October Was…

October was dinner with a few good friends, a trip homehomehome, a walkathon, the decision to not care about you anymore, the Pumpkin Fest, a trip to the sugar shack, a Rock Band party, a Sex in the City night, a car accident, a dislocated arm, a marathon phone call which I needed desperately, the birth of Manorabug Spuke, a few anniversaries, cleaning house, setting up shop.


Here is October’s list of books:

  • Carry on, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse ~ delightfully English and silly
  • Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler ~ characters so real you could bump into them on the street.
  • Big If  by Mark Costello ~ probably the best book of the month, considering we are in an election year.
  • Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer ~ a book for kids but delightfully wicked for adults as well.
  • Dubliners by James Joyce ~ celebrating the best time to visit Ireland.
  • The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe ~ perfect for Halloween!
  • Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s & 40s (Contents selected and notes written by Robert Polito) ~ Reading this knocked three other Challenge books off my list!
  1. The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain
  2. They Shoot Horses Don’t They by Horace McCoy
  3. The big Clock by Kenneth Fearing

For the first time in a long time I didn’t get a Early Review book from LibraryThing. Odd thing is, I’m not disappointed. It was nice to not have to worry about how to squeeze it into an already packed reading schedule. It was nice not having to stress about writing the review “on time.” True, one could argue that there isn’t really strict deadline but I always feel obligated to get something written before the book goes on sale. Isn’t that the point? Having said all that, I will be requesting for October because well, the wait is half the fun!

Death to You

Black eyed
A couple of years ago I had a dream about my death. Two friends were dragging me across a field to lay me in a field of daisies. They talked about me as if I had wronged them by leaving them. Here’s the freaky part. When they let go of me – to drop me off in my final resting place – when my head hit the ground – I woke up. This is what I wrote afterwards:

Here I am. Stuck on the wrong side of sleep yet again. A dream startled me awake and that’s simply all it took. I’m reduced to prowling the cyberworld once again. I won’t go into details because even though my dream was troubling I don’t want to read into it anymore than my psyche already has. I will say this, it has me thinking about human perception. Friends and death. When do you know you have a friend? Really, truly know someone is your friend? Is it based on how many comments they leave you on MySpace? Is it weighed by how many times they call your cell phone? Is it the amount of concern they show you in times of trouble? Is it by their reaction to you when you are falling down drunk? I am losing my grip on what constitutes a real, honest to goodness friend.
the death perception is easier to figure out. It’s easier to define because my trouble is a single ponderance – why does a person lose all they love then they die? At what point does a person go from being Dear Uncle Joe to “the body” they must do something with as quickly as possible? Why is it that we are a society that can;t get rid of the dead fast enough? I know I have questioned this before. In other cultures they take turns washing and dressing and sitting with their dearly departed. It’s a rare society that will not say “that’s not Aunt Julie anymore.” Our society means it when we say “She’s gone.”
So how are friends and death connected? Simple. Friends, when I die please don’t be so quick to get rid of the vessel that has housed my soul. Hang out for a little while, tell me ghost stories, play the music I love to hear, laugh about what I’ve lost because you know wherever I went I can’t find my keys.

“Grave digger, when you dig my grace could you make it shallow so that I can feel the rain?” ~ David J. Matthews

I think what I was really asking was this: please don’t drag me across a friend and leave me to push up the daisies.

Who Are You (& what have you done with me)?

For the record:
For the time being I am glad we still live next door to the in-laws. Who knows what he would have done if we didn’t hear his cries for help?
I am not upset about the sirsy mobile being in an accident. Driver is okay, car is not. It’s time I moved on anyway.
I still think the attitude of my coworkers staff bites. Being angry about it “not being your job” just makes me want to say, “Find another one.”
It’s not my fault feelings change. I said I would be there, but not in that way. Not anymore. Get over it. I did.
I still haven’t forgotten which means I still haven’t forgiven. Maybe it’s the lack of forgiveness that won’t let me forget.

