Author: gr4c5

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

Ode to an Artman (Paris)

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 paris.jpg

I have this friend. I don’t really know how to describe our friendship other than Distantly Clicking. Does that make sense? Of course not. We met via the Internet. Trading Natalie Merchant’s voice by postal express. While that seemed to be the only thing we had in common we hit it off, became fast friends, as they say. We wrote back and forth enthusiastically for the longest time. I couldn’t even tell you how long. Until finally. Finally. Natalie toured and we decided to meet for real. At a show. “Don’t mail. Let’s meet.” “Look for me…I’ll be in black” or something like that. We met in Albany, NY. I’ll never forget it. As soon as we “recognized” each other we were laughing and screeching and flinging ourselves at each other. He picked me up and swung me around like a long lost sister. He presented me a glass turtle necklace “from Paris.” Long lost souls finally together for the pairing. Weird. Like I said, we hit it off. As Natalie as our instigator we met up as often as we could. Very rarely did we sit together but as the house lights dimmed we would make sure to wish each other ‘good show’ before hustling off to our designated seats. Good show – as if we, and not Natalie, would be taking to the stage in a matter of mere minutes.

These days we don’t see each other often enough. It’s been seven years and Natalie doesn’t tour like she used to. Our zip codes don’t match; our addresses too far apart. We still talk via electronics but I miss his face almost as much as her voice. Recently, he announced another gallery opening, another show, another endeavor, another new thing. Another something I would miss out on. More than a little disappointed I decided to buy his art instead. Something for me, something for kisa and maybe something for the office. I decided to break an Art Rule and go with something un-island-like. I went with Paris.

The Way Men Act

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Way Men ActLipman, Elinor. The Way Men Act. New York: Washington Square Press, 1992.

 I had to laugh when I wrote out the title of this blog. Yet another one that could be misconstrued as something juicy and personal. I guess I could write a whole dissertation on the way men act towards me, but that wouldn’t be the book review that this is intended to be.

Elinor Lipman celebrates a birthday in October so it was only appropriate that I try to squeeze in a novel of hers in the last days of the dying month. I have met Lipman before (at a local conference) so it was no surprise to discover The Way Men Act takes place in “my” town. While thinly veiled as somewhere else it was easy to recognize the landmarks and quirks that make up where I live. I have to admit that made reading The Way Men Act a little difficult. The entire time I pictured real store fronts, real schools, real people.
All in all I breezed through this book because it was a simple read. The kind of chick lit you crawl in the bath with and can read in one soak. The plot isn’t complicated, only fun fun fun, the way chick lit is supposed to read. Lipman’s heroine, Melinda LeBlanc returns home to Harrow. She has mixed feelings about being back where she grew up as if being home implies she didn’t make it in the real world. She comes back (single at 30) to work in her cousin’s flower shop. Her job is sandwiched between two other come-home-again classmates from high school: Libby, a fashion designer with her own shop, and Dennis, a wiz at tying flies for fishing for his own shop. In addition to being hung up on being home, Melinda has issues with educational status (Harrow is a snobby college town and she only has a high school degree) and of course, men. The ending was predictable. Melinda is too talented to be working for someone else, and yes, she’s gets the guy.

Favorite line: “Could a man hate me that strenuously that the weight of it would flip itself over and come up again as love?” (p 49)
I flagged other lines only to realize it wasn’t the wording I admired so much. It was Melinda’s relationship with her mother. Every scene had me envious of their obvious closeness.

BookLust Twist: Mentioned twice in Book Lust once in the chapter “Elinor Lipman: Too Good To Miss (p 146), and “My Own Private Dui” (p 165).  The latter chapter begs an explanation: Pearl has her own classification system for her books and The Way Men Act falls under the category of “books I reread when I’m feeling blue” (p 166).

Bean Trees

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Bean TreesKingsolver, Barbara. The Bean Trees.New York: HarperPerennial, 1989. 

Barbara Kingsolver is my favorite author. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I love the way she writes. The Bean Trees is on my Book Lust list and I’ve already read it hundreds of time. It’s the book I grab when I am in between other reads. It’s the book I reach for when I have a few minutes to kill while the rice bubbles on the stove. Given the chance to read it again just for Book Lust I am more than happy to jump at the chance.

