Souvenirs from an Era

A few weeks ago I woke 15 minutes ahead of the alarm, and when I tried to go back to sleep, I couldn't. Cheap Trick's "The Flame" was suddenly, inexplicably and without warning in my brain. Well, actually it was Maroon Five's "She Will Be Loved" - which is even more inexplicable, as they just plain turn me off - which then morphed into "The Flame." Sitting upright in bed, in the dark, I had three thoughts in rapid succession:

1) Damn, NPR for running that story about the Deering Mansion in Miami being haunted. I can't shake it. As either Huey, Dewey or Louie used to say: "I don't believe in ghosts, but I sure am scared of them!" The story made my restless nights even more restless.

2) Wow. Those two songs are structurally very similar. Someone should mash them up if they haven't already. Wow! I noticed an opportunity for a mashup! Look at me! Club DJ stardom is just minutes away!

3) Aww. "The Flame!" It's one of those songs from the soundtrack of my life. A song I may have enjoyed, but because it emerged on my radar at a certain critical moment in my development, I cherish it as a landmark of sorts.

Playing the song in my head, in bed in our dark room, I recalled how I'd relish listening to it at night, coming from my clock radio in my dimmed bedroom. I had a dimmer switch in the room I had from birth to 12 which I rarely turned all the way off. I remember how comforting that song was to me, in junior high, lying in bed, my room in artificial amber gloam, the rest of the house asleep. There are a handful of songs, images and other artifacts that whenever I encounter them, inspire a certain nostalgia that would not have seemed likely when I originally encountered them. Certain pop songs from 1988 - 1989 forever haunt me in ways that other don't. And I think it has everything to do with two things: the fact that that's when my family made our first big move; and that I was at the peak of puberty. (By the way: never move your family when one - the eldest, at least - is in the throes of puberty. It's more traumatic than a move at 10 or 15. I've asked around.)

If I really thought about it, I could find those musical or cultural artifacts that were in the background when I lived in these places that later proved to be memory markers.

• "Stand" by REM will forever be the song that introduced me to REM and the song that I identify most with arrival in my small town. I'd heard of REM, but never anything from them. I was 12 and whenever the video would come on MTV, Dad would get up and get my brother and me to do the Stand dance, encouraging me to accept our new, small town. I resented the new town so much, but couldn't resist Dad's enthusiasm. It's only years later that I appreciate what Dad was trying to get us to do: embrace place and bloom where planted.
• "Mary Moon" by Deadeye Dick is always the song that brings me back to 18, in a small west Texas university starting school completely - and I mean completely - clueless, but feeling utterly liberated and probably the most confident I've ever been in my life. I think I liked it because I had a "Mary Moon" reputation at my high school, but it was mocked, not celebrated. Here was a song that not only celebrated that archetype, but made her (sexually) desirable. Same me, new leaf.
• Fresh Air with Terry Gross on NPR became my best friend when I had to drop out of college after my first semester due to lack of funds. I still listen to the show as often as possible, but I remember discovering her in Houston, when I was in depression, knew no one and the future looked uncertain. When I think back on those days, those afternoons in my bedroom, I am so grateful to her and to the local NPR station for fostering and sating curiosity.
• The Indigo Girls were always playing from my stereo or from those of my best friends during my college years.
• Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut were my book buddies the year after college, when I joined Honey at his first station, in the city to which I would never return to live in a million years, but for which I have a soft spot in my heart.

I don't know what the cultural artifacts are that I associate with my current place. I'll probably find them in retrospect. Plus, we've been here long enough - almost 10 years - that I probably have cultural artifacts associated with certain periods in my life, as opposed to places. For instance, I associate Sigur Ros, Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard with the period I spent completing my thesis. A friend turned me onto Sigur Ros when he heard the topic of my thesis dealt with constructed languages and gibberish. They sing mostly in Icelandic, but occasionally in a fabricated language. They're so mellow and soulful that I was able to mope and comfort myself in their music as I plowed through. A coworker turned me onto Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard, breaking me of my prejudice against Death Cab for Cutie, much to the relief of my husband, who likes Death Cab. I can't place my finger on what it was about those two artists that spoke to me in that manic period, but I latched onto the music he shared, and that we already had in our collection, but I was too blindly stubborn to listen to.

I'm really curious what music or cultural events or artifacts will turn out to the be the familiar landmarks in my memory for this period of my life. It seems like this year and the coming year will likely be so momentous for us that there will be something that I always associate with this period. I'm just eager and curious to find out what it is. It'll probably be evident 5 or 6 years from now. And it'll probably surprise me. I never would've guessed something like "The Flame" would've been among my take-aways from 1988!

Maybe I was wrong

After I hit "publish" on my last post, I approached Honey and asked him if there was any book or work of art that changed his life. Without hesitation, he answered that a symphonic poem (whose title I can't recall) changed his life, and also gave me the title of a book that did, as well. The music wasn't earth-shaking, for him, but did measurably shape the way he thought about music. The novel was eye-opening for him and, according to him, changed his perception of life. Though, he admitted that I'd caught him at a moment of clarity and had I asked him the same thing after a long day of work, he'd've probably grunted and responded in non-sensical monosyllabic neologisms. When I told him I couldn't think of any work of art or book that changed my life, or measurably changed my thinking, he called me out.

"Annie changed your thinking," he responded, half in disbelief.