As I think these things and feel these things I have to wonder where I went. Hope it was good.

Your Twenty-Two

Hello my friend. I would like to bombard you with the number twenty-two. That is my wish for you. I would make you embrace it as your own. Twenty plus two. Think of it this way: Twenty-two is your magic number. It holds the key to letting go. It’s the permission to move on (not that no one needs to give you premission…except yourself). I am tempted to call you on every twentieth day and say (with authority, of course), “let one slide, let one slide…” I could send you a bottle of cheap azz tequila, make you have a shot – one for each hand – then, one for me, too. After that, maybe then you could let one slide.

One down, five to go.

Think of them as demons:

Lending and Learning

This weekend was a chance to help. Myself. Saturday was all about carving a pumpkin to make me happy. Sunday was walking 5 miles for Baystate’s Rays of Hope Breast Cancer Charity Walk then having good girl time (as opposed to bad?)…

I am making a vow to walk the Rays of Hope every year. I may not walk as part of a team again (too much pressure to want to stay together), but I will definitely make this an annual thing. I will never, ever call attention to myself for the hurts I have faced but I am proud of the healing just the same. This walk was just what I needed. Maybe a certain someone will want to join me next year (what do you say, Smiley?)… So, anyway, this is a picture of me waiting for the rest of the team to arrive. I sat on my car and watched the others roll in. I won’t admit to how ridiculously early I really was, but it gave me a chance to watch walkers unite, hug, cry. Out came the pink ribbons, the pink balloons, the pink hats, the pink face paint (yes, yours truly smudged hers within moments of application), pink pink pink. Everywhere. I own so much black I actually had to go out and buy the pink shirt in the pic!

This was a day of coming together for the cause. Coming together period. I didn’t think of anything me, myself or moi. I wore no name except for that of my Team. I was not one person but an army of ones walking. I think that’s what knocked me silly on this Sunday. Running, you run for yourself. You lose the crowd. Everyone spreads out and becomes their own warrior. Walking binds you to the footsteps in front of you. Makes you move as a group. We were pretty in pink, proud in pink, perfect in pink.

S~ Thanks for hanging out later. While we didn’t talk about this walk all that much, it was nice to have that gabby, girly time. After the day I just had, it was perfect.

Meet Manorabug Spuke

Manorabug is a spin-off of Windorabug. With his lid on, he is a man with hair. Without the lid he looks more like a bug. He belongs to the sky with his two stars and crescent moon tattoos. Mr. Spuke gets his last name from the family of spookies (came from Ireland in the 16th century). They later changed their name to Spuke to avoid detection every 10/31.

Better pics coming soon!

Dubliners

Joyce, James. Dubliners. New York: Signet, 1991.

When I was in high school I fell in love with James Joyce’s style of writing. We share the same birthday. The Dead, a short story from Dubliners was my all time favorite. Gabriel became my favorite name; a long lost child.

Dubliners is comprised of 15 short  and simple stories all centered around the people of Dublin. To sum up the collection it is a portrait of a city as seen from the eyes of the people living there. The very first story, The Sisters, is nothing more than a family’s reaction to a priest’s death. While the characters are not connected, their stories are. Life and death, love and loss, youth and aging, poverty and wealth. Joyce does a remarkable job capturing the spirit of the Irish while revealing universal truths about mankind as a whole. It is as if we, as readers, get to peek into the character’s lives and are witness to moments of our own circumstances.

What I find so remarkable about Dubliners is that Joyce originally had great trouble getting it published. And even after he finally did it didn’t sell that well.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Irish Fiction” (p 125). Where else? Edited to add: I’ll tell you where else…Book Lust To Go in the chapter called “Ireland: Beyond Joyce, Behan, Beckett, and Synge” (p 110). I guess you could say Dubliners shouldn’t be included in this chapter because it’s supposed to be about “beyond Joyce.” Something to think about.

