Torgo

Is it wrong to laugh at the MST3K version of "Manos": The Hands of Fate?  

For me it's serious quandary. I would have glided through the experience just fine if the friend who lent me the movie hadn't mentioned in passing that the man who played Torgo killed himself just a few months after the premier back in the 60s.  

The Wikipedia entry states that his suicide had nothing to do with the failure of the film, that Torgo had no social life and a non-existent relationship with his father:  

"John Reynolds (Torgo) committed suicide by shooting himself in the head with a shotgun on October 16, 1966, although the incident reportedly has no relation with Manos. He had a depressing social life as well as being a drug addict and had almost no connection with his father."

One thing that strikes me here is the rationale that the incident had no connection with the failure of his BIG CHANCE. Finally, something is going right in his life. Here's his chance at success. His ship has come in. He's going to be in a film. He'll get some recognition. Directors will be lining up outside his door. Torgo was just the beginning.  

But no. Manos was a flop. His dreams went down the drain. What's left?  

What I find alarming is his capacity to kill himself with a shotgun. Is that common? Seems like it would be very difficult, and I know it's macabre of me to bring it up, but honestly, I just can't picture that. Not that I want to. But I just can't begin to imagine how someone could hold a shotgun up to their head and reach the trigger, though I'm not one to go around putting guns of any sort up to my head.  

So it seems to me that they WERE RELATED. It's like saying the rampant growth of the tomato plants in my garden has nothing to do with the soil, rain, or water. They just grow independent of those things.  

Poor Torgo.  

OH. AND BY THE WAY. That thing about the drugs and Torgo, did I neglect to mention his drug abuse was related to his role in the film? Oh, yeah. Right. Well, according to the Wikipedia entry, during shooting, Torgo wore this metal rigging to make him look like a satyr (ohhhhhhhh, he's supposed to be a satyr!), BUT he wore it backwards. And no one told him. It damaged his kneecaps permanently and it was, apparently, really painful. He self-medicated with drugs until his death.

Anyway, it's funny how those two facts are so far apart on the Wikipedia entry. Not that I'm accusing Wikipedia of some conspiracy to cover up the truth about Torgo or something. It's just interesting.

And sad.  And it made me feel incredibly guilty to laugh at everything Torgo did, particularly the "itsy bitsy spider" part, where he's trying to seduce the unconvincing actress who played Mike's wife.  The "itsy bitsy spider" scene is one of the best.  Well, pretty much everything with Torgo is hilarious, from the Torgo-music to the wives molesting-him-to-death scene.  

But how can I laugh when I know that Torgo killed himself due to the film's failure? I just can. Call me cold-hearted. Call me evil. But maybe Torgo would be really happy to know that his film has achieved cult-status. That they're making a sequel. And a production company in Nashville redubbed the audio track last year and I guess there's a documentary on the director in the works. 

Someone should also make a documentary about Torgo, because I sense a good story there.  

So I guess it's not entirely sad. It's just rough to know that it was someone's failure and they got depressed enough about it to die. You know?   

Top Ten Lists For Writers....and Morons

What doesn't help me is reading about writing.  Does it help anyone, really?  Especially lists for writers. Top Ten Lists for Writers that are composed, essentially, of no-duhs.  

I read one today and became extremely depressed about writing in general.  I was filled with this sense of despondency about my verb usage and my abilities to construct sparkling sentences of varying lengths and styles.  I realized there was no hope for me.  I spiraled downward in a trajectory of hopelessness where I was forced to confront the realization that my stories are not fabulous.  They lack intriguing ideas.  The plots are starved. The voice resonates as loudly as the gurgle of a titmouse at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.  

I am a deluded moron, I thought, laboring at a futile task.  I might as well be in one of the seven circles of hell.   

I mean, I'm not, really.  I'm fine.  If I suck at writing, no big deal.  If my stories bite, big whoop (is that how you spell it?  I'm going for a colloquial tone here).  

One day recently, I arrived home in an unusually sunny mood.  Stoker was there, haranguing Bastet (the cat), teasing her and such (she loves it) and I said to him, "Yeah, I had a great day writing.  I got over whatever lethargy I was feeling and realized I'm good.  My stories are good.  I'm fantastic.  I suddenly realized I haven't been laboring at a futile task for the past five years. It was great."  I said it with an appropriate amount of animation.  

