Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Ancestral Truths

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Ancestral TruthsMaitland, Sara. Ancestral Truths. New york: Henry Holt & Co., 1993.

To be quite honest I don’t know how this came into my hands. I’ve already read one book in honor of National Sibling Month. This was supposed to be on the list for next year, or maybe even the year after that. I wasn’t supposed to read two sib books in one month. But, suddenly there it was and after I picked it up I couldn’t put it down.

Ancestral Truths is a bizarre tale about a woman who starts a journey climbing a mountain in Zimbabwe with her lover and ends it with her alone with an amputated hand and the nagging doubt of murder in her heart. Reliving her days in Italy and on Mount Nyamgani while on holiday with her large family in Scotland, Clare Kerlake tries to figure everything out. Did she kill her boyfriend? Can she live without her right hand? She comes from a large family and they all have baggage so it’s no surprise when the plot gets a little preachy and over the top. Religion, feminism, mysticism and witchcraft all play a part in this novel. It gets heavy at times but well worth slogging through.

Favorite parts: “She was an amputee, a cripple, stared at discreetly and pitied; or completely ignore, invisible in the embarrassment of strangers” (p 10). “‘You named me,’ Joseph once said irritably, ‘not only  after the only married male virgin in the Church’s calendar, but after the only bloke in history who would take his pregnant  girlfriend on a trip without booking in advance'” (p 110). Last one, “Clare had been embarrassed, self-conscious in her laughter while Julia was free in hers” (p 286).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Brothers and Sisters” (p 47).

Learning to Say IT

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no whining
I had to say no several times yesterday. What a weird concept. Usually I skirt around the issue, not wanting to come right out with not participating. How liberating, how honest to just say no. Not now. Nope. Why haven’t I thought about this before? Why haven’t I dared?

In the case of the work whiners it was easiest when I could look at the time and say we need to continue this tomorrow. My charges? To find out what makes some so damn inefficient. Easier said than done. No Grace under pressure. I had to admire this one administrator. In mid-sentence she was told she needed to be somewhere else. It didn’t ruin her day. It didn’t ruin her attitude. She was able to slide over to a new way of thinking. When I asked her how she managed she looked at me and deadpanned, “interruption is not a word in my vocabulary.” I love it. Word to the wise. Wise up.

It’s harder to say no to friends. I had plans to get together with someone who really means a lot to me. Yet, I need to stay on my training schedule. I couldn’t have done both successfully. It bothered me that the training won out. It bothered me to have to tell her no. After all, she is my inspiration. She is my hero. Yet, I put her off, hero or not. This is the way it had to be. No, I said. I need to train. Her graceful acceptance allowed me to walk nine miles. I got it done because I didn’t give in.

Later, an invitation to chat. Under any other circumstances I would have loved sparring with this flirty friend. He’s quick with the compliments and quicker with the innuendos. I love the sass. I love the challenge this conversation always presents to me. Who can be the most indulgent, the most daring? But, sigh of all sighs, I had to tell him and his innuendos no. I needed a warm bath and a hot cup of tea. As I let the water wrap itself around my tired legs I thought about this new no I seem to have. While I don’t necessary like it or want it, it works for now. For now.

I Remember Church Going

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Larkin, Philip. “Church Going.” The Less Deceived. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1965,

Larkin, Philip. “I Remember, I Remember.” The Less Deceived. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1965.

The beginning of “Church Going” is the most fascinating. The author visits a church (not his first, nor his last) and describes what he sees and does in this latest church. There is a sense he doesn’t quite believe in the place or his unspoken reason for being there. There is a skepticism in his tone that suggests a deeper disbelief. It begins with the very first line, “Once I’m sure there’s nothing going on” [in the church] (p 28).

“I Remember, I Remember” is a little more straightforward but as equally honest. The speaker is traveling with a friend and discovers a forgotten place from childhood. Immediately, the remembering begins. My favorite line is delivered by the friend, “You look as if you wish the place in hell” (p 38). I can think of a few places in my life where I would have that look!

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Poetry Pleasers” (p 189).