Because I'm a reflexive contrarian, I immediately dismissed his assertion, but he pushed it. "Before you saw Annie, you probably thought orphans were scary, or being an orphan was scary. But when you saw how all the orphans got to sing and do flips and have adventures, you got to thinking, 'maybe not having any parents isn't so bad.'" I don't think about it as having a profound influence on my thinking, he argued, because I was exposed to it at such a young age.

Score a point for Honey. Though, I contend that Annie's influence on my perception of life had less to do with her family situation and more to do with her will and resilience. And even Annie had her moments of self-doubt, which is kind of reassuring. Remember when she was hanging from the drawbridge by her fingernails and Punjab is attempting a helicopter rescue? In addition to Annie's optimism, I think that movie taught me that virtually every moment in life deserves a musical number. (Stop cringing Darla!) I'm not sure I would've deduced this with just any musical. Possibly, but damn Annie has spunk. I still wanna be her when I grow up. (Just look at my profile pic!)

So, I've been thinking this week about other works of art and books that changed my life. It's still hard for me to say any of these have been explosive revelations - most are small - but here goes nothin':

A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Story of Forgiveness - Pumla Gobodo Madikizela. I read this en route to, and during a vacation in, South Africa, 5 years ago. (One of the most inspiring travels of my life. How I long to return.) It's a moving memoir of torture and the post-Apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commissions. Forgiveness was a huge theme in the commissions, and also in the book (hence the subtitle). However, this book was the first time I'd encountered the idea that forgiveness may not always be spiritually appropriate. Not forgiving is the opposite of what I was raised to believe. However, after I read this book, I sympathized with the notion more and no longer believe it is something every wronged person should necessarily do. Nor do I believe that it is always necessary to healing a wound.

Gandhi (directed by Richard Attenborough). Also released in the summer of 1982, this movie was probably almost as influential to my childhood as Annie. Dad took me to see it, I'm sure, because he wanted me to see a dramatization of the moral ideals he aimed to instill in us. What he didn't expect was that his 6-year-old daughter would not only sit through a 3-hour movie, but that she would fall in love with it and ask to see it again and again. (Thrice that summer, that I can recall.) Like Annie, this was so long ago, I can't recall the immediate impact. But I'm positive my aversion to institutionalized violence was influenced greatly by this movie. Additionally, because I enjoyed the story of Gandhi so much, and Dad revered him as an agent of goodness, it probably nudged me toward disallowing religious dogma to be the sole definer of my perception of, and relationship with, God. If God could use a Hindu like Gandhi to do Christlike work, then I couldn't believe he'd be punished in Hell just because he wasn't a Christian.

The Theater and Its Double - Antonin Artaud. Artaud wrote that theater's mission should be to evoke public catharsis. I agreed whole-heartedly when I read it as a 19-year-old theater student, and thought that ethic should also underscore religious worship. Might we be a kinder society if we had public spaces where we could meet and lather ourselves into a sob? It's hard to hate people when you see them a their most vulnerable and pitiful. It's also hard to dominate someone when you allow yourself to be seen vulnerable and pitiful. I still agree that catharsis, or at least perception-challenging, should be the main mission of theater. I'm more interested in storytelling these days - which originally lured me to the stage - but the higher notion of catharsis still informs my experience in a theater.

Sunday in the Park with George - Stephen Sondheim. This is one of those subtler life-changers; it's like a lover whom I discovered I loved only after years of platonic friendship. Joss Whedon, on Fresh Air yesterday, captured it best when he said that the first act of Sunday in the Park is about the burden of being a genius and the second act is about the burden of not being a genius. The first act of this musical deals with the drive of George Seurat as he works on his most famous painting, "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte." The second act focuses on his possible (and fictional) direct descendant, George, a modern/performance artist, about a century later. I suspect most artists, when we're (dare I include myself?) in "the groove" of our endeavor, can identify with the first act George. But it's the second act that speaks to me more. Specifically, the duet "Move On." There's an exchange of lines between the descendant George and Dot that always rips at my heart -

George: I've nothing to say ...
Dot: You have many things ...
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though, George.

I suspect every artist feels this at some time or another. How can one person have anything insightful to add to the many comments on life that have already been produced? Is it even worth opening our mouths if we're anything short of blinding geniuses? But Dot encourages him. It's worth saying something because we're saying it. Later she sings, "Stop worrying if your vision is new/ Let others make that decision, they usually do!" How many times have I gotten the note from a director that I'm too much in my head, editing myself as I perform? I need to listen to Dot! It has changed my life, subtly, in that I've stopped thinking that just because I'm a middle-class white girl from a stable, loving family in a rich, democratic country, I have nothing of insight to add. I certainly need to produce more than I currently am, but we all have stories to tell and perspectives to share. Mine isn't any less important just because it's closer to "norm."

So there you have it: a few works that have changed my perception of life. I was wrong. Thanks for calling me out, Honey.

I'm closing with video from a performance from the 1984 run of Sunday in the Park with George. It's Bernadette Peters - of whom I was afraid until I was a teenager, because of her role in Annie - and Mandy Patinkin singing "Move On." I prefer the performance we saw several years ago with Raul Esparza and Melissa Errico; her voice was warmer and he didn't seem as broad. But I can't find video of that. The song ends around minute marker number 5. Enjoy!

Life-changing Art and Books?

Despite the silliness of everyone on Face book listing 25 random things about themselves, I must admit, I'd rather enjoyed quick-tour catch-ups on old friends, or learning more about new friends, and people I'm generally interested in. Now a college friend of mine decided she'd start her own "better-know-a-friend" note: name one book that changed your thinking.