And he said, "Well, if you think about it, everything we do is futile. Right? I mean, it's all for naught anyway.  Isn't it?  Your writing.  My life.  Your life.  My job.  Your job.  Etc."

So there you go.  Just when I'd gotten to the crest of the hill in my emotional roller coaster, someone was there to quash it with a nihilistic lecture.  

No, it was funny, really, and I gave him hell in a funny, ribbing kind of way, because what better method to counter nihilism than with a well-timed sarcastic comment?  Eh?  Eh?

I need a good dose of sarcasm right now.  Whose idea is it to make those ridiculous Ten Tips For Writers lists, anyway?  Seriously?  

Some people thrive on the coaching style wherein the cruel drill sergeant-type hurls insults littered with a good amount of spittle at them until they rise to the occasion and emerge victorious.  That's great.  I mean, to continue the metaphor, no one wants pampered soldiers because a spoiled, indulged soldier will turn and run when they need to confront an enemy (or whatever). 

I'm not saying I need to be coddled.  I do get tired of the emotional roller coaster, though.  It's easier to give up and not try at all.  Eventually I rise to the occasion and get over the negative thoughts plaguing me.  I shouldn't read the lists in the first place and that would be a great start.  I should be less susceptible to negativity and more idiotically confident and ignorant of the possibility that I might truly suck at whatever I'm trying.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, for all I know I'm one of the tuneless, tone-deaf morons trying out for American Idol under the misconception that I'm great.  "People have been telling me that my whole life, that's why I'm here, Simon, because I'm the next American Idol."  

"You're terrible.  Dismissed.  Thank you.  Goodbye."  

Family Visits: Good or Evil?

I can't decide if I prefer people visiting me in Nashville, or if I prefer to be left alone, an exile in this southern jungle of furious heat and humidity. Hmmmmm.

When they visit, they being my family—most of whom live in the desert oasis Utah—when they visit I am reminded of everything I left behind to come here. The ties between us are renewed and I feel again the strength of the familial bond. I remember part of who I am, the part that fits in an extended family structure. Me, the middle sister. Me, the wife of Stoker. Me, the niece. Me, the daughter. Me, the daughter-in-law. Me, the sister-in-law. It's complex.

Then they leave and I'm left with one family identity, wife. Which is good. Sometimes that's all I have energy for, heh heh. Stoker and I are best friends, too, so there's also that, which doesn't mean I'm only a wife.

Wife has a lot of baggage, doesn't it? Some of it not good. There's wife the nag. Wife the servant. Wife the slave. Wife the property. Wife the chattel. Ha ha. Some of those are synonyms, so I'm cheating, but hey, it makes the point.

I think originally, like maybe when Adam and Eve were hanging out together in Eden, wife meant something decent and the term was unburdened with negative human constructs. There was no wife property. Wife meant help-meet. Friend.

Maybe that's too idyllic of a view when you come right down to it.

Anyway, the point is that I'm not against the term wife. But for some mysterious reason I feel all this pressure to defend my perspective, as though just by discussing my roles in a family and partnership I'm submitting to servitude and archaic views of relationships.

But I don't think words like wife and husband should be poisoned by post-modern constructs and ideas. There IS a lot of baggage here, in the present. There are a lot of crappy relationships and all that, which give marriage a bad name.

And love. It gets a bad name too.

I also feel like the whole attitude about in-laws, you know, like this, "Oh man, my in-laws are visiting. Ick. They're horrible, what a burden..." is awful. I like my in-laws. I stepped into marriage and was aware of most of the roles, most of the cliches, such as this one about the terrible in-laws, and was confused that I didn't feel all of them.

Maybe I'm an oddity, but I look forward to their visit. What I typically rue is their departure. Perhaps that's because sometimes I feel like I live here in exile, depending on how dramatic I'm feeling at the moment, even though I love Nashville in a number of ways (the fireflies, the small feel of the city, the people, the used bookstores...I could go on and on). I guess as time has passed I've grown to realize more and more that the portion of my life that I love the most is the time I spend with my family. The trappings of material pursuits disappear with time and age. What remains is the memories I have with the people I love.

What the heck? I must be getting old. Old and wise.

In any case, when they go back to Utah, their absence is loud and the silence in our home is powerful. I get back to my routine. Thank goodness for routines, eh?

So anyway, I still can't decide. I guess it's better to have them visit and deal with the quiet after they leave. I shouldn't be such a baby about it. I'm tough, after all. Right? Right?

