of her new white t-shirts got charcoal on it that doesn’t seem to wash out. There’s always something on the floor that stains clothing. It is all infinite in this room, which is maybe the real reason Maya has moved in. She is surrounded with the kind of love artists learn to gel into paintings. She can’t stay there forever, but she can borrow it, the room and the infinite looking, for a while. And I can wait until she’s ready to move out. The bed I use in her old room has a fairly new hybrid memory-foam mattress. It is the most comfortable bed in the apartment, and I have a sore back.

Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.

Initially, she had brought the standing mirror from her old room into the studio, and leaned it against the framed edge of a portrait of her brother. Whenever I noticed, I inched it away from the painting, but would find it there again after a few days. Last night it was back in her bedroom. She might be getting ready to leave. Or maybe she doesn’t need to see herself any more.

So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.

Maya says she has never been happier than the time she has been sleeping in my studio. This time of her deepest sleep, after the end of the rape case. She doesn’t shut the shades, so the morning sun helps rouse her. It – the case – and she – remain preserved in amber light, until she wakes looking out over the supplies I use to make new worlds.

There. That is a true story.

Karen Kaapcke

is an award-winning visual artist whose work is included in many private collections. She has exhibited broadly, both in the US and Europe. Notable awards include first–place for self-portrait at the Portrait Society of America, and finalist for the prestigious BP Portrait Award, where her painting was exhibited at the National Portrait Gallery, London. She recently completed a memoir about mothering her daughter through a rape, subsequent illnesses, a trial in France, and both of their recoveries. Karen maintains studios in New York City and France. More about her painting can be found at www.karenkaapcke.weebly.com

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.

A Journey to the Past

Throughout my childhood I had the pleasure of experiencing the diversity of two different worlds.

I lived in a busy Brooklyn apartment complex during the school year, and the courtyard was a hive of activity as neighbors played games and laughed. But summers were spent in the tranquil Catskills, where sleep-away camp provided the peaceful splendor of lakes and forests. The rural peace and metropolitan energy shaped me. I was automatically drawn to stories that echoed these themes of discovery and community.

As a child, I was a devoted reader, diving into books whenever I could. Free from the constant distractions of today, I immersed myself fully in the stories before me. While I read anything I could get my hands on, I was especially drawn to novels about characters searching for their identity and purpose. A well-crafted narrative had the power to pull me in completely, forging a deep connection to the protagonist and making their journey feel like my own.

In preparation for my debut book, A Flag for Juneteenth, I delved deeply into the history of slavery in America. My research included reading extensively, listening to podcasts, and examining online archives. Among the materials I discovered, a photograph of a young girl from the Library of Congress resonated profoundly with me. Her image seemed to embody the spirit of my heroine, and she became a guiding inspiration as I crafted the character’s personality and narrative. These resources allowed me to envision the lives, struggles, and resilience of those who endured this harrowing period in history.

I wanted my main character’s name to be distinctive, something unfamiliar to readers. I imagined her as a prophetic figure, someone who could witness the historic moment of slavery’s legal end in America while also symbolizing a hopeful vision of a future free from bondage. In my search for inspiration, I looked up biblical female prophets and came across an image of a striking Black woman named Huldah. The name immediately felt right, it perfectly captured the essence of my character.

Huldah’s baby sister, Eve, also has a meaningful biblical name. Derived from the Hebrew word for “to breathe” or “to live,” it reflects her future as a child born into a world no longer bound by the chains of enslavement.

Another named character in the story is Mr. Menard, the oldest man on the plantation. His surname comes from Michel B. Menard, the first plantation owner in Galveston, Texas, where the story takes place. Including this detail felt important to me, as it highlights how enslaved people were often stripped of their identities and given the names of their enslavers, severing ties to their own family histories.

I wanted to find a way to engage young readers with a historical event that is often overlooked in schools and connect them to a time so different from their own. To do this, I decided to begin the story with an experience many children can relate to: the excitement of an upcoming birthday. My main character, Huldah, is a thoughtful and mature girl with a deep sense of responsibility. She spends her days caring for her baby sister while her parents toil on the plantation.

Readers meet Huldah on the day before her 10th birthday, which that year fell on a Sunday. Sundays were precious, a time for rest and for families to gather and reconnect. On this particular day, Huldah’s mother makes her favorite tea cakes in honor of her birthday, a rare treat that the demands of plantation life wouldn’t allow during the busy workweek.

The characters in my book are intentionally faceless, a choice made to encourage readers to imagine themselves in the story and form a personal connection with the narrative. My hope is that this approach deepens the emotional resonance of the story, making its themes and history more relatable and impactful.

I take immense pride in illustrating this book through quilting, a storytelling tradition passed down by my ancestors. As I designed each illustration, I carefully considered how to bring the text to life and decided which elements needed extra emphasis. For instance, the opening page mentions tea cakes, a simple yet cherished treat made by enslaved people using basic pantry ingredients. I wanted readers to see and imagine these tea cakes, so I recreated them with a piece of brown fabric from my collection, chosen for its subtle color variations. Although modest in appearance, tea cakes were rich in flavor and aroma, so I added hand-embroidered details to depict the scent drifting through the air.

The entire process of creating the illustrations took over a year. It was a monumental and deeply emotional undertaking. Since the characters in the story are faceless, I had to find alternative ways to convey Huldah’s personality and ensure she was recognizable across each scene. Achieving this consistency on such a small scale with fabric presented unique challenges. At times, Huldah felt so real to me that I told a friend she had become like a daughter. The connection I developed with her as a character was profound, and it made the journey of creating this book even more meaningful.

When teaching about this painful chapter in American history, it’s essential to illuminate the strength, resilience, and beauty of African and African American people during their enslavement. Equally important is highlighting the vital role that family and community played in their lives, a foundation that endured through incredible hardship and remains significant today.

As educators, we must go beyond the narrative of forced labor to explore what life was like during moments of rest and connection. Despite the oppressive conditions, enslaved people worked tirelessly to maintain bonds with their families and build a sense of community. By presenting them as fully realized individuals with hopes, relationships, and humanity, we foster empathy in young readers. This approach helps them recognize shared experiences rather than focus solely on differences, sparking a deeper curiosity about this pivotal period in American history.

Kim Taylor

is a speech language pathologist and Department Supervisor at a large school for deaf children. She is also an expert quilter whose works have been exhibited at several venues throughout the Mid-Atlantic region. Kim’s quilts reflect African American life, and she tells stories through her materials. After researching the origins of the Juneteenth celebration, she created a Juneteenth story quilt, which she has exhibited and presented in dozens of local schools. Realizing that many teachers and students were unaware of the holiday, she was moved to write this book. She lives in Baldwin, New York. 

To see more of Kim’s quilts, visit her website at MaterialGirlStoryQuilts.com

G&E In Motion does not necessarily agree with the opinions of our guest bloggers. That would be boring and counterproductive. We have simply found the author’s thoughts to be interesting, intelligent, unique, insightful, and/or important. We may not agree on the words but we surely agree on their right to express them and proudly present this platform as a means to do so.