The blood spilled at the end of life, and the blood spilled at its beginning

I'm currently reading Dispatches, by Michael Herr. Of all the hundreds or maybe even thousands of books written about the Vietnam War, it is one of the most celebrated. 

The book's reputation is well-deserved. I'm admittedly not terribly far into my Vietnam War research, but of all the books I've read so far (and also including Burns's and Novick's documentary series The Vietnam War), Dispatches is the first and so far the only account that has haunted me at night. It is riveting, horrifying, beautiful, sad, funny, gruesome, and insightful. In loving, sketchbook fashion, Herr fills even the most briefly encountered grunt with a luminous humanity. He owns up to his own bullshit, and helps us understand.

Reading this afternoon, on page 210 out of 260, I suddenly imagine the rivers of ink spent accounting for all those rivers of blood spilled in that misbegotten war. And then I remember how, when I was writing my (unpublished) first novel (The Bear Wife), I determined to imbue its birth scene with just as much suspense and violence, as much glory and dignity and prominence, as its scenes of Viking battles.

Because those nasty old pragmatic pagans recognized, even if we don't, that you can't spill blood at the end of life unless you've spilled some at its beginning.

Spindle whorls (and spinners) at Jamestown

Meanwhile, in other news, two spindle whorls were found at the site of the English fort at Jamestown, Virginia, dating from the early 17th century. This would seem to indicate that, at that time, there were European women in Jamestown engaged in spinning yarn. Presumably the guys needed clothes, sails, fishing nets, bags, etc.

The fact that they found the spindle whorls in such a recent (17th century) context is interesting to me, because, in my incomplete knowledge, I didn't realize that the ancient "drop spindle" method of spinning was still employed during that time. According to the Jamestown author the method was still used in rural England and, I would venture to guess that, because the whorls themselves apparently came from present-day Belgium, it was used there as well.

Why did folks adhere to the earlier technology? Probably because it allowed for more efficient multi-tasking by the women. If you're sitting at a spinning wheel, you can't do much else except, maybe, sing. But the distaff and whorl put you well on your way to accomplishing the womanly mission of being everything to everyone. Alternatively, it allows you to go hide away somewhere and spin a tale or two, take in the scenery, or simply philosophize on the nature of the cosmos, all while creating a strong, fine yarn.

The Jamestown spindle whorls are described here. Also, I wrote about Jamestown a few years ago. (It probably needs an update, but I haven't done that yet!) And I've written about Weaving, War and Womanhood (which includes a bit more about spinning).

Gingerly entering a new era, hoping not to jinx it

For my latest project, I'm doing some typically idiosyncratic, non-methodical reading about music, and about the Vietnam War.*

And while I didn't write on this site at all while I was full into researching, writing, and editing my novel Seeking the Center (Cuidono Press, 2016), now that I've moved on, I may occasionally "scribble" some ideas here. My new mix of topics - especially the war part - might end up fitting in somewhat with previous spindlewhorl posts, so it seems convenient. Additionally, and primarily, I don't want a third website. I can barely handle what I've got.

I welcome all comments! 

*Incidentally, I do review most of the books I read, and if you're interested, you can read my reviews on Goodreads.