From My NEW NEW NEW Website

I finally got my website up. It's taken me my entire life, but I've finally arrived. Finally! Check it out. This is from the front page which will change from time to time:

For the past few months I’ve put the book revisions aside to work on some short stories. This isn’t to say that I’ve given up on the series, because I’m still in love with the ideas in it, but I’ve wanted to work on my character development, which means really getting inside their heads. I have strong feelings about women writing male characters and men writing female characters, but apparently not strong enough for me to shy away from writing male characters. Heh.


I won’t go into the reasons, but it mainly concerns the fact that I have a hard time conceptualizing the way men see the universe. However, I think it comes easier to a woman because women live in a man’s world. I’m not a vicious feminist, but I do believe that the male gaze influences how I see the world, meaning that I was raised in a world which sexualizes women, so (and yes, this is a total rationalization) I feel like women tend to understand how men see females BETTER than the other way around.


The caveat to that, the whole male gaze thing and women living in a man’s world, is that I think it’s changing. I’m not here to make men feel guilty or to vindicate the oppressed or anything, because I don’t know how to do that. And, in any case, I think we are all living under various oppressive institutions. I just want to write stories about ideas that interest me and make them entertaining. So read them and let me know what you think. You can find my contact information on my About page or you can read my blog and leave comments there. I love feedback.

What Part of Forever

I love it that his band is comprised entirely of women. He seems to have taken a cue from James Bond or something. The girls are even dressed like they're from a Bond movie straight out of the 70s. Anyway, love this song.

Phantom Legs and Blinking Pigs...

little dragon_blinking pigs from jin angdoo lee on Vimeo.

In case you didn't follow the link in the previous post.

Secret of Happiness

I've figured out the secret to happiness.

It's quite simple, really. The secret is to realize that life is rather miserable. So expect misery, but be happy through it all. Right? It's not that hard. All you do is understand that life isn't supposed to be a visit to Wonka's factory and you'll get along swimmingly.

I was thinking about it today. I have about a hundred bruises on my thighs from this new bed-frame I got on Saturday. The bed-frame looks great. I swear it improves the entire bed, which was really starting to give me back problems. I feel like an adult, having a bed-frame and real bedroom furniture instead of whatever college leftovers Stoker and I could throw together. That's nice. There's nothing like feeling like an adult (even if all any of us ever does is fake it).

Anyway, the footboard has some wicked corners and being a dolt, I've run into them about a million and two times. I'm always in a hurry. I'm always charging ahead and ramming my legs against things accidentally.

So I was noticing how abused my legs look. The bruises are bad and hurt, as bruises are wont to do. But still, this song I was listening to put me in a good mood. I was singing along, getting into the song, and it hit me: life is like that combo--seeing the bruises and pain but being in a good mood because of a song. Or whatever you have that can add a positive note to the sorrow.

Priceless. I'm giving you kernels of wisdom here. Go with them and let them set you free, my child.

I know it seems like I have all the answers. But actually, I have a degree in fakery. I forget all the lessons I've learned almost always. If I've been hurt often enough, I can learn. Like, for example, the lessons of the inexplicable cabinet in our kitchen.

We bought a fixer-upper that was built in 1940. I think the kitchen cabinets might be the original cabinets. I assume refrigerators must have consistently been five in a half feet at some point and that's why this floating cabinet just hangs there with nothing under it, waiting to crack you open as you clock your head against its vicious corner on your way into the dining room. It's right next to the doorway. I think I turned my head into something like a squishy peach five or six times before it became habitual to automatically compensate for the stupid thing (and now I have brain damage. So sad. But it was worth it! To learn such a valuable lesson....).

What I mean to illustrate is how difficult it is for humans to learn. Or at least me, the slowest learner, the latest bloomer ever to feign intelligence.

But it took five or six good concussions before I learned. So in the end I think I came out on top. Or perhaps that's the brain damage talking.

The point is, misery should have a soundtrack. Find yours. I've got mine and it puts a great spin on everything. It's not that bad! Things are fine! Listen to this Cee Lo Green song, this Jamie Lidell tune or my favorite right now, Little Dragon.  

The Problem with Introductions: Saying My Name

After all these years I still feel awkward when telling someone my name. In fact, it doesn't have to be an actual person. I feel just as uncomfortable telling a machine my name, like when the teleporter asks me to state my name and business before teleporting me. Weird, huh?