Fan Man

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Kotzwinkle, William. The Fan Man. New York: Equinox, 1974.

My first thought of  The Fan Man was what drug induced craziness is this? It also happened to be my last thought when I finished Fan Man. It is chaotic and garbled. To say that I didn’t like it is not quite accurate. I get closer to the truth when I admit I didn’t understand it. Nancy Pearl described this as a book about the Age of Aquarius and maybe that’s the problem – despite being born under the sign of Aquarius, I don’t get the Age.

The Fan Man is also Horse Badorties. He is a slob, obsessed with 15 year old “chicks” he can introduce into his “love choir”, fans (the Japanese hand-held folding kind) and phones. At one part of the book he spends an entire night in a phone booth making random phone calls. At first I thought the obsession with 15 year olds was a metaphor for something else, something spiritual – especially in the context of a love choir.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called, “The Book Lust of Others” (p 33). The Fan Man happens to be a favorite of novelist Herbert Gold.

an omelette & a glass of wine

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David, Elizabeth. An Omelette and a Glass of Wine. New York: Lyons, 1984.

I think when it comes to writing about food Elizabeth David is an icon. Her books are not only widely read, but evenly more widely discussed and considered bibles in the world of gastronomy. For a woman who cooked the way she did, living all over the world, it is no surprise she is still considered one of the best food writers of all time.
David’s “career” in food writing began in 1947 with a frustration. Unable to get meals she enjoyed she vented her frustration by writing down descriptions of the food she craved, “I sat down…and started to work out an agonizing  craving for the sun and a furious revolt against that terrible, cheerless, heartless food by writing down descriptions of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cooking” (p 21). And so it began. 

Probably the best surprise to David’s writing is her humor laced with sarcasm. An Omelette and a Glass of Wine is comprised of essays the wrote for well-reputed publications such as Vogue and The Spectator. While the writing is knowledgeable and professional there is an air of whimsy and playfulness running throughout. Here is an example, just to get you started: “He [the waiter] has been five years with the French navy, alors vous comprenez madame je connais les vins, moi. What he doesn’t connait is that I like my Beaujolias cold, straight from my cellar” (p 42). In addition to having thoughtful, knowledgeable essays, An Onelette and a Glass of Wine is peppered (excuse the pun) with wonderful photographs and illustrations. This was a book I enjoyed savoring one essay at a time.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Food for Thought” (p 91).

If Elizabeth David was alive and I could ask her one question I would have to ask when, exactly, is mayonnaise season and how can I avoid it?

Broken Beautiful

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I was invited to a Girls’ Night In last Friday. It sounded amazing. Pedicures, manicures, massage, pampering, girly time. Despite the temptation of all those pedicures and manicures I concentrated on another cure. By 5:30pm I was hitting the streets training for Just ‘Cause. I don’t think I can call walking “training” without a little smile on my face, but after five miles my hips told me differently. They gently reminded me I may not be able to finish twenty let alone times three. Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the cure. I’m broken but I’m still beautiful.

The Sunday sunshine saw me out again. This time I had kisa drop me off at the public library. I’d walk home from there. 5.5 miles if I did it right. I’m noticing my new neighborhood. My new town is beautiful but in a very broken way. Bottles dropped by alcoholics who have had more than their share. Gamblers casting off their loser scratch cards by the hundreds. Flattened things. Unrecognizable things. Dirty things. Things that make my eyes slide away. My favorite moment: a young cat peers out from under a sodden, mangled box with worry in his eyes. I smile with conspiracy. Have no fear. I won’t give you away. Stay stone still and no one will take you away to anywhere. We will walk on by. Promise.

I have decided there are more important things than worrying about what everyone else is doing. I watch people become sulky and sullen when they don’t get what they want and I’ve decided it’s none of their business anyway. Instead, I will pour my energy into something more worthwhile. Petty you is not pretty to me. Everyone will be in for a shock. Maybe I’ll get that pedicure after all. In pink. Then I can say I am living it right. Broken, but beyond beautiful.

Noblest Roman

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Halberstam, David. Noblest Roman. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1961.