My problem is that I can't. I'm not unaffected by what I read, but I'm hard-pressed to find a book that, when I put it down, leaves me feeling measurably changed. There are books that have spoken to some un-articulated truths I'd carried around inside me. God is a Verb, a book about mystical Judaism, articulated what I'd been growing to feel about our relationship with the divine. In particular, the notion of "creationing" or "raising holy sparks." It's been years since I've read the book, but if I remember, essentially, divinity is mutually nurtured by God and people (or, if you want to get into my micro-understanding: all creation). God communicates holiness to us via love and creation, and whenever we act in creation and mercy, we "raise holy sparks" back into divinity. And it's like an engine from there: God powers creation and creation powers God. A poor description on my part, but the book spoke to me, despite that I was wary because of the faddishness of Kabbalah. But it didn't change my thinking per se. It voiced what I already suspected to be true. Similarly, I ate far less fast food after reading Fast Food Nation, and I eat almost none, now. My response to the book didn't change my perception or action in grandiose ways. I'd worked in fast food before; I had family who had worked in meat-packing plants. The information wasn't new to me - just distilled. My pivot wasn't huge.

I'm always fascinated and confounded by people's claims that a work of art or a book or literature changed their lives. To be able to reflect and identify a piece of music, a poem, a painting, a play or whatever as a critical hinge in one's perceptions or an inspiration for action, suggests that that piece was personally earth-shaking. This leaves me wondering if I'm missing something. If other people can identify the piece of art, or the book that changed the way they viewed the world, then am I just callow? I'm not unaffected by art and literature. I'll reflect for days on something I've seen or read that's particularly good. And that reflection, I'm sure nudges my worldview in one direction or another. But nothing identifiably earthshaking. My earthshakings don't happen - or haven't yet happened - because of print or performance.

As earthshaking epiphanies go, personal experiences are my volcanoes, where art and literature are the geysers. Moving across the state, in the midst of puberty, to a much smaller town changed my life; living there for five and a half years changed my perception of it. Having to drop out of college after one semester due to lack of funds changed my life in that I had to start all over again. I ended up going to a different university where I made friends whose understandings of life shaped my understanding. There, I also met the man I eventually married. Dropping out of college changed my life. Getting married not only changed my life, but changed my perception of life. Moving across the country changed my perception of life. September 11 changed my life and my perception of life. The medical demons I've been wrestling the last couple of years have changed my perception of life, though not yet the way I live my life. If we ever have children, I anticipate that changing both the actions of my life and my perceptions of life. In fact I welcome the change - at least the latter.

Art was important to me during these shifts. Discovering that I enjoyed acting during my teenage years kept me emotionally intact and gave me a creative outlet for my frustrations. A few years later, the Chieftains and classical music lunch-hours serenaded my depression that resulted from dropping out of school. I read poetry during those months, which is something I'd never really done before or since. I also journaled like crazy, took a modern dance class that was a breath of fresh air and discovered, appropriately, Fresh Air. I can say with certainty that, during that time, Tchaikovsky's 4th symphony, especially the 2nd movement, followed by the 3rd, expressed the uncertainty of the those days, chased by the quirkiness and optimism that ultimately drives me. I fell in love with it. But did it change my life? Did it change my thinking? Did any of those activities or discoveries measurably change my perception of life? I'm positive they did, but their effects are very, very small compared to the events that drove me to them.

There probably is a book, or a play, or a film or piece of music that would rock the foundations of my world. But until or unless I come across it, print and art will slowly shift the ground beneath my feet, but the accidents and incidents of life will continue to the be the big shapers of the landscape of my perception. Am I alone in this?

Fare thee well, flightless friend

Last Sunday morning, after a night of heavy drinking and little sleep - so worthless there was no veritas which I could type in vino-ed - I was hanging out with a friend of mine when my foggy brain realized that, in his aviator sunglasses, he looked like Steve ... Austin. No. Steve Tyler. Not it either. Steve ... city in Texas; he's a Bloom County character ... Steve Dallas! Compare, here. As he likes the work of Berkeley Breathed, I believe he took the comparison as a compliment. I meant it as a complimentary observation, at least. Then I remembered, "Holy shit. We only have one week until Opus leaves the pages of the comic section, forever." I need to take the little bird out. I need to show him some love. I need to get caught up!

That week has passed, and Opus departed today.



When Breathed announced he'd return to comics, he struck a deal that Opus would be a half-page, front page, one-week only strip. Honey and I were thrilled. Who else but Breathed deserved such an honor? Like Postsecret, it became a Sunday ritual for me. What did Opus have to offer this Sunday morning? This week, I read the preceding four strips only, but I don't feel caught up at all. I had fallen behind in the last year or so. During that time, our paper moved it from the front page of the funnies to the second, then later the third page. Bastards. Also somewhere during that time, my thesis and performing and my job became all-consuming and taking an hour on Sunday to read through the paper became a luxury I didn't afford myself as often as I should have. I needed sleep. Or a drink. Or a Tylenol PM with a benadryl chaser and post-it note reminder to spend 5 minutes with my dear, suffering husband and dog.

