Author: gr4c5

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

Nowhere city

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Lurie, Alison. The Nowhere City. New York: Coward-McCain, 1966.

I just literally put this book down minutes ago. All during the reading I stressed aboult what to say about it. It’s not that I hated it. It’s really enjoyable – a short, fun read. What I didn’t care for were the main characters.

New Englanders Paul and Katherine move to Los Angeles so that Paul can write the history of a rather large (and secretive) corporation. Paul has been hired by them (as a historian) to write this book for them, yet there are all sorts of confidentiality issues. Katherine hates LA. From the moment she arrives her sinuses have been acting up and she hates everything and nearly everyone around her…including her husband. Paul is the polar opposite and in his exuberance for the city and culture, finds himself involved with a local bohemian artist/waitress. Soon, Paul’s new life spins out of control while Katherine has a more gradual, precise metamorphosis. It’s no surprise that in the end it’s Katherine who loves L.A. and Paul who can’t wait to leave. It is hard to drum up sympathy for either character. Right from the start Katherine comes across as overly whiny and Paul is eager to have his first Californication affair. Of course there are movie stars and counter-culture characters that make the rest of the plot lively.

Favorite lines: “She had forgotten handbags, suitcases, packages, contracts, and every imaginable  and unimaginable piece of clothing, in every imaginable and unimaginable place. She had also, at one time or another, misplaced a pregnant police dog, a pink Edsel automobile, and two husbands” (p 24).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Marriage Blues” (p 161).

Cosmic

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When it comes to music I need advance notice. I need a schedule. I need a plan. I think that’s why last month’s trek to Worcester was so weird. It’s really rare when I catch a performance on a whim, when I don’t know the whole game plan. It’s like a perfect storm – everything needs to be aligned – conditions exact.

Why am I saying this? Where am I going with this? Sean Rowe. I caught his live radio show completely by accident. Here’s what happened:
Today was a farm day. Depressing. Everything is started to die. Damp, sour, rot. There is decay in the fields. Tomatoes and tomatillos lie dirt bound, their green leaves history. A quietness in the raspberry bushes. They no longer buzz with the frenzy of bees and butterflies. It’s getting too cold. I didn’t stay long. I stocked up on carrots, purple onions, bok choy, spinach, arugula, and kale. Carefully cut bouquets of basil, oregano, flat leaf parsley, thyme and rosemary… then sadly turned away.
At home the sadness hung off my shoulders, made me heavy and tired. Determined to get lost in sunny California I read The Nowhere City by Alison Lurie until sleep dropped my book and closed my eyes. When I woke I checked email and found Surprise and sheer luck. Sean was live in the 97.7 wnex studio and shock of all shocks, I hadn’t miss it. I had 2 minutes to spare, even. Shocker. I connected without confusion. Here’s the setlist:

  • Jonathan ~ did NOT expect to hear this one. It’s one of my favorites.
  • Wrong side of the bed
  • Surprise
  • Night

It was nice to hear Sean talk about the music. Don’t get me wrong, I like hearing him sing. But, But! There is something to what he says when he sings. There is something to where he is going with his songs. I like hearing about that, too. It makes the music move in different ways, if that makes sense.

So, thank you wnex, thank you Sean for the nice surprise. Can’t wait for the new album! It will be ‘Magic’ (pun completely intended)!

Diaries of Jane Somers

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Lessing, Doris. The Diaries of Jane Somers: The Diary of a Good Neighbour and If the Old Could… New York: Vintage, 1984.

Here’s what I find fascinating about Doris Lessing – she wanted to publish something pseudonymously. She chose the name Jane Somers, wrote in a completely different voice and then submitted  The Diaries of a Good Neighbour. Her own publishers turned her down. One publisher (who accepted the Somers work) was reminded of Doris Lessing! Can you imagine writing with such personal style that its recognizable without an author name attached? Even after you try to hide your true voice? That, to me, is real fame in the world of writing!