Taylor Greer isn’t Taylor until she takes to the highway. Leaving her hometown of Kentucky to see something other than small town rumors and ruts she finds herself on the road, “adopting” a three year old American Indian girl on the way then finally landing in Tucson, Arizona.  Taylor is smart, witty and, for lack of a better word, feisty. She tells us her story with great observance to the spirit of humanity.

One of the things I love about Kingsolver’s work is the reoccurring themes: respect for nature described in gorgeous, vibrant detail, immigration and the political implications, the joys and struggles of motherhood (especially the single mother), the value of both belonging to a community and having independence. The Bean Trees is no different. All of these themes are carefully woven into the framework of the novel.

My favorite lines (okay some of them): “Whatever you want the most, it’s going to be the worst thing for you” (p 62).
“There were two things about Mama. One is she always expected the best out of me. And the other is that then no matter what I did, whatever I came home with, she acted like it was the moon I had just hung up in the sky and plugged in all the stars. Like I was that good” (p 10).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust’s first chapter called”Adapting to Adoption” (p 1). I have to admit I don’t agree with Pearl’s description of how Taylor “acquires” the American Indian child. Pearl says “When Taylor Greer leaves Kentucky for points west in order to escape the confines of small-town life, she finds an abandoned and abused Cherokee child left in her car…” (p 2). It actually went more like this: “Then she set this bundle down on the seat of my car. “Take this baby,” she said….”where do you want me to take it?” She looked back at the bar, and then looked at me. “Just take it.” I waited a minute, thinking that soon my mind would clear and I would understand what she was saying. It didn’t.” (The Bean Trees p 17). This is a poignant scene to me and it makes a big difference (to me) whether the child was left or handed over.

ps~ November is National Adoption month. I reread this just a tad early.

Critter

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I love this picture. It looks like the lobster is taking a bow. A final gesture before meeting his demise. His action is grand despite his impending doom. It’s as if to say “farewell, cruel world!” before gallantly swan-diving into the boil. I wish we could all face the inevitable that way. It would be so wonderful to be so brave, so grandiose, so c’est la vie!
But this isn’t about Final Destination, or lobsters, or even posturing before pooping out. Believe it or not, my mind is on perception, misconception and everything in between. Here’s what I hope isn’t being perceived of me: I hope that the people who love me don’t think I have fallen into a depth of a despair from which I cannot recover. That’s hardly the case. I’m dealing with an anger so white-hot, so molten that I hardly know myself in the actions and reactions I take (or don’t because I know myself that well). The anger in itself has me chaosed and confused. I’m not used to dealing with a hate this hurtful. Forgive me while I take all the time in the world to wash it away. For it will wash away. It will.
The other misconception I want to address before it becomes a false reality is the notion that I am not okay with every minuscule molecule that makes up my being. I love who I am and how I got this way. Every circumstance in my life has shaped my personality, my ways of seeing the world, and even my ways of dealing with it. I have been called crazy, emotional, funny, and even fragile. I have my reasons for every one of those traits. I can be all those things and more. I am all those things. I will not apologize for any of it. It’s simply who I am and who I will always be. I wasn’t always so forgiving of myself but, now I am more than fine with my life’s history, it’s present and even the future (as I want it to be).
Just know this. Please. The critter in this picture might be scared sh!tless about what is about to happen to him. But. But, my perception is that he is okay with it. I’d have to ask him to know otherwise (and speak Crustacean). Perception is reality until you have the guts to ask.

(photo by Heather Wasklewicz)

On the Doorstep

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I am on the doorstep of getting back to good.
When Kisa and I were first dating …no. Let me rephrase. When Kisa and I were in the throes of seriousness and living together full tilt I would randomly blurt out “don’t leave me.” I don’t know where this utterance came from or why I sounded so desperate. But, it was my darkest fear. He would sometimes joke his response, “where would I go?” but more often he would sense the seriousness and whisper “I’m not going anywhere.” In those days I was petrified he would decide I was too damaged, too whacked out for his sensibilities. The last time I seriously feared this was when I was standing in a wedding gown, feet encased in ice. I was more than 30 minutes late to my own ceremony because I was convinced I wasn’t good enough. Kisa was already at the alter so I couldn’t tell him Don’t Leave. Kisa knew all my secrets but that didn’t change my Turn Back attitude.
These days he is my rock. I don’t ask him not to leave as much. It still slips out from time to time but it has become more of a private joke than anything else. I still feel like I’m a crystal vase with a hidden crack, a perfect rose with an aphid problem, a masterpiece with peeling paint. But, as Jackson Browne said “Do not confront me with my failures. I have not forgotten them.”
I am on the doorstep of healing.