Bloom County is the first comic I remember following. (Not that I'm a big comic follower.) It was such a fun world for me. The first time I remember noticing it was when my dad received a copy of Loose Tails for his 40th birthday, from a friend. A wheelchair-bound man bedecked with nerdy kids and wierdo animals? Something about the wheelchair attracted me. Was this about a guy in a wheelchair? What a wonderful country we live in, where one who can't walk can be the hero! And all the little critters and kids riding on him: it's like when my brother and cousins and I used to take turns riding on the back of my cousin S's chair! Awesome!

As I dug into it, it seemed to be less about Cutter John alone, as it was all the awkward misfits who inhabited Bloom County. It was smart and dorky. Kinda like I was when I was 10. Some days I was Milo, principled and precocious, others I was Binkley, clueless and a vegetable resemblant. Incidentally, when I learned that New Orleans' newspaper was called the Times-Picayune, I had a hard time believing that they didn't swipe the name from Bloom County's rag. As a teenager, I decided I should grow up to be Lola Granola; I'm wearing overalls as I type this, ready to garden a bit this afternoon, so maybe that's the connection anymore. I learned what a vegan was from Bloom County. After the aliens swapped Steve Dallas' brain, he ditched Republicanism, got a perm, gave up smoking and eschewed ingesting any animal products. And yes, even though I've been a Democrat since I was a kiddo, I loved Steve, as well. How can you not love a character so sexistly clueless - or cluelessly sexist? He was kind of the antithesis of Cutter John: strapping and healthy, selfish and a defendant of the status quo.

I loved how Bloom County celebrated our hopes and fears, our flaws and fantasies, our accomplishments and mistakes. It's the fault of cockroaches that Bush the elder chose Dan Quayle - I laminated that one, as it was from the last strip received at the doorstep of my native home before our big move downstate; a souvenir. Don't we all need a field of dandelions to escape to to ponder the meaning of life? And of course, there was Opus to love the most. I think I like him - and identify with him - because he's always a little out of place, but wide-eyed, receptive and hopeful. He, like me, suffers from foot-in-mouth disease ("Hare Krishnas = Hairy Fishnuts"). He's both a progressive and a traditionalist. He's a romantic at heart, but also a thinker - for real, he is. And he's got a penchant for silly hats. I don't have that penchant, but I have a deep admiration for it. In recent years, I've assumed that if I ever got a tattoo, it would probably be of Opus; maybe of him looking chastened. Of course, I'm not so sure that pudgy, perplexed penguin anywhere on my body would entice my husband's amourous fingertips to continue their tradition of tracing my curves. (That's for you, VirginiaGal ... you can open your eyes, now, or clean up the puke on your chin, depending on your reaction.)

Now he's gone to live in his fantasy. Even with being so far behind in reading the latest strip as to feel estranged, I can't help but feel loss. My pudgy penguin friend won't be there anymore to greet me on Sundays. My Steve-Dallas-doppelganger pal doesn't think this is the last from Breathed. He's sure he'll pull a Michael Jordan in a couple of years and resurrect something from Bloom County to run for a few years again. I'm not as convinced. Though, I'd be thrilled if he did. Certainly, I'll have the books to keep me company (note to self: ask for entire collection for Christmas?), he'll no longer be part of my Sunday. Who'll fill that gap? Boondocks? Our paper hasn't run that strip in about 2 years. Bastards. Doonesbury? Too overtly political - excellent, but I prefer foibled accessibility. Foxtrot? Puh-leeze. Maybe Pearls Before Swine or Non Sequitir. Apparently, Berkeley Breathed is going to focus on writing childrens' books. I guess if/when Honey and I have kids, I can use those as a starter drug to lure the bairn into the church of Bloom County. Our favorite Homer Simpson quote is, "Raising kids is easy. You teach them to hate the things you hate, and what with the internet and all, they practically raise themselves." I don't hate much, but I do hope I can inculcate them to appreciate the pen of Berke Breathed.

Reading Habits: Book Meme

Darla has tagged me with a book meme.

So, without further ado:

Do you remember how you developed a love for reading?
No. I remember when I developed a love for my husband and a love for Cohen brothers movies. Aside from that, I don't remember when or how I developed a love for reading, eating, cinema or anything else in my life that makes me happy, for that matter. ... I do have fond memories of going to the library a lot as a kid. Particularly for the brief period we lived in Kansas when I was a tot. Mom didn't have a job, so she stayed at home with me. We went to the library and the park every day. Rifling through storybooks and then rumbling through the playground. I also remember spending a lot of my grade school youth reading whatever newspapers and news magazines were lying around the house. We usually had 2 or 3 subscriptions at a time. As a result, my classmates thought I was a huge nerd. Nothing more confounding to her peers than a wonkish 8-year-old.

What are some books you read as a child?
Man, my memory sucks. I remember, as a small child, the Little Golden Books. Tawny, Scrawny Lion and the sort. I am a child of the 80s, and cross-marketing, so I remember having and enjoying several Sesame Street books. When I could read for myself, 2nd or 3rd grade, I remember reading almost all of Beverly Cleary's books - at least all I could get my hands on. I remember liking Skinnybones, Judy Blume's books and books written to compete with her. Though, they seemed to fall short of her talent. In about 5th or 6th grade, I went through a "real mysteries" and paranormal phase. I read a lot of books about UFOs and the Loch Ness monster, Amelia Earhart's disappearance and the like. I was lured by the fright and thrill of the possible but unproven.

What is your favorite genre?
Don't think I have one.