The Diaries of Jane Somers is comprised of two emotional, very telling, sad novels, The Diary of a Good Neighbour and If the Old Could…. In The Diary of a Good Neighbour Jane befriends an elderly woman. What I find fascinating about this story is Jane herself. She is middle-aged, has no children, and is a highly successful, fashionable editor of a woman’s magazine. She comes across as unfeeling and snobbish. She barely mourns the loss of her husband to cancer, is decidedly cold about the death of her mother by the same disease, and is completely disconnected from her sister. With no real friends of her own she even shuns her elderly neighbor desperate for companionship. Oddly enough, Jane meets Maudie, a dirty, ferociously proud woman in her 90’s and instantly feels a connection. The Diary of a Good Neighbour not only details the two women and their remarkable friendship but voices what it means to be vulnerable, to have shame, and, to grow old in a society that prides itself on youthful appearances, vitality and independence.
If the Old Could…is a continuation of Jane’s story. Told several years after the death of Maudie (sorry, but you knew she couldn’t live forever, right?) Jane falls in love with a married man. This time her selflessness is poured into helping her nieces as well as finding what it means to truly hurt over another person.

Favorite lines: “She was literally inarticulate with anger” (p 59). This scene is like a chapter out of my own life. Not that my sister and I have ever had the conversation tied to this statement, but I could picture us having it.
“…I don’t know what children are, and I’m not entitled to say a word, because of my selfish childishness…” (p 62).
“Meanwhile I rage with sorrow” (79). Isn’t this just great? Some people imagine sorrow being this quiet, slow-moving, thick and heavy emotion yet Lessing turns it into this live-wire, powerfully explosive, loud and in your face emotion with one word, rage.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Aging” (p 17). Very appropriate.

Going the Wrong Way

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Clown car
Clown car

I got a ticket. A fukcing parking ticket. Only my third in my entire life. Only the second one that was actually my fault. Ironically, the two tickets that mattered were for the exact same thing: parking in the wrong direction. Go figure. Leave it to me to park in the wrong direction. I’m irritated. But, before I spit and spew and rant about the this newest ticket, let me take you on a parking ticket detour. Better yet, I’ll give you my whole freakin’ driving history and then maybe my irate manner will make more sense.

I didn’t get my license until I was 25. Don’t laugh. I didn’t need it. I got around just fine with the help of extremely cute boyfriends, generous girlfriends and the strength of my own two legs. When I got a license (finally) I proceded to be the model driver (according to the DMV). They didn’t know about the time I somehow got my Cutlass Cierra Clown Car stuck on the doorframe of my garage…or the time I crashed into a curb going 15 miles an hour with three sleepy passengers. Or the time I killed a frog. Splat.
My first recordable offense was parking the wrong way. A $35 fine in Morristown, New Jersey. I’ll never forget it. A friend was in town and we were going to see a movie. Cruising down a side street, looking for a parking spot I saw one on the other side. What would you do? I pulled a u-turn and parked. No big deal, right? Wrong. It was a one way street.
My second offense was a warning. A cop caught me pulling another u-turn. Illegally. This time in Chicopee, MA. I was horribly lost and horribly late to meet my rigid, watch-watching, pain in the azz, control freak boyfriend. Through tears and sobs I woefully explained my carelessness and lateness and lostness to the cop. He took pity on me and let me off with a warning. What I could have really used were directions. You know, one of those police escorts with lights? When I finally got myself home aforementioned boyfriend wouldn’t speak to me for nearly a day. Brat.
My third offense was a doozy. Accused of blowing a red light. I won’t get into it, but suffice it to say I crawled through a green-yellow-then red light, only to be pulled over. I fought the ticket and was found not accountable. So there!
My fourth offense (and second ever parking ticket) wasn’t my fault. Same schmuck of a boytoy borrowed my car, got drunk, got a ride home and got me a ticket.

Which brings me to my latest offense. Parking in front of my own house. Going the wrong way. $10. Seeing as how I’ve worn myself out ranting about the other offenses all I have to say about this one is: In the grand scheme of things is that really necessary?