Noblest Roman is Halberstam’s first book. It is also one of the only two works of fiction he wrote. He would go on to prefer writing nonfiction after One Very Hot Day. It makes me wonder about the artistic preference. Why switch from fiction to nonfiction – never to go back again? It’s like the musician who prefers classical music after years of performing heavy metal. Or the watercolor painter who switches to pencil halfway through his career.

Okay. I’m off track.

Noblest Roman takes place in the south (Mississippi) and is a sly commentary on state level elections and the crookedness that comes about in small, rural communities – especially when bootlegging and prostitution are involved. I found the plot to plod and character development to be contradictory. Everything moved too slow for my taste and while one might argue that is the southern way, I found myself sleeping at the wheel too often. It is curious to note that Noblest Roman was inspired by true Mississippi events. Maybe Halberstam wasn’t that far away from nonfiction after all.

Favorite lines: “He changed the subject from Little Bilbo’s woman because listening to the old man talk about her was almost as bad as listening to her in person” (p 10). Had to laugh at that one.
“By all rights he should have been tired and unshaven and rumpled, but he looked fresh and rested. The campaign did not show on him” (p 49).
‘”I’m an old man, Angelo. Before I had a wife. Now I have a wife and a doctor”‘ (p 106).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “David Halberstam: Too Good To Miss” (p 112).

Why so Few Blacks Study Creative Writing

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Eady, Cornelius. “Why So Few Blacks Study Creative Writing.” The Gathering of My Name. New York: Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1991.

Such a long title for such a short poem! Here are the tags words I used for this poem: teacher, education, writing, students, culture, and faith. To me this was all about a growing frustration of a teacher; frustration with his students and their lack of interest in writing. I could almost see the blank stares, the “I don’t get it attitude.” I don’t think this is a cultural problem, but a culture-less epidemic that spans illiteracy and disinterest.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called, “Poetry Pleasers” (p 189).

Punch

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Feinstein, John. The Punch: One Night, Two Lives, and the Fight That Changed Basketball Forever. Boston: Little, Brown & Company, 2002.

Once I learn of a story, an incident that captures my imagination I have to research it, follow it, own it. The story behind “the punch” was no different. What happened on December 9th, 1977 was such a huge deal I needed to see the actual punch itself. Was it really that bad? That shocking? That horrible? I needed to know. In truth, the video evidence is grainy, distorted. To me, there is no way of knowing just how terrible “the punch” really was from a human nature standpoint. Guess it’s a location thing – you had to be there. If anything, I would call the punch a perfect storm. All of the elements needed to make it a horrific moment were in place: Kermit didn’t know why Rudy was charging at him – out of the corner he saw a figure in red barreling towards him. In the game of basketball you are trained to be aware of your opponent’s existence at all times. Rudy was the opponent in red. Rudy didn’t know Kermit was going to turn around and sock him. He was unaware of the danger as he ran full speed down the court. Fist meets face at full speed. Add another element: strength. Kermit was a strong, powerful man. His punching fist would have floored anyone, even if it didn’t have uninterrupted impact. When he hit Rudy, there was nothing slowing either man down.

What makes the Punch such a fascinating read is not only the play by play of the punch and the events leading up to it, but Feinstein is adament about making the reader understand these two players as people. Sports writing meets biography. There is an urgency to make one understand that both of these men were passionate people before they were passionate players. Feinstein carefully illustrates the tough beginnings, the drive and potential each of these basketball stars demonstrated at an early age, including their schooling, family lives and social circles. Even black and white photographs help bring Kermit and Rudy into reality. What is gracefully missing is, of course, the punch itself.

One of my favorite aspects of the book is Feinstein’s casual tone. Here’s how he describes Kermit meeting his wife, “The story of how she ended up meeting Kermit is a complicated one. It happened because of a friend of a friend who had once dated someone who knew another friend of Kermit’s – or something like that” (p 139).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust twice – both times in the chapter called, “Sports and Games” (p 225 & 226).

Cancer Come Get Me

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Carver, Raymond. “What the Doctor Said.” All of Us, New York: Vintage Contemporaries, 2000.