Do you have a favorite novel?
As with movies or music, my favorite of anything shifts with periods in my life. Novels that have really spoken to me in the last few years are Lamb and The Handmaid's Tale (both on my blogger profile). I haven't really found any novel that I've read in the last 2 or 3 years that's really struck me. With the exception of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which I read earlier this year. That book keeps harping my memory. I liked its voice.

Where do you usually read?
In bed. On weekends, when I'm not running errands from the week or doing laundry, if it's not already occupied by Honey or Babydog, the fainting couch in our living room.

When do you usually read?
Before I fall asleep. On weekends.

Do you usually have more than one book you are reading at a time?
Rarely. I'm a slow reader and am easily distracted, so I usually just focus on one at a time. I find if I pick up another book while I'm reading one, it's a death knell for whichever one I began. How much of that is a testament to my short attention span and how much is a testament to the lameness of the first book, I don't know.

Do you read nonfiction in a different way or place than you read fiction?
No.

Do you buy most of the books you read, or borrow them, or check them out of the library?
It's a mix. Right now, I'm challenging myself to read books in my own library that I've accrued but not yet read, or have begun reading, but got distracted and didn't finish. So, I haven't checked out a book for a while. I think my favorite thing is to borrow books, though. Not only because I don't have to turn it in in 2 weeks or face a fine, but because it usually comes with a recommendation and an affection from the lender. When people share their music, movies or books or other media and culture with you, it brings you closer to them.

Do you keep most of the books you buy? If not, what do you do with them?
Yes. Did you not just read the previous paragraph? I do like lending my books out or giving them away.

If you have children, what are some of the favorite books you have shared with them? Were they some of the same ones you read as a child?
I don't have children. Though, I did read Dogzilla to Babydog one night.

What are you reading now?
Paula, by Isabel Allende. Not deep enough into yet to cry ... a lot.

Do you keep a TBR (to be read) list?
I have one on my computer somewhere. Anymore, I keep the list on our Amazon wishlist. Or ... I just go to my own bookshelves, as I'm trying to satisfy my self-styled challenge.

What’s next?
Not sure. I tried, for the umpteenth time, earlier this year to read Little Women, but I still can't get into that book. It's still on my bedstand. Mocking me. Maybe that one. Or Living Buddha, Living Christ, by Thich Nat Hahn, lent me by a dear friend last year. Though, I think I'll go for something fiction after two non-fiction in a row. We'll see.

What books would you like to reread?
The full Hitchhiker series. I've re-read the first book several times, but not the whole series. That, I've done only once.

Who are your favorite authors?
Douglas Adams. Though I wasn't that impressed with him when I read Mother Tongue, after a Brief History of Nearly Everything, I have a new appreciation for Bill Bryson. Kurt Vonnegut. It's been a few years since I've been on a KV wave, but I do really like him.

So that's that. I guess I'm supposed to tag people. How about the frequent readers? Pearl, Joe, Mommanator and Sonnjea. Happy Friday!

My Reading Challenge, an update

Inspired by Darla D, who is participating in several book challenges this year, I decided to create my own: read 10 books from my own collection which I've either started and not finished, have been sitting there waiting to be read, or frankly would probably continue to sit waiting to be read in favor of loaners from friends and the library. As I'm not a fast reader - generally, a book a month, give or take - I figured 10 sounded about right.

Since the year is about 2/3 over, this seemed like a good time to check in on my progress. (Incidentally, I am including audiobooks, since Darla does and since I am experiencing the story verbatim.) Here are the books I've cleared so far:

1. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time - Mark Haddon. Was really interesting to see the world through the eyes of an austistic kid. Also made me hope I never have a child who is severly autistic. The main character hated touch so much that his version of a "hug" was simply touching fingertips. I'm a big hugger. I thrive on touch in the worst way. The idea of a loved one, much less a child that grew in me, recoiling from the most basic expression of love would kill me. Very good read; just broke my heart. I did love that the chapters were numbered in prime numbers. Wicked awesome!

2. Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card. I'd been meaning to read this for years. I'd begun it a few times, but never made it past chapter 4. (I have a couple of milestones: page 30 or chapter 4 always seem to be the make or break point in relation to my interest.) It's one of Honey's favorites and I figured reading it would give me further insight into who he is. I think that would've been the case had I finished reading it in the first year or two of our relationship when I originally tried. Having read it (or rather listened to it) a dozen years into our relationship I knew immediately why he connected with this book because whatever insight it would've given me, life has already revealed. Nonetheless, it was good to finally become acquainted with his friend.

3. I Am America and So Can You - Stephen Colbert. Ahhh, candy!

4. Number One Ladies Detective Agency - Alexander McCall Smith. Eh. I wanted to like it. I liked the main character well enough, but the story was too disjointed for me. I'm hoping I'll get more out of the movie. Sometimes a filmmaker can see more in text than I did, or bring more life to a story than the original text. I'm not blaspheming; it's just true.

5. Wigfield: The Can Do Town That Just Might Not - Stephen Colbert, Amy Sedaris, Paul Dinello. Read this on our vacation over Memorial Day week. Half of it on the runway during the hours upon hours long delayed flight. Fun fluff. Not as hysterical as I'd been hoping for, but it kept me entertained.

Currently reading: A Short History of Nearly Everything - Bill Bryson. ... wow. I read Bryson's Mother Tongue a few years back and, though it was nice, it was not what I had hoped it would be. I felt it was English linguistics made too pedestrian. However, as this book is physical science made pedestrian, I appreciate Mother Tongue more. Bryson has made the daunting accessible.