Look You in the Eye

So small

I had a funny thoughtquestion yesterday. It came out of someone else acting tougher than need be. When is it okay to say you need? When is it okay to lean on someone else for support even though you know damn well you can do it all by yourself? If my father had his way for my life he wouldn’t have wanted me to need anyone for anything. “Figure it out for yourself” he would have said. Be tough, be strong. Be blahblahblah.
Wrong.
I have this friend. This amazing friend who I sometimes complain to, bitch to, vent to, rant to. She listens with every fiber of her being and then tells me what I already know. I need her in my life to keep me sane. I may think I’m having an insane moment; a very insane moment, but she’ll reel me back in and tell me what’s logical about my lunacy. I don’t need her yet I do.
I have this husband. This wise-azz, smart, sensible husband who I sometimes whine to, cry to. I ask him permission to buy spooky signs, giant pumpkins and haunted villages. I need him in my life to keep my budget grounded. I may think I can afford every ghost, cat, witch and skull that comes along but he’ll reel me back in and tell me what’s illogical about my yearnings. He tells me what I already know. I don’t need him yet I do.
I have this life. This funny, crazy, vulnerable life which I sometimes think isn’t worth bothering with. I see black clouds and glass-half-empties all the time and often I find myself asking what’s the point? It’s then that I realize I need this life just the way it is, just the way it turned out. I can look you in the eye and say it. I need you.

Snagged

Southern end

I hate this murky underwater apathy. This floating through things on tired waves of discontent. Lately, all I want to do is give it up. Why am I exhausted and who should I blame? Maybe it’s the dreams. At night I have nightscares that frighten me so badly I wake disorientated and confused. I struggle to ask myself why do I repeatedly have visions of bombers flying over Monhegan, dropping weapons of mass destruction? Masked fighter pilots spewing hundreds of rounds of bullets into people and places. We run, we scatter, yet there is blood. There is death I can’t explain. The sad thing is this. In my dreams I see them coming from miles and miles away. The sky is crystal clear, glaring and brilliant blue. At first they are dots on the horizon, yet I know who they are and what will happen when they arrive. I am powerless to stop it. As they get closer details emerge until I can see their faces. My dreams make them human and cruel.
Another repeat offended is the dream of drowning. Monhegan is hit with a wave as big as Texas. Again, there is that sense of foreboding. I can see it coming from miles away but I’m powerless to stop it.

Some say I want to destroy home. Some say I am started to dread the return, but what part I always ask. It’s true that Colorado started out as a joke, but has become more of a deep wishful thinking as time goes on. I fantasize about being snagged by the Rockies. I dream about being trapped miles from New England with no direction (or desire) to go home. Is that what I really want?

Sleeping at the Oakdale

We went to see Trey Friday night. Last time we saw him at the Palace Theater two years ago (the Palace happens to be one of my all time favorite venues – right up there with the Calvin – but we decided to see T. somewhere different this time). The Oakdale would be on the top of my list if the Connecticut crowd was a little more alive and with it. Their lack of energy dragged us down – but more on that later.

It was supposed to be a 7:30pm show without an opener, but Trey true to form made us wait. I didn’t mind the hanging out part. People watching is always at a premium at anything hippie related. Plus, the Oakdale has some sort of texting entertainment going on. We could watch video screens of text messages – stuff like “wave your arms if you like so and so.” No one did.
There were a mix of ages and personalities roaming the aisles. Your standard Phish friendly hippies with hemp clothing and masses of dreadlocks, Remember-When Deadheads with tie dye tee shirts and corduroy overalls, College preps with baseball caps on backwards and baggy jeans, flowing dresses, bandannas and beads. Some lady lost her rock in the seats behind us. It got me wondering where I fit into all this. Maybe I have that peace-love-happiness hippie philosophy at heart when I prefer to be barefoot, refuse to wear a bra or comb my hair, but I’m not so sure.