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's based in the ancient beliefs that a person's name has power. I bet that's it. I bet some primitive part of my brain hears the question, "What's your name," and responds with the urge to cast a hex on the person who's asking. The golem in me hisses and recoils, lashing out with clawed fingers, whispering magical spells of destruction, laughing manaically, prompting me to NOT tell them my name.

The normal part of my brain laughs, though I notice a choked feeling in my throat as I lean forward and whisper the syllables. That never goes over well, of course, because they can't hear me and then I have to say it again. So I've learned (at least I've done that) that it's better to say it confidently and loudly. For the entire room to hear. Usually this approach earns me suspicious glances. But at least I don't have to repeat my name several times over.

Oh, but I do. The cafe where I spend my lunches has a surprisingly high turnover. Over the past few years I'm sure I've shared my name with enough people to rival only my years in college. As we all know, the most common questions heard around a university are "What's your major?" and "What's your name?" The former never felt so awkward to answer. A major is merely a shirt you put on every day, while your name is as good as your underclothes. Sharing it, you might as well be handing over the last bit of your dignity.

"Oh, you want to know my name? Here, why don't I also tell you about the time in elementary school when my so-called friends de-pantsed me on the playground. While I'm at it, let me describe the horror of having my love poem about Mark Smith read to the entire fourth grade class*."  

I know, I know, telling someone my name isn't as bad as getting pantsed at school. It shouldn't be anyway. I'm simply using it as a metaphor to express the vulnerable feeling that comes over me any time I'm asked to share it.

I'm thinking about hiring someone to follow me around, an entourage if you will, who can chime in any time someone asks me to tell them my name. They will speak for me when necessary.    
"What's your name again?"
I nod over my shoulder, cueing my entourage.  
A chorus of voices, "Nicole. Her name is Nicole." They could even say it kind of sing-songy if they want, like the choruses of the ancient Greek tragedies.
I smile confidently** and wink. The person who's just been bludgeoned with a chorus singing my name blinks repeatedly, dumbfounded at the large entourage of robed actors behind me (notice how my entourage continues to swell and transform more and more into a Greek chorus. Soon they'll be wearing strange makeup and sharing secrets to help the audience understand the drama and inner workings of my soul.)   

It would be so fantastic, you know, to never ever have to introduce myself again. I know the obvious answers to my problem are to never meet anyone I'm not already familiar with or to begin wearing a name-tag. Another solution would be to become extremely ridiculously famous OR infamous, whatever comes first.  

But I'd rather have a Greek chorus following me around.  I might even discover some newfound confidence about how awesome my name is due to hearing it sung as I stand in the midst of a large mass of chanters.

The chorus would come in handy in so many settings, like when I'm trying to order food in a noisy restaurant. That way I also wouldn't make embarrassing mistakes like accidentally ordering the shrimp when I hate shrimp. This happened--I must have been thinking really hard about what I didn't want. As in, I hate shrimp. Why would anyone order shrimp. It's horrible. Never. Never EVER will I EVER order shrimp. "And for you?" the server asks. "Um, I'll have the shrimp."

If I had a chorus with me, I'd merely have to nod at them when the server arrives to take my order. They'd know all my desires, being privy to my thoughts, and most likely they wouldn't accidentally order the shrimp (thought they COULD since sometimes I think of fanciful things I don't really want, like an entire cheesecake).  

A chorus would also be really perfect in a conflict. I imagine they'd chip in when it began to look like I was losing, and then I'd win.  

The possibilities are limitless. And this is what comes from struggling to share my name with people: I end up with a Greek chorus trailing me. Beautiful.

*This never happened.  Mark Smith is a generic name I made up.  
**Confident because I didn't have to say my name, which always weakens me a little.....            

The Voice of the Web: Real Loud and Real Obnoxious

Everything feels the same.

Is it just me or is this true?

The problem is the Internet, the Web, this mechanical interface with everything. And it has bled over into things in the real world, like with the way I relate to people.

Or perhaps it began happening with the advent of television. The first real mechanical separation of humans with the reality of interpersonal relationships.

I'm tired of clever. I'm tired of witty retorts, sarcasm, the brutality of cold humor, the detachment of knowing causes have effects. What I mean by that—the detachment of cause and effect—is the understanding that if I do or say A, B will happen. Like, for a totally generic example, if at home with my parents, I say some witty, clever, sarcastic remark such as, "Well, if you hadn't gotten pregnant at 17, perhaps you'd have a Corvette by now," there will be specific ramifications*. It won't be a funny sitcom. There won't be a laugh track where the audience responds by chuckling in unison and I am heralded as a comedienne extraodinaire. In fact, people in my immediate life will begin to see me as an ass.