Tried reading: Little Women - Louisa May Alcott. Again, for probably the 3rd or 4th time in my life. I think I made it further than the previous attempts; maybe chapter 5 or 6. However, I just am not that interested in these sisters. Their lives are just not that compelling to me. Jo is kind of interesting, but I couldn't give a crap about the rest of the sisters. And frankly even Jo doesn't seduce me enough to warrant avidly consuming every word. Marmee's story would probably interest me most, but she seems kind of ancillary so far. ... eh. I'll probably finish it at some point. This is one of those books that I know I should read because of its importance in literary history, and because I can't be a good feminist without loving this book like my own sister, yadda, yadda, yadda ... but, ugh. It's just not happening for me. Not now, anyway. (Not in my life to this point, come to that.)

There you have it: my half-way point review. Other books in my collection I'm thinking about knocking out after Bryson's: The Gnostic Gospels and Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas, both by Elaine Pagels; Paula by Isabelle Allende; Catch 22 by Joseph Heller that Honey got me for Christmas years back; oh! Born to Buy by Juliet Schor, which I read about half of one year and then got distracted by my thesis. I loved her Overspent American. Maybe one of Neal Stephenson's books from Honey's shelf. We'll see. I'll post here when I've completed my quest

Book Challenges and Blessings

Darla D is participating in another blogger's book challenge for 2008. I considered joining it, especially since I own some books by the authors in the category around which the challenge revolves. But then I thought, "wait a second here. How many books do I have in my personal library that I haven't read yet, or that I've gotten half-way through only to be distracted by schoolwork, performances, cupcakes, newspapers, a movie, a butterfly, or sleep?" I have plenty in that category.

Heck, I discovered one on the bottom shelf of my nightstand just the other day. I'd gotten about a third into it last year, when school started up and my nights were sacrificed to the thesis god. I just returned a book to the library yesterday that I took a break from to read another book. Had that book not been a library book - and not been about a health issue that I'm dealing with and trying to manage - there's a good possibility that that book would've migrated to the bottom shelf as well. I'm looking at a book right now that I just scored off of BookMooch.com. It's a follow up to a book I began 4 years ago on MLK weekend. I got a few chapters into it and school began, and the rest is history. Plus, it didn't help that I took it with me on vacation. It's hard for me to read on vacation, particularly if I'm visiting someplace new. And starting a book on vacation is almost a guarantee I won't finish it. I'd rather spend time with my family and friends or discovering the newness of the place. So, maybe I should go back to the original book and read it first? Hmm?

My reading challenge for 2008, then: read at least 10 books in my own library which I have not read at all, or which were sacrificed to some other distraction, earlier. ** Side note: I've often wondered if that's a character or intelligence flaw that I have, that I don't always finish books that I begin. Remember in grade school how educators and authority figures always kind of poo-poo people who don't finish what they start? But maybe that's as much an indictment of the writing. If the story itself, or storytelling, is not engaging enough for me to ignore the family or friends I'm visiting, or the sound of the surf, or the DVD special edition of The Big Lebowski that just came in the mail, then maybe that's not my fault. (Of course, I almost always finish what I start; it might just take me months or years to get interested in the activity enough again to complete it. Clearly, I'm not the industrious personality that built America.)

Another thing I'm trying to do for 2008 is be grateful. I think I become crabbier the older I get and the last thing I ever want to be is a grump or a curmudgeon. I want to be aware of my blessings, big and little.

Saturday, I was hefting a big box toward the post office to mail out. As I approached the pull-out door, a woman who was walking my direction, pulled open the door for me. I thanked her. She began to go inside, and I pushed open the push-indoor with my hip. "Oh, okay, you've got it," she said and smiled as she walked away. She wanted to help me all the way in to the post office, even though that's not where she was going. When I realized that, I couldn't help but smile and feel blessed. She was going out of her way to help me, a stranger! It's a little thing, but in an area where so few people thank you for holding open the door - and I am crabby about it - it stands out.

Last night, as I was lying in bed, falling asleep, I was listening to Honey breathing deeply. He's the kind who can fall asleep when his head hits the pillow. (Me: I always have a million thoughts competing for attention in my waning waking moments.) All I could think was how grateful I was for his health. I listened to him breathe in and I thanked God for his healthy lungs, for their ability to intake and process. Then I started praying thanks to God that he is healthy, that he is healthy now, that I have him now, that he has his health now. And it began to grow. I began to pray thanks for the health of others and for myself and for the time we all have here and all have together.

A good family friend of ours - her parents and mine are college buddies - lost her husband to a car wreck a couple of months ago, leaving her with a two-year-old. Since I learned of her loss a few weeks ago, I've been unable to feel anything but just sorrow for her. I can't even begin to imagine her grief right now. But last night, I was also thinking that she was very lucky to have had him when she did. I imagined the laughter they shared. This is not to minimize her grief and her loss, but I also thanked God for the time that she had with him, and of course, asked him to comfort her. That's probably what was the impetus for my impromptu thankfulness: death. A freelancer in my office yesterday learned that good friend of hers just lost a baby, a few hours after she gave brith. Again: unimaginable grief. How thankful I am that I have the people in my life and how they are in my life, for however long they are here!

We have to be thankful for what we have, when we have it; and for who is in our lives and how they are in our lives. I was thankful for Honey, in his current health, lying beside me. I will be thankful for him when he's ailing or decrepit. I will be thankful for him when he's gone. I thanked God for my current health, jagged as it is these days. I want to learn to be thankful if the jaggedness ever actually calcifies into something that affects my permanent health. I am who I am and I have what I have. I may as well be grateful.