“What the Doctor Said” is about a patient receiving word from his (?) doctor that he has cancer, a cancer so lethal the doctor “stopped counting” the tumors on one lung. You can’t pray but it won’t make a difference. It’s heart breaking and stark. The message is beyond clear. You. Are. Going. To. Die. No bones about it. No hope. No cure. No way out. Imagine that. You are D-E-A-D.

This poem is perfect timing for me. I have mentioned before I have signed up for a cancer walk. 60 miles in three days. The attitude is yeah-yeah another charity. I’ve even gotten an eye roll. I hear the words: So what? Big freakin’ deal. I shouldn’t take it personally, but it still amazes me. No one has asked how they can help. No one has asked ‘how can we donate to the cause?’ They can’t wrap their brains around the fact that this walk could save a life. This walk, this dollar donated might make a difference. It’s amazing. It’s as if the world has become cynical enough to say “you won’t make a difference so I won’t throw my money away.”

What happens when you get a life threatening illness? What happens when you are told you will die? How does it make you feel to have someone say it won’t help you? The attitude is “so why don’t you go ahead and die? It will be painful but just die because I can’t make a difference. I won’t make a difference.”

Drives me nuts.

Can’t Count

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For lack of something better to say, here’s something I never posted.

I don’t want to count today’s run for anything except a cemetery visit. After kisa and I got the driveway, porches and walkways cleared of snow it seemed ridiculous to hop on an indoor treadmill. The sun was shining a brilliant blue. Not a cloud in sight. Birds darted among the bushes. 18 degrees felt like 800 after shoveling. Perfect for a graveyard run. Or so I thought.

Here are the things I have forgotten about since my last ‘coil run’ (I’m talking about the coils runners wear over their shoes to avoid slipping on ice – love them!):

  • coils “roll” on pavement
  • coils slip in fluffy snow
  • coils are perfect on icy ice

So, I tried to look for patches of ice to run on the entire time. It seems strange to say that, but it was true. The metal coils worked best when they could dig into the surface and hang on. Snow packed in between the coils and pavement just made the coils roll like springs. Running in snow was like running in very fine, very loose sand. My ankles grew sore and my calves tightened. Hell on the thighs, too.
I had completely forgotten what it was like to run outside in below freezing temps. Tears freeze halfway down the face despite feeling hot everywhere else. Snot starts to lodge itself like ice chunks. In the beginning, speaking of snot, I had a snot bubble that refused to pop. With every breath it grew and shrank like a giant bullfrog throat (crazy image, right? It’s true). It made me giggle until it started to freeze in my nose. Giggling turned to gross in a matter of seconds.
Running outside in the snow affords me the luxury in running in someone else’s footsteps for a while. Someone wearing coils like mine on shoes twice as big. For a while I could match his or her stride footstep for footstep and I fell into an easy rhythm. Then the packed snow ended and I lost my imaginary running mate. It was time for me to turn towards the cemetery.
Running up to the spot I spotted a man not wearing a coat…or a hat…or gloves. In this cold I had reason to worry. Instantly my heart began to race and panic threatened. We made eye contact, said hello and separated. Him leaving the graveyard, me going deeper into it. Remembering I had my phone with me I relaxed as the man continued to move further away.
On the way out I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mr. NoCoat was coming back. Panic was also back, so on gut instinct I bolted across the road and down a side street. I swear I watch too much crime television. I’m paranoid. Nevertheless I hated seeing the same stranger twice. Getting away from him was the only thing on my mind as I cut across another street and up onto a very public sidewalk. There I felt safe enough to slow back down to a breathable, less heart attack inducing pace.

I never did find Rick and Irene’s graves. The snow was too crusty for me to brush away. I never did see NoCoat again. I can’t count this as a real run. Emotions got the better of me. This would have been a 3.25 30 minute run had it not been for digging in the snow and trying to outrun my fear.

Tract

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Williams, William Carlos. “Tract.” The Collected Earlier Poems of William Carlos Williams. New York: New Directions, 1951.