Finally, Trey graced us with his presence and the crowd settled down, way down. His voice definitely sounded better than when we saw him last. And while the band wasn’t as big (no horns) they definitely put out some great sound. Except. Except the crowd seemed asleep on their feet. Clapping was polite, cheering was at a minimum. Even I didn’t really dance. I couldn’t spin in the aisles for fear of falling on my ass. I wasn’t stable in my row of seats. Rooted to the spot I was content to sway tree-like, occasionally pounding the hip that started to ache. Here’s what we heard:

Set I

  • Drifting
  • Tuesday
  • Sand
  • Peggy
  • Dark & Down
  • Money Love and Change
  • Sweet Dreams Melinda
  • Push on Through the Day

Set II

  • Light
  • Gotta Jiboo
  • Alaska
  • Shine
  • Windora Bug

Then we left. Yup. Maybe it was the lack of energy in the crowd. Maybe it was because we put in a long week at work. Maybe we’re just old…Here’s what we missed:

  • Burlap Sack & Pumps
  • Case of Ice & Snow (B’s crack cocaine song)
  • Dragonfly (the only song I wanted to hear & expected to hear)

Encore:

  • Water in the Sky
  • Waste (the song I really, really wanted to hear but didn’t expect to)
  • First Tube (Farmhouse!)

Cask of Amontillado

Poe, Edgar Allan. The Cask of Amontillado. Mahwah: Troll Publications, 1982.

Okay, okay. I admit it. The version I read of Edgar Allan Poe’s Cask of Amontillado was from my library’s Education Curriculum Library – a kids version. Only 32 pages long and brightly illustrated, it was a pleasure to read… in about five minutes. But, that’s not to say I haven’t read it before in it’s original text. And…I reread it online again thanks to the Gutenberg project.

The Cask of Amontillado is a psychological, creepy thriller. Perfect for October. Montressor has had his ego wounded badly by Fortunato. Looking for revenge Montressor waits until Fortunato is well in the drink and can be lured away to his death. The entire story is a study in human failings.
Montressor is able to convince Fortunato to come with him because Fortunato cannot bear the idea of another man playing the expert in identifying Montressor’s Amontillado wine. Montressor uses this jealousy to spur Fortunato deeper into the catacombs. At the same time Montressor showers Fortunato with concerns for his health in an effort to steer Fortunato away from suspicion. For Fortunato cannot suspect a trap if he is the one insistent on continuing deeper into Montressor’s underground chambers.
The reader never does find out what insults Montressor has suffered at the hands of Fortunato. The wrong doing is certainly not as important as the revenge.

Favorite scene: Fortunato questions Montressor’s membership as a brother, a mason. Montressor unveils his trowel as a sign but Fortunato never questions why he would have such a thing with him at that moment.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Horror for Sissies” (p 119).

Mums the Word

Dear You,

I haven’t known how to write this letter. I haven’t known exactly what to say. It wouldn’t really matter because, knowing me, once it was all said and written I wouldn’t have sent it anyway. Excuse the grammar but it’s true. You wouldn’t have gotten whatever it was that I wanted to say, in more ways than one. Instead, I am tempted to be like a politician and say what you want to hear all the while not really saying anything at all. This is how we get along best, am I right? I don’t tell you what I really feel and you don’t spill anything worth a thing either way. Polite as polite can be except with a bite of caustic. That’s us.

You told a story over a meal and I wanted to throw up. What you didn’t say was so telling. What you meant was so obvious it made my stomach roll. I realize I have always been the stronger one. There was never a need to protect me. I acted like nothing could pierce my armor or hurt my pride. My heart was unbreakable and my soul, unreachable. Cold as an Ice Queen in the heart of January. I accept that image. I am comfortable with the chill of uncaring. But, here I am, waiting. I wait for glass half full comments; signs of compliment. They never come. Condescending, accusing, critical, not a single good thing to say. With each utterance I slide away. Closing myself off from wanting to be anywhere near your mouth. If you don’t have anything nice to say…. I played a game in my head. For every criticism it’s one less month here. When I got to three years I gave up knowing I could never stick to my story and stay away for that long. There are too many other things I would miss. Even you. Eventually. I don’t care that I’m not worth worrying about. I don’t care that I’ve never been a cause for real concern. Blame it on the drugs. Blame it on the maladjustment period (or whatever they call it these days). Blame it on the rain. I don’t care.