This is perhaps a poor example, because the problem is much more advanced. Occasionally when I'm around certain people, I get the feeling everything is about the big joke. The perfect timing. The script in their head where everything happening is the set up for the punch-line. It could be that I've somehow, miraculously gotten MORE sensitive as I've advanced in age, though that seems unlikely. The longer I'm alive, the more rooted I feel to this world. (At first I mistakenly wrote out rotted. Freudian slip?) And the less things surprise me.

So it surprises me when I grow weary of the brutal nature of the Web. Who's with me? I'd really appreciate an acknowledgement here if anyone, ANYONE AT ALL, senses what I sense.

It isn't as though I spend an unholy amount of time surfing the Web. I do a lot of research. Read a lot of Wikipedia articles, about.com articles, amazon.com reviews, and just recently, have subscribed to a few sites through Google Reader. The sites are rather generic tech/gadget reviews, science fiction and fantasy commentaries, and for the most part, I find them interesting.

But there is a tone to all that's out there. I'm having a difficult time pinpointing what it is. I could be full of crap, but I could just as well be identifying a cultural malaise. Some might describe it as an advancement—I can see that. Finally! they would say, we've arrived at the future. We're here, all is open, all is possible, we're speeding toward this singularity where we'll become infinite and immortal through science.

Maybe the Miscrosoft Bing commercials aren't that off. From time to time I feel like my mind is fractured and I'm trying to sort through the hundreds of strands of thought, attempting to make sense of them, to grasp something solid. I don't think it's to be found in my head—everything is abstract there.

What I need is to step away from the mechanical, electronic interfaces with the world and engage in something real. I need to work in the garden. Take a walk by the river. Go for a hike. The Web, or Internet, whatever the crap it's called, becomes a voice in the head that won't be silenced, that influences behavior and perhaps in a negative way.  

I tire of its plethora of voices—voices that don't always help me see reason or sort through the mess of the human condition. All things tend to converge, and I don't necessarily see them converging into a whole that I can treasure the way I treasure a favorite book (Jane Eyre, Angle of Repose, We). It usually happens that we veer toward the most common denominator, and I don't have much faith that this number will be the one I want.  




*There would be no REAL reason to say this, as it isn't true in my family. But I could see this kind of thing happening in a sitcom, can't you?

My Visit to Rowan Oak, OR How to Magically Ruin a Pair of Expensive Jeans

Memorial Day weekend was great, until we got to Memphis. Then everything went to hell real quick. 

But first.....

Rowan Oak.  

Mississippi is humid, just like all swamps in the south. The strange thing about humidity is that when you add air conditioning to the picture, it can get cold. So naturally I wore a pair of jeans while we we drove from Tupelo to Oxford to not catch a chill in air conditioned rental car—an Impala. Oh yeah, we went all out for this road trip.  

These jeans really are quite awesome. I purchased them recently and I happen to look like a million bucks when I wear them. It's been a while since I felt or looked like a million bucks, so this causes me to strut around with a confidence no one has seen on me in years.  

And if I don't, in fact, look like a pile of glittering diamonds in the jeans, the important thing is that I feel like one. As I proved long ago, if you feel it, it must be true.  

We arrived at Rowan Oak in Oxford and Stoker drove down a gravel driveway and parked beside a trailhead. We didn't know where we were, exactly. The area is quite forested and you can't just see where you should go (especially if you drive down the little gravel road and don't simply park on the street).  

So we didn't talk to anyone after we got out of the car. Stoker looked at the little sign at the trailhead which read, "Bailey's Woods" or something and informed us that the trail was a quarter mile and it ended in the museum parking lot. Faulkner, the sign read, used to enjoy taking walks in this forest to think about his work. 

If Faulkner did it, we had to do it.

"Let's take this trail.  It ends in the parking lot," Stoker said. Obviously we assumed the museum parking lot meant the parking lot of Rowan Oak. Since we hadn't been up to the house (we didn't know where it was, in fact), we figured museum meant Faulkner's house. Duh. Of course. It's open to the public and is no longer a house, therefore is really a museum. Makes sense. 