But You Love Me Anyway

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Rock Love
New love has quirks that are considered cute and lovable. Those things that a new lover says and does that are oh so different and revealing and disregarded. Those things are even adorable for a little while. Then, reality bites. Hard. There comes that time after the dust of desire has settled and new love matures into you and me, not one without the other. A given that you and me will be together. That’s when quirky becomes quite something else. Confusing. Contradicting. Infuriating. How we deal with these things that were once so lovable is a good indication of new loves maturity into real love. For me, adding up the quirks and realizing you are still with me is how I know you still love me. Regardless.

I was on the phone with a friend so I couldn’t quite comprehend the conversation occuring without me. I heard something about shoes. Something about a wallet. You were laughing. I knew you could only be discussing my quirks. With my friends no less. Some of whom have a whole wealth of stories on their own. I brought this on myself. I know I did.

It started innocently enough. It was last week. I was cooking curry turkey burgers and had somehow put the buns together wrong. Top with a top, bottom with a bottom. Still edible in my mind – just not pretty to look at. I’ve done it a hundred times before. You came down the stairs in time to hear me swear, in time to watch me try to flip bottom bun for a top. I turned to you and hissed through gritted teeth, “I will always leave my shoes in the middle of the floor. I will always misplace my keys. And. I will ALWAYS put the wrong halves of the buns together! So. You’ll just have to deal with it!” Instead of taking the bait. Instead of picking the fight I was wanting to have, you smiled at me and said gently, “I know something else you will always do.” Forgetting to be angry I dropped the fight and stopped dead. “What?” I wanted to know. “I’ll give you a hint” you replied as you proceded to close every cabinet door in the kitchen. What can I say? I was cooking like a fiend and didn’t have time to close cabinets!

I like tallying the quirks. I like seeing the oddities add up. The longer the list, the more I know you love me. Despite it all you love me anyway.
For the record:

  • I take my shoes off wherever and just leave them for kisa to trip over
  • I leave cups of half finished coffee in odd places, fully intending to finish them later (until they mold)
  • I lose my wallet, keys and/or phone on a regular, sometimes daily, basis
  • I leave cabinet doors open
  • I cannot put burgers together correctly
  • I hand material objects to random people and won’t remember it later
  • I have to cover restaurant food with a napkin when I’m finished
  • I cannot open resealable bags without somehow ruining the ziplock

To the love of my life. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being my lover. Thank you for making me strive to be a better person. I may have my quirks but my life is perfect with you in it. Happy anniversary!
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Rebecca’s Iron Horse Night

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Raining in Georgia
Raining in Georgia

I never remember to write a setlist while Rebecca is singing. I never try to write a review while in the midst of her music. It is hard enough to acknowledge the friends and family around me let alone pay attention to pen and paper.
Yet. And yet trying to review after the fact is always a daunting task. The mind is a funny thing. I might remember something out of order. I may remember something that may or may not have ever happened. Who really knows?
But, here is how I think it went:

  • Breathe
  • Tell Kyle
  • Miss You
  • Nashville (? new song)
  • Hold Me
  • Home*
  • Raining in Georgia**

* Encore encouraged by Vance Gilbert
** Performed with Vance Gilbert

After a small confusion with the tickets we all finally got seated and situated in a darker than dark corner. We sat at a high, wobbly table on stools too high for me. I remained half standing, turned away from my party in order to enjoy the show.
Rebecca looked great. Summer has agreed with her (love the haircut – somehow it looks different from the last time we saw her). She opened at the keyboard with Breathe, the song she wrote when she was just 16 years old. I always picture something different every time I hear this song. She didn’t go back to the keyboard again, but played guitar for the rest of the set. I’m not sure of the order of the rest of the show except the last two songs.
I’m sure Nashville isn’t the name of the new song but Rebecca told a funny story about how when she moved there she missed Massachusetts…but as soon as she came home she wrote a song about coming home…to Nashville. I know exactly how she feels. I have that same pull to Colorado.
Hold Me is always going to devastate me. I can remember the day after I finished running 13.1 miles for LLS I found out someone I had been running in honor of had since passed, my friend’s cancer was back with a vengeance and Rebecca’s mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. It made me feel like everything I had been fighting for failed in some twisted, horrific way. Rebecca’s mom was at the show and I’m sure she had tears of pride in her eyes as she heard Hold Me.
I am greatful to Vance for getting Rebecca back on the stage to sing Home, the Cowboy Christmas song. It’s definitely one of my favorites from the Turks album (it ends the album). I love the fiestiness of it.