So, I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. Mums the word.

But I feel better.

Off the Run and All Over the Place

newshoes2
On Tuesday I put in a quiet 3.7 mile run on the treadmill. No gerbil jokes, no blogging about it, no fanfare. Just a quiet run for quiet me. I was feeling good enough to almost put in another one on Wednesday but the presidential (and final) debate was on and I was feeling political. How could I not be after the last debaucle – errr, debate? Have you ever seen such one-sided moderating in your life? Sheesh!

Anyway, I ignored the run thinking Thursday would be better. I argued with me and myself saying, the body needs a day of rest in between runs; the mind needs a day of rest in between worries. A day of rest would do us all some good. What I didn’t count on was putting in a 12 hour day at my work and then hanging out at Kisa’s work for another four. We left home around 6am and didn’t see our doorstep until well after 11pm. I’m sure poor Indiana thought we were putting her up for adoption. She certainly could claim abandonment these days!
I think of my mother. “Can’t you find someone else to push the buttons?” she says through the phone to my husband who is miles away, and “Geeze, they must not be doing a very good job if things keep breaking!” she mutters to me, right next to her. She sounds 97, all piss and vingar without a good thing to say. It’s no use arguing, trying to defend the technology I don’t understand. With a sigh I admit, “I don’t know, Ma. It’s television.” But, what I want to say is this, “It’s what made me fall in love with him in the first place; that tireless get-it-done work ethic. That commitment to working his azz off when everyone else has given up and gone home.”

So, I am happy to give up the run for another night. I’ll call it another day of rest even though it was work that kept me off the run.

Crime Novels

Polito, Robert. Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s & 40s. New York: Library of America, 1997.

Something scary for Halloween. Six different stories about crime. Three of them are novels already on my list. Go figure.

  1. The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain
  2. They Shoot Horses Don’t They? by Horace McCoy
  3. The Big Clock by Kenneth Fearing

and three others:

  • Thieves Like Us by Edward Anderson
  • Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham
  • I Married a Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich

From The Postman Always Rings Twice~ I have always wanted to know what this story was all about. Written in 1934 it tells the sexy, gritty tale of Frank Chambers, a drifter who finds himself grounded by Cora Papadakis, a married woman. Cora’s beauty and instant mutual attraction leads to Frank’s uncharacteristic staying put. Soon the adulterous couple is contemplating murder. The plot is timeless. Desire has led them to the devil’s doorstep.
Favorite lines: “I kissed her. Her eyes were shining up at me like two blue stars. It was like being in church” (p13).
“Then the devil went to bed with us, and believe you me, kid, he sleeps pretty good” (p 70).
What Nancy had to say about : “…filled with desperate, scheming men and women…” (Pearl, Nancy. Book Lust, p66).

From They Shoot Horses Don’t They?: This was a bizarre, psychological tale about two kids with very different dreams. Robert is looking to be a film producer and Gloria wants to be an actress. They pair up and enter a Hollywood dance contest knowing Hollywood bigwigs would be in attendance. The contest is all about making money, working the contestants like racehorses, making bigger and better stunts to attract sponsors and a bigger audience. Analogies to horse racing are abundant. From the title of the book it is obvious what happens in the end, but it’s a fascinating read just the same.
What Nancy had to say, “…wonderfully grungy dance-marathon nightmare novel” (Book Lust p 67).