Still wearing my jeans and a pair of very comfortable Born wedge heel sandals (I never wear wedge heels, but this pair of jeans requires them), we headed down the trail. At that point, it was quite cool for Mississippi at the end of May. So I thought it'd be fine to wear jeans for a hike (there was a pair of shorts in the car).

What most people don't know about these parts of the South, at least I didn't until I lived here, is that there are many forests. Oh sure, you knew that, right, because you've watched lots of reenactments of the Civil War. You've seen stuff about the deep south. You know that there are towering evergreens all over and crazy vines taking over the whole place and you realize these things because you pay attention and read many books and watch countless hours of television.  

Ok well, I'm constantly in awe, even as a resident of four years. I keep forgetting that the South isn't all about magnolias. These forests are thick and kind of scary and when I'm in them, I begin to understand the fear the Puritans had of them and their darknesses. I also begin to see the influence the landscape had on Faulkner and his writing. Anyway, that thing you learned as a kid, about the moss growing on the north side of the tree trunk?  That's true here. Because you can't get your orientation in the forest by the sun or the mountains. So bring a compass.

The trail in the Rowan Oak forest was nice. At first. It was shady and we were there early enough that the temperature was kind of cool. We plodded along, laughing, joking, swatting at mosquitoes and leaping away from enormous spiders. Spots of sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves and we'd stare up at the towering trees with their sculpted trunks, mouths agape. I think Stoker got tired of me pointing and saying, "Holy crap, look at the tree!"  

A few minutes into the forest and I began to hear disembodied laughter, like someone nearby was having a pool party . . . or something. . . . The trail split—we took the one with fresh footprints (were those hoof-prints?). We began to feel lost. My footwear was horrible so I tripped several times.  

Soon the air grew stifling and swampy. Or more swampy, anyway. Stoker laughed at my stride. Never one to be deterred at creepy laughter in the woods, he continued to take pictures and reassure me that the trail hadn't already gone a quarter of a mile.  

"This is WAY longer than a quarter of a mile. I think we've gone two miles already," I said.

"No way. Our block in the city is a half-mile. We haven't gone that far yet," he said, laughing.

"Not a chance. We've gone way further than a quarter mile and we're not even to the end yet."

"Why are you walking like that? Walk normal," he said, snapping a picture of me on a bridge over a huge grotto filled with trolls.

"What's wrong with the way I'm walking?" I asked, paying the toll. The trolls demanded a fruit roll-up.  Luckily I had one.  

"You're waddling," Stoker answered, glaring at the toll-taking troll for taking the last fruit roll-up. Stoker loves gummy candy and fruit snacks like that.  

"It's hot.  I'm sweating.  My jeans are shrinking." The troll loped away and joined his clan beneath the bridge, and I wiped the stream of sweat from my forehead. I'd turned into a fountain.  

To prove his point, Stoker showed me a picture of myself mid-stride. I looked like I'd just ridden a hundred miles on horseback.  

My jeans WERE shrinking. It was so humid and hot, it was like living inside a washing machine and a dryer at the same time.  

We continued on. The disembodied laughter kept getting louder. There were red toadstools with white spots on the edge of the trail. It was hard to breathe. The floor of the forest was littered with creepy fern-like plants out of the jurassic era (or at least the movie Jurassic Park). I began to threaten the makers of the trail with lawsuits about false advertising and bad trail management. They could have at least put signs out for the proper route, AND a warning about the trolls* would have been really helpful. 

Finally we came to the end of the trail. I could barely walk. My jeans had shrunk four sizes and I only managed to move by thrusting my legs backwards and lurching forward in a wind-up motion (see? using the material's natural restrictive tendency to propel myself.  Clever, eh?). I was certain the leather sandals had carved blisters into my pinky toes. But the end was in sight and hopefully an air conditioned house/museum.

HOWEVER, the end of the trail was followed by a short walk through an ugly meadow to the campus of the University of Mississippi. The Museum was a real museum. Betty's museum, or someone like that. 

Rage filled me, I heard a loud tearing noise and the skin of my legs was suddenly visible through the fabric of my jeans. Luckily, the campus was a ghost-town, being Sunday on Memorial Day weekend, so no one but Stoker saw my transformation into the Incredible Hulk.  

Rowan Oak, Faulkner's home, was on the other side of the forest and the trail. We turned around.

*By the way, there were no trolls. I put that in to wake you up. If there had been trolls, I think we'd have gotten a much different body of work from Faulkner.