As a special treat Vance Gilbert asked Rebecca to join him for a song. No other headliner does that (least not while I’m there). They sang Raining in Georgia together. At first it was simply amazing. Then it turned funny as they tried to outdo each other (last time they did this Rebecca ended up doing a handstand on stage because she couldn’t compete with Vance’s scat abilities). Rebecca’s voice has a richness to it. It takes you places. As Vance said, Rebecca has the voice of a broken angel. So, so true.

Thanks for the tears, girl. They needed to be shed.

You Must Remember

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Notes to myself.
You must remember the coffee is terrible. You must remember the chairs are dreadful. You must remember to buy merchandise directly through the performer’s website and not at the venue. These are things you should already know about the Iron Horse. Here are some new ones: You also must remember not to order the fries. They do not resemble potatoes in the slightest; the waitstaff definitely will not remember to bring you vinegar and above all else, you will let these so-called potato things grow cold while Rebecca sings.
Here are other things you could do well to remember: For starters, do not be afraid to get up and move around in order to take better pictures of Rebecca’s performance. You really should know by now that any more than ten feet away is going to render your little elf useless.
Second of all, and this is something you definitely should know by now: remember to bring tissues. Face facts. Some of Rebecca’s music hits home and hurts to the bone. You are going to cry whether you want to or not. At some time or another it’s going to happen. It’s a sure thing if ‘Hold Me’ is on the imaginary set list so suck it up and bring tissues.

To be continued…

Code Book

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Singh, Simon. The Code Book: The Science of Secrecy from Ancient Egypt to Quantum Cryptography. New York: Anchor Books, 1999.

My first September book and I started it a little late. I think it got to me by September 8th.

Much like how Mark Kurlansky makes a subject like salt interesting, Simon Singh makes all things code fascinating. From the very beginning The Code Book was informative and interesting. Peppered with photographs and diagrams, The Code Bookrecounted the events in history where the ability to break a code (or not) meant life or death. Beginning with Queen Mary of Scot’s attempted plot to murder Queen Elizabeth on through the first and second World Wars. The only time I really got bogged down was, of course, when Singh would get a little too detailed with mathematical explanations of more difficult codes and ciphers.

Love love love this line (from the introduction): “The only people who are in a position to point out my errors are also those who are not at liberty to reveal them” (p xvii). Brilliant!
Another good line: “This was clearly a period of history that tolerated a certain lack of urgency” (p 5). This sentence doesn’t make such sense as is. What I need to explain is that during the period of 480 B.C. secret messages were written on the shaved scalps of messengers. To disguise the message there was a waiting period while the messenger’s hair grew back in. I wish I could have told my nephew this story! He would have loved the idea of being a spy (see below)!

Dancing with Wrench

BookLust Twist: More Book Lust in the chapter, “Codes and Ciphers” (p 50), and in the introduction as an off-hand mention (p xi).

Tonight Tonight Tonight

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Miss You cds
Miss You cds

 Could I be anymore freakin’ excited about tonight? Probably not. I can’t remember the last time I saw Rebecca perform. Wait. I think it’s coming back to me…she had just sat next to Aaron Neville on a plane and had been to the CMAs. We hung out for a little bit to hear about her jetset life in Musical Capital Nashville, TN. Okay, so even though I can remember the time I still can say it has been way too long. Waaay too long. As you all know, Rebecca Correia is one of my favorite people in the whole wide world and, and, and she just happens to have one of my favorite voices, too. Her Miss You cd is amazing, lyrically and instrumentally. I think it goes without saying she puts more heart into her music than 75% of what’s on the radio today. Seriously.