From Thieves Like Us ~ : I found this to be a very slow moving, almost methodical story. Written in 1937 it tells the tale of three bank robbers: Elmo Mobley, T.W. Masefeld and Bowie A. Bowers. While the story of these thieves as fugitives on the run is interesting, what makes the entire piece come alive is the vivid imagery used to describe the landscape these men hide in. Across Texas and Oklahoma’s back country there are many farmhouses and hideaways to keep the story moving. Favorite lines: Oddly enough, the dedication caught my eye: “To my cousin and my wife, because there I was with an empty gun and you, Roy, supplied the ammunition and you, Anne, directed my aim” (p 216). Here’s where my sick mind went with this: Roy (the cousin) had an affair with Anne (the wife). Don’t mind me.
Second favorite line: “The moon hung in the heavens like a shred of fingernail” (p 224). There have been a lot of interesting moon descriptions, but I liked this one a lot.

The Big Clock by Kenneth Fearing started out slow. George Stroud works for a conglomerate of magazines in their Crimeways department. He is a simple family man with a wife and daughter, but his dreams and ambitious are big. When he has an affair with his boss’s girlfriend and she winds up bludgeoned to death things get a little tricky. It’s a story of conspiracy and cat and mouse. George must prove his innocence when everything points to the contrary. Once it gets going it’s fascinating!
From The Big Clock: “The eye saw nothing but innocence, to the instincts she was undiluted sex, the brain said here was a perfect hell” (p 383), “He said how nice Georgette was looking which was true, how she always reminded him of carnivals and Hallowe’en” (p 385) and “I could feel the laborious steps her reasoning took before she reached a tentative, spoken conclusion” (p 393).
What Nancy Pearl had to say, “…edgy corporate-as-hell thriller” (Book Lust p 66).

Nightmare Alley was intriguing on many different levels. It was the ultimate “what goes around comes around” story. The lives of carnival entertainers serves as the backdrop for Stanton Carlise’s rise and fall. He joins the carnival and soon picks of the tricks of Zeena, the Seer. Once Stan the Great learns the craft (an inadvertently commits murder) he leaves the carny and sets out on his own as a Mentalist, becoming greedier and greedier for taking the sucker’s buck. Soon he passes himself off as a priest with the capability of bringing loved ones back from the dead. Constantly running from troubles in his own life Stan gets himself deeper and deeper until no one is trustworthy.

I Married a Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich was probably my favorite. You don’t know much about Helen Georgesson before she assumes the identity of Patrice Hazzard. The facts are Helen is a pregnant girl, riding the rails with 17 cents to her name. A chance encounter and a terrible accident leave Helen with a case of mistaken identity. For the opportunity to start life anew and give her baby a better life Helen accepts Patrice’s identity as her own. Living the life of luxury doesn’t come easy when Helen’s past comes to town and threatens to unveil her true self.

BookLust Twist: Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s & 40s can be found in Book Lust in the chapter, “Les Crimes Noir” (p 65).

Destroying Stupid Part I

I had saved all of my other ramblings from ThatSpace. Kept them in a book for some odd reason. Yesterday, I started rereading them. Today I started destroying them. Yesterday they meant something. Today they are stupid. In between the lines I found a few words worth saving, but for the most part I enjoyed destroying stupid.

  • It is not what was said that has cut into my self respect. It’s the justification that followed. I am walking anger. ~ March 13, 2006
  • There is no drama in my marriage, no Jezebel moments. ~March 28, 2006
  • I have faith in 11/06/06. ~ April 6th, 2006.
  • I am ten steps away from my black cloud. ~ April 26th, 2006
  • I make no apologies for choosing not to streak so naked through my rant with reckless, yet vulnerable abandon. ~ July 25, 2006

It’s funny. I think I hold onto all these statements because I remember the moments that prompted them. Isn’t that always the way? You hang onto a hurt because of the way it makes you hate. Well, hate’s a really strong word. I’ll take that one back. And…not all of these favorite quotes come from wanting to bash someone’s head in. April 6th was the day I decided to say something about my sister’s pregnancy. November 6th was the due date. I was hoping for Halloween, but spooky didn’t cooperate. April 26th quote was a bout of melancholy that had nothing to do with madness. *sigh*

These are the days I will remember. For the rest there’s destroying stupid.