Red Zone Blues

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Escobar, Pepe. Red Zone Blues: A Snapshot of Baghdad During the Surge. Ann Arbor: Nimble Books, L.L.C., 2007.

The following was what I posted on LibraryThing  a while ago. I forgot that it has a place here as well.

Red Zone Blues was like reading something by a politically focused Anthony Bourdain. Escabar’s language was gritty, sarcastic, and colorful. His opinions are not veiled in the least. The prologue seemed to be added just for shock value, something to get the reader revved up for more. Each subsequent chapter was short, like a stand-alone essay, written with sarcasm and thought-provoking observation. While the “essays” seemed disjointed, each was a mere glimpse into a certain time period of Iraq: a refugee’s visa troubles, a road-side arrest, the sniper infested society just to name a few. Each chapter was a quick and dirty peep show of the culture, the people and politics of Iraq. It left you wanting more, squirming all the while.

** This blog has the tag “RandomHouse” even though it is not a Random House publication. When I first started the Early Reviewer program I thought I would be reviewing titles only published through Random House (and thus created the tag). I needed a tag that would differentiate book reviews written for the Book Lust challenge from those written for the Early Reviewer program. **

Update on the Lust

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I’m approaching 100 books in the Book Lust challenge. I’m proud of this because 1) I have been reading Random House books at the same time (I’ve read four so far with another one the way). 2) I started a new job so I’m not only reading “How to be a director” bullsh!t but I’m reading up on how to get my library ready for NEASC. In other words, I don’t read what I want to all the time.

I’ve amended my “rules” too. I had to with all the book reviews I’ve been asked to do. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
And I’ve come up with a strategy for how to decide when to read certain books. It will take me some time to compile the data but since I have four days of alone time coming up and I’m not going anywhere for Thanksgiving (have to work) I’ll make the time.

What I’m reading now:
Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver

Beyond Me but Beside Me

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Lately, I can’t breathe. Lately, it feels like everything is beyond me. Beyond my control. My mind races no matter where I am. Work. Work is insane. I’m in over my head. The Fray have it perfectly said. I love that song right now. It’s so me. This is so friggin hard. Right now. I’m trying to look like I know what I’m doing but it feels like one big puppet show. I fight tied up in strings.
My home life. I’m drowning. If it weren’t for kisa I would be hanging from heartache. No, hate. I’ll admit it. Hanging from hate. There is someone caught in the middle of this and I feel so damned sorry for her. She didn’t ask for this. Well, neither did I. Neither did I. Excuse me if I don’t rush to thank you or act grateful or pretend to think you saved me. If anything I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I’m in over my head.
Kisa leaves me in three days. He said something interesting last night. “All this” he said, waving his hand around to signify all of life, “will seem like nothing next year. You will look back on this time and know you are stronger than all that.” I believe it. I look at what I was worried about two years ago today and I have to laugh. It’s amusing how I was so wrapped up in trivial things.
In the meantime I take sharp breaths, fighting to breathe. Head above water. Kisa pats me leg everytime I gasp. He’s getting used to me. It’s like I’ve been crying so hard I hyperventilate. Kisa makes the bed everyday and laughs at the twisted sheets. “Harsh night?” He’ll ask while pulling the fitted sheet back over the mattress and untangling the mess of blankets. To me, it’s as bad as wetting the bed. It’s embarrassing how much I kick, toss and turn when I finally fall asleep. It’s all beyond me but I can make it through this because Kisa is beside me.

Song of Solomon

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Song of SolomonMorrison, Toni. Song of Solomon. New York: Plume, 1987.

Another must-read from the days in Maine. Although, I don’t remember reading it then. I don’t remember reading it, ever. Is that sad or what? This is a classic. Something everyone should read.