So – tonight. Tonight! Tonight we will sit in incredibly uncomfortable wooden chairs that creak, we’ll be incredibly squooshed together, we’ll be enjoying incredibly BadForYou food like pulled pork sandwiches and nachos laden with cheese. We’ll indulge in wickedly evil Wicked Wally desserts dripping with chocolate slime. We’ll laugh at each other and enjoy Rebecca’s goofy stage presence while her voice fills a void. At least, that’s what will happen for me anyway!

Sunday Ticket

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True to my word, these are my waking thoughts.
I have decided to give myself a Sunday ticket. I’m done house hunting. I’m done house talking. I’m done house pushing. This open mind for houses is now closed. My ticket to Sunday is the freedom to do whatever I want.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort we put into looking, because I do. I learned a lot. We spent a solid month opening cabinets, trudging down into dark basements, standing in backyards, peering out windows, talking the talk, walking the walk. Kicking the tires on a place called home. It was a learning experience, for sure. In every place I imagined trying to live there, trying to be happy there – asking myself what would it take? With 80% of them it was an impossible feat. It was all we could do to keep from running away. Laughing all the while, but running just the same. But, but. But! With three – only three – houses I found myself. I could see Bruno in the rocking chair. Zeke on the sun porch. Turtles lining the window sills. Cookbooks around the counters. House #1 had a foundation problem not worth looking into. House #2 had a driveway problem impossible to look into. House #3 had a price problem too tiring to look into.
So. All this looking has been fun. But, I want my Sundays back.

World’s Fair

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Doctorow, E.L. World’s Fair. New York: Fawcett Crest, 1985.

This is another challenge book that I read out of order. It was supposed to be on the July list. The only reason for this out-of-orderness was I didn’t plan very well. Technically, I have two Early Review books and four challenge books on the way but…you guessed it, none of them are here yet. I needed something to read over the weekend after finally, finally unpacking from the trip, while waiting for laundry (seven loads) to cycle and while Kisa was at a Patriots game. While this was a chore chocked weekend I needed to do my own thing, too. Nothing beats uninterrupted reading!

World’s Fair is the brilliant story of a boy named Edgar and his life in the 1930’s in New York City. Spanning Manhattan, the Bronx and Brooklyn, all senses come alive with Doctorow’s descriptive narrative. From the bustling, noisy market places to the quieter mom & pop shops; from the silent synagogues to the crowded beaches of Rockaway, New York is on display through the eyes of a child. Edgar is the youngest brother in a musical family. As he grows up, goes to school and becomes more aware of the world around him, politics and economics become less abstract and more of a reality in his day to day life. He sees his parents not getting along, his brother becoming more adult (and less fun), grandparents getting frailer, and finally, his own life becoming more complicated.

I thoroughly enjoyed World’s Fair. It was a clean, straightforward book with lots of vivid description and emotion. Most of the time Edgar tells the story, but intermittently his mother Rose, or brother Donald will step in for a chapter. Even an aunt has a moment in the story.

Favorite lines: “I am roused from sleep in one instant from glutinous sleep to grieving awareness” (p 4), “My mother ran our home and our lives with a kind of tactless administration that often left a child with bruised feelings, though an indelible understanding of right and wrong” (p 13), “this was her way, to express concern from opposite sides of the crisis” (p 27), and “I lived in the weather of my mother’s spirit,  and at these times, after these visits, the sky grew black” (p 96).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “New York, New York” (p 170).

Before the Beginning

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Morning Harbor

This is the time of morning I wait for. The air is still. The harbor rolls gently, causing the moored boats to nod to one another solemnly. One or two people wander by quietly. Somewhere, a truck starts up and birds mutter to themselves. There is quiet activity, a gentle buzz. The island is alive but at the same time it feels as though everything is barely stirring. Muted almost as though under water.
When I was a kid, no more than five or six, I used to sit on the top step leading up to our apartment. I would listen for the early morning coo of the mourning doves, watch the early bird birders with binoculars slung around their necks. The light was magical at that time of day. I remember waiting for something. Even now I couldn’t tell you what.