No time to read?

This began as a comment on Darla D's blog, but as per usual, I kept rambling on and didn't want to inflict such a laborious comment on her blog. So, here's my response:
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i really liked this post. the arguement of "no time" is weak, but i'm going to play devil's advocate here. and this will be - as everyone else's - from my own experience and from what i observe of others.

first off: public transportation is the best gift to reading ever. i read more when i commute like that. but most people in this country drive in to work, and you can't do both at once.

secondly, reading is an active activity. it requires attention that TV or Music does not demand. for myself, i simply cannot read a book when there is background noise or human distractions like conversation or homelife going on in the background. i can read newspaper or magazine articles with those distractions going, but if it's something i HAVE to know (like for school) or i WANT to enjoy (like a novel), it's impossible. i know many people can, and i try, but it's basically impossible for me to shut out the juicy convo at the table behind me or the TV show in front of me. you really can't passively read. and for a lot of people who've knocked out 8 to 10 hours at the office, dealt with traffic in and out and nagging kids when they get home, the last thing they want to do is actively focus on anything. it's shameful and they should be flogged publicly, i know, but mental exhaustion leads them to the TV and it's just a habit. that's something i like about audiobooks. it's been a while since i've listened to one, but you get the same text, and you can listen in your car, while you do laundry or if your job is mindless enough, you can listen at work.

i also wonder if people also go in cycles. i commented to a coworker once that sometimes i'll go through phases that last months or a year where all i want to do is nothing but read, then all i'll want to do is write, other times, both ... and then there are times when i just want to play and daydream. i'm always reading magazines and newspapers, but when it comes to books, i've also noticed that when i'm wrapped up in school, i'm less eager to pick one up. when you do nothing but read for evaluation, then it becomes a chore. it's like a good friend of mine who's a TV producer. he watches TV, but not nearly as much as one "should" to stay on top of what's going on in the industry. ... i wish i could say that bringing my textbooks with me on my commute force me to read them. usually what happens with me is i have my text, plus a newspaper plus a fun book. guess which i avoid! and when i have only my text with me, depending on how much i want to avoid it, i begin to daydream or plan future vacations. there's still mental activity going on even if it's not being agitated by text.

you make a good point that one should stop after X number of pages if a book sucks. but aside from the curiosity one feels about wanting to know how it ends, despite the suckiness, i wonder if there's just also a commitment factor. do you REALLY want to be the person who didn't finish a book? there's a high school english teacher inside all of us who chastizes us when we don't spell correctly or misuse grammar or choose the wrong books to read or don't read enough or well enough or fast enough, or, or, or .... even if it doesn't change our habits, she's there. i know she is, because friends and family of mine who don't spell well are haunted by her. i like reading, i consider myself a reader, but as at least half of my friends are the kinds who devour books like blood-thirsty raptors, where i'm content to graze. particularly because i'm not a fast reader so i want the book to be worth my time. and the english teacher haunts me there and makes me feel like a dumb-ass knuckle-dragger.

but your overall point of it comes down to priorities is absolutely right. it's like that with everything in life. i once had a friend who told me her parents didn't take her to church because they thought it was too boring. then why send her to school? school for both of us was terribly boring. because - laws aside - school was the priority in the house, not church. "i don't have time" is not an arguement, just like "it's boring" isn't. so the challenge then becomes getting people not only to prioritize reading for leisure, but convincing them that reading IS leisurely. i really think the biggest obstacle is mental exhaustion. there's a reason people keep books by their beds. it's the last quiet refuge at the end of a busy day in an increasingly hectic world.

Trout is cooked

R.I.P. Kurt Vonnegut
(1922-2007)
Ting a ling!

Seasons Change

I lent this book a few years back to a friend of mine with whom I have now unfortunately lost touch. Perhaps I'll get another copy and read it again, soon.

I read this book about three or four years ago. I liked it, but thought I would appreciate it more deeply when I was older.

I have reached a period where I suspect there are aspects of this novel which would resonate more loudly with me, now than they did a few years ago. The aspects and characters with which and with whom I suspect I would identify now are not the ones I suspected with which I would have identified when I first read this book a few year ago. But that's life, right?

... and all it took was a picture to remind me.

Charred Homeland

To the right is a photo of the fires that swept through the Texas Panhandle last month.

I was born there and lived there until I was 12. I still have plenty of family there, but I haven't visited that part of the state in about 6 years. I miss it on occasion. Sadly, I don't anticipate returning there anytime in the near future. Despite nostalgia, the pull I feel to visit isn't strong enough for me to make a deliberate effort to go. But last month's fires had me nervous. Not just for the safety of cousins and aunts and uncles I have there, but just because I felt like my old plains were under attack.

That geography, I believe has shaped a lot of my personality. I'm mostly calm, have been known to be tempremental, and I'm easily affected by those around me. I'm pretty easy going and will do my best to be open. I love the wind and I love my elbow room and wish everyone could have elbow room, too. (That's the saddest part of East Coast living to me: tons of kids growing up w/o backyards.)