This is an ashes to ashes, dust to dust kind of poem. Williams is pleading with his community to spare the glitz and glamour when it comes to burying the dead. He believes in sending a body back to the earth in the simplest way possible. A gentle return, if you will. He asks that his townspeople remember the person for who they were and not who they wanted to be. Do not remember them by the status they kept in society, but rather by the things the departed held dear. Share emotions like grief for they are the true gifts of mourning.

BookLust Twist: In More Book Lust in the chapter, “Poetry Pleasers” (p 189).

Astonishing Splashes of Colour

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MorrallMorrall, Clare. Astonishing Splashes of Colour. New York:  Harper Collins, 2004.

This is the kind of book I could read a thousand times over. This is the style of writing I most identify with. Astonishing Splashes of Colour is so intimate and in-your-face I feel as if Morrall’s main character, Kitty, is leaning in to tell me deep and dark secrets, stories of embarrassing moments, and airing her dirty laundry with a wave of her hand and an air of factual nonchalance. She makes me squirm with her frankness, her vulnerability. Helpless and hopeless, Kitty is the me in the mirror.

Kitty is a thirty-something with something to hide. Her past has as many demons and devils as it does angels. Losing her mother at three years old, the knowledge of an older sister who ran away from home, the fact having four brothers who not only are disconnected from one another but only pretend to be connected to her, the frustrations of having a father who loses himself in painting and has episodes of pouting, the confusion of having an excessively neat husband who lives across the hall in a separate apartment, the heartbreak of a miscarriage Kitty insists on waiting for after school…then there are the colors. Kitty has the uncanny ability to see human emotion, human circumstance as a myriad of color. Her world is not black and white sane, but rather a rainbow of mental chaos. As if all this wasn’t enough everything turns out different from what one would expect. I couldn’t put it down…

Lines I can relate to: “I fight back a wave of giggles that threatens to ripple through me” (p 63). I laugh at inappropriate moments, too.
“I can’t decide which is worse, to not have a mother, or to not have children. An empty space in both directions. No backwards, no forwards” (p 65).
“I would have books around me even if I were blind. I need the smell” (p 138).

There are, of course, many more lines I could quote. This novel, this flash of brilliance definitely resonated with me.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called, “Sibs” (p 201).

Table Talk

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table talk
Stevens, Wallace. “Table Talk.” Opus Posthumous. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1957.

I like the first line best, “Granted, we die for good.” I can just imagine two people sitting around a kitchen table talking about why they like certain things and how it all matters only when you are alive. While all poetry can be manipulated to suit the reader, I believe that Wallace’s philosophical nature comes through in “Table Talk.” There is an awareness to the good things in life; the joys of being alive. It’s almost as if this poem is more than good timing.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Poetry Pleasers” (p 189).

Blind Faith

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peaceWhat exactly does that mean, blind faith? Is it stupid trust? Is it unknowing confidence? Is it naive hope? What does it mean to have blind faith in something you don’t believe in? Such are the questions. Where are the answers? I am too headstrong for reasoning.

You accused me of something so blind, so stupid, so unknowing and naive. Where was the faith? The trust? The confidence? The hope that I would never steer you wrong. To do you wrong is to do an army of people wrong. Don’t get me wrong, but an army of people more precious than what I mean to you. That might not be saying much, but that’s what I mean without saying too much.

I have given up trying to be meaner than how angry I really am. It’s like too sweet frosting on a cake made without sugar. The compensation just doesn’t cut it. Proportionally, it doesn’t make sense. At the end of the day I find myself not really caring. That’s not mean, just real. Why get fired up over something I have no fire for? It’s like the person who hates without knowing. Hating just because it seems like the right easy thing to do. In the end, when it’s all said and done, was that hate worth anything to the hater? Not really sure. Wasted energy some would say. For a life too short, I would add.

What exactly am I trying to say? I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll never know. This is what came to mind when I thought about you. This is what popped out when I opened my mind to think. So, in the spirit of blind faith I say have faith no more. “Open up your eyes. See me for what I am. Cast in iron I won’t break and I won’t bend.” ~ Headstrong, 10,000 Maniacs.  Words by Natalie Merchant.