My husband can sit in front “Sunrise Earth” all day. Have you seen it? I don’t know who thought up this programming, but more importantly I’d like to meet the person he or she sold the idea to. It has got to be one patient person. I can just imagine the sales pitch: “I’ve got this great idea for a television show! Cameras record the sunrise…in real time. No soundtrack, no narration. Just the sun rising from different angles. We’ll capture bugs stirring, birds chirping…maybe the sound of water if it’s in the shot.”
Really, that’s all the show is about. Watching the sun rise. A bug may land on a twig for a few minutes. A bird might buzz a camera. A nearby brook may be gurgling away. That’s about it. For some (many?) it’s the equivalent of watching paint dry.

Me, I would like to see an episode filmed from my tippy top stair. Bring me back to the beginning – before the beginning of another busy day.

Stalkerish

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Dust sticks to wet paint
Doesn

I was perusing someone’s photos the other day when I got that eerie feeling they were a bit stalkerish. You know, that ‘Wow, that is really intrusive’ feeling. My only problem was I couldn’t pinpoint why I felt that way. I was enjoying the photographs until I got to a certain one that seemed to go overboard, get too close. The next one was more of the same and so I stopped looking – turned away from the discomfort I was feeling. I don’t think I’ll go back.

My experience with the photos got me thinking about home and the levels of intrusiveness I felt there. Early in our vacation Kisa, the boys and I were hiking the island. We stopped to catch our breath at a very popular landmark, and to enjoy the view. Of course there were tourists on every side and their conversations were easily overheard. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to live out here,” one woman exclaimed. “All these people walking through their back yards.” I snickered and Kisa cast a knowing smile. For years he has been hearing my gripes about tourists taking advantage of such an unusual place. They walk across private porches, set up easels in the middle of the only road, have lunch in obvious backyards, let their dogs dump in vegetable gardens. This attititude of I can do anything while I’m on vacation has been long debated. I’m not bringing up anything new. But, it made me wonder – what makes separates fan from fanatic, tourist from terrible?
In the picture above a woman has set up her easel on the dock. Look for the hat by the door of the silver truck. This dock is where 3-5 trucks converge to pick up island supplies, luggage, etc. It’s a more that busy, hectic place. In the bigger picture another woman has set up her easel in the shadowed portion of the road. Not only that but she has chosen a dangerous corner where she isn’t all that visible. She and the woman on the dock are lucky they didn’t get sideswiped!

Devil in a Blue Dress

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Mosley, Walter. Devil in a Blue Dress. New York: Pocket Books, 1990.

I have to admit I picked this book up by accident. I was vacationing and needed a quick book. Something to pick up while I waited for the pasta water came to a boil, or while the boys were still sleeping. I remembered this being part of the Challenge and decided to see if I could read it in less than 36 hours.

Devil in a Blue Dress is Walter Mosley’s first book and kicks off the Easy Rawlins series. Ezekiel “Easy” Rawlins is a black war WWII vet prone to violent flashbacks. In the beginning Devil in a Blue Dress he is fired from his defense plant job and doesn’t know how he’s going to pay the mortgage next month. By the second chapter Easy has been hired to locate a missing girlfriend, a devil in a blue dress, as they say. Throughout the next 200 pages Easy faces his share of violence, sex, racism and mystery but in the end, discovers a new found career – private investigations.

My favorite line: “He put up his hand as if he wanted me to bend down so he could whisper something but I didn’t think that anything he had to offer could improve my life” (p25). It’s that kind of sense of humor and sarcasm that carries Devil in a Blue Dress. You don’t realize that Mosley is telling you more than a story. He’s giving you a social commentary on what it meant to be a black man, riding the line of poverty in the 1940’s.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Walter Mosley: Too Good To Miss” (p 169).