When the Dixie Chicks sing "Wide Open Spaces," I know exactly what they mean. Even the hymn, "There's a Wideness in God's Mercy" hearkens to me the same sentiment of the land of the aforementioned song: "room to make big mistakes." Though a big sissy when it comes to tornadoes - and frankly anyone who's grown up in the plains of America repects the weather - I miss the gusty wind, and I always liked the plains because at least you could see what was coming and where to seek shelter. Which may also explain why in my adulthood I've become more clausterphobic. We live in a huge metro area. We vacation in large metro areas and we visit our families in large metro areas. I enjoy all of that very much, but I admit, at least once a year I feel like clawing the clothes off my body and just running through land unpocked by buildings or mountains. People are often fond of waxing sentimental about the sea in literature and in song. I like the ocean fine. The lapping of the water, etc, but for me, I'm the same way about the Panhandle plains and the desert Southwest of New Mexico and Texas. I must go back to the Plains again/ to the lonely Plains and sky/ And all I ask is good kite and a breeze to guide her by.

My father sent me a narrative account of one of the ranchers in Perryton during the week of the blazes. Incidentally, it was written by the author of the Hank the Cowdog books, a series I enjoyed as a kid. The same Texas wind that I so often long for, that as a child I'd catch in my skirts and dresses out on the playground until I felt like I was a landsail, became a weapon against the people of the Panhandle. It's heartbreaking. But again, when you live there you have a love-hate relationship with the weather. People on the opposite coasts of our country like to roll their eyes at those who live in "fly-over country" because of their religious ferver. And I join the sentiment often. However, I also totally understand the deeper religiosity of people in mid-America. When your livelihood and the economy of your community depends on the weather and the health of crops or livestock, how can you not believe you live by the whim and mercy of God? Why should we roll our eyes?

March is typically the beginning of severe weather season in the Texas Panhandle. "In like a lion and out like a lamb," is pretty accurate on the high plains - except for the "out like a lamb" bit. That usually comes in June. Winter was exceptionally hot and dry there this year. (Especially hot. Amarillo should NEVER be 70+ degrees in January.) For the sake of the folks still coping with their losses and with the prospect of the traditionally dry summer, I think I'll follow the advice of the West Texas mantra: "pray for rain."

Prickly bias pickle

I'm not sure what to make of this whole "sale of American stateside ports management to a United Arab Emirates based company" hub-ub. Part of me says, "wtf? Isn't that like the fox guarding the henhouse?" But then I take a deep breath and tell myself to stop being such a prejudiced, racist slimeball. But then I think that to be "okay" with the sale to a UAE company is to be on President Bush's side. And that's one prejudice I really don't feel like relenting. Just like if I stop travelling by air, "the terrorists win," if I don't object to the UAE company sale, "the purzident" wins. CRAP! It's such a conundrum! Which knee jerk prejudice do give in to? The one that fears that everyone south of Athens and east of Rio de Janeiro wants a sea of dead Americans? Or the the one that recoils at that a hazing-loving, science-fearing, subpar, lying leader may be in the right every now and then? ... I think I'll just have to eat crow on this one and at least superficially agree with the purzident.

It's my understanding that these ports were most recently owned and managed by a British company. I question at least the surface wisdom of selling any stateside transport management to any foreign country - probably because we live in a post-9/11 country. However, it seems that as long as there's that precedent, to deny sale to an economic and political ally just because a lot of people in your country associate another country as "one of them," is just wrong and caves into prejudices like mine or worse. Frist - or some other Republican lawmaker - was talking from the house or senate floor yesterday about how 3 of the 9/11 hijackers either came from or had ties to the UAE. He seemed to think this was enough for us to deny this sale. Well, if our fearless elected officials (or "defaulted by voter apathy" officials) truly worried about business with countries who gave us baddies, we'd've long ago ditched Saudi Arabia and we'd've been legally mandated to ride bikes or drive super-alt fuel cars. Or, of course, we would've gone to war. But ... y'know ... whatever.

If the UAE based company sale is completed, I figure one of many, but probably two, things could happen: A) Nothing. The ports go on as they always have and the Coast Guard does their job, protecting us as best they as they are able. B) An inevitable terrorist attack occurs in our porous ports. The UAE company has major egg on their face, just because they were the ones in ownership and virtually every non-Muslim American's fear has been confirmed. (Maybe even confirming the fears of some Muslim Americans.) Shrub and Co. start piling the shit as high as possible to divert attention from the fact that they haven't done a good job building up the safety of American ports, and they end up blaming the Coast Guard. ... That said, I think the UAE company is going to do all it can to make itself look good to the average American. I have no idea if or how theocratic the UAE is, but I suspect this company will do what it can to keep not only a very secular image in the US, but weed out any potential "right-wing" employees, so as to minimize the occurence of or appearance there could ever be an occurence of an "inside job." I actually have more confidence in the UAE company to monitor itself over here than I do in my own government's commitment to increasint and improving port security. But the UAE company has more to lose in public opinion if anything goes wrong.

I'm unhappy with the sale, but I can live with it a lot better than I think Capitol Hill or the media can.
In the meantime, I'm reading a cool book called Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. It's by the dude who wrote Tipping Point, which is still on my to read list. I'm only like 50 pages into this one, thus far, but I love how he's getting into the whole "gut reaction" thing. I'm finishing up the piece on the Gottman Institute at UWashington which studies marital and similarly committed relationships. If you've ever heard the piece on This American Life about it (episode 261, "The Sanctity of Marriage" air date 3/26/04) you know the gist of this chapter. If not, you must listen to it. ... my honey is falling asleep, so I should probably turn out the light and catch my 40 winks, too.

I'm sure all 2 of my readers will have something to say to chasten my igorant ass, tomorrow.