I don’t think I could summarize the plot adequately. Basically, it’s the story of Macon “Milkman” Dead III. He got the nickname Milkman from being breastfed by his mother way past infancy. But, this story goes beyond coming-of-age; it transcends stereotypical stories of racial strife and strained family relations. Yes, there is all of that. This is a story that has been described as tragic and magic in the same line. It may be a story about one man’s rise to adulthood, but it is told from many different points of view. We learn about Milkman’s ancestry and the culture of his time. Morrison weaves imagery and symbolism together so that everything important means something different. Family names are not just names. They come from religion, mistaken identity and social injustice. Family ties are tethered and severed through love and hate, peace and violence, poverty and wealth. One man’s perception is another man’s reality.

Quotes I liked: “I’m on the thin side of evil and trying not to break through” (p 21).
“He wouldn’t know what to feel until he knew what to think” (p 75).
“She was the third beer” (p 91).

BookLust Twist: Toni Morrison is mentioned twice in Book Lust. Song of Solomon is in the chapter “100 Good Reads, Decade by Decade” (p 175) under the section 1970s. 

Turn of the Screw

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James, Henry. The Turn of the Screw. New York: Dutton, 1963.Turn of the Screw

Even though October is more than half over I decided to read something scary for the rest of the month…in honor of Halloween and all that. Turn of the Screw seemed like the most obvious choice. A novella only 160 pages long, I knew it wouldn’t take too long to get through.
Written in 1898 and republished numerous times Turn of the Screw has also been  adapted for the stage, television and the big screen. Someone told me it was even mentioned in an episode of “Lost” (I wouldn’t know).  James’s technique is to tell the story within a frame – one story within another. We are first introduced to a man at a Christmas party telling a tale of a governess. From there we are in the story, told from the point of view of the governess. She has been hired to look after two small children after their parents are killed and they are sent to live on an uncle’s estate. Soon after the governess’s arrival she starts to notice strange occurrences, shadowy figures stalking the grounds. She learns they are former lovers and hired hands, back to supposedly recreate their relationship through the children.
While James uses words like “hideous”, “sinister”, “detestable”, and “dangerous”, there is great debate as to exactly what he is describing as so terrible. He refers to evil again and again, but his ghosts are not the usual specters. They only hint at danger rather than taking action and “attacking”. The other great debate is whether the governess is insane (or goes insane while at Bly). Because no one else really backs up her ghost sightings you have to wonder.

BookLust Twist: Mentioned several times in Book Lust. Once in the chapter called “Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror” (p 113) and “Ghost Stories” (p 99). I would agree that The Turn of the Screw deserves ghost story status, but horror? Maybe I’m stuck in slasher movie mode where everything horrible has to end up in blood and gore.

Memories of MySpace

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One of my projects was to compile all the old MySpace blogs and put them in a book. I really need to keep them because they are the proof that this writing thing works for me. Looking back on the different blogs is like having conversations with myself. I thought I had finished the book, even called it a completed project until I found more entries…out of place and lost words with nowhere to go. The book is messed up now. Ruined. I can’t stick loose pages in where the dates are supposed to fall. Chronology is killed. So, here is my resolution, the solution to the dilemma. What was once over there is now going to come over here. For every old-day blog it will have new life here. October 23, 2005 will be my first…installment??

My next “problem” is to figure out what to call these there and then relics to keep them from becoming confused with the here and now realities. Suggestions? Here’s what has been thought up so far:
BOO – Blog of Old
Skeleton from the Closest
Kisa’s idea is to make sure the original date of the blog is clearly at the top – maybe as the title of the blog? I like that. Leave it to the logical.

Ode to Mickey Hart

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Everyone knows I love drums. I’ve certainly blathered on and on about the people who play them, the sounds they make, and the way they make me feel.
Seeing Mickey Hart & Planet Drum was no different. A performance on the UConn campus on a chilly, rainy night. Kisa was able to snag one pic of Zakir Hussain looking up at us while playing with Mickey. This was towards the end of the show – considered the encore – with security standing right behind us.
The whole show was amazing. When we first walked into the auditorium I was fascinated by the stage. Five different “pods” of sound with two curious looking sculptures front and center. It was obvious where Mickey would play but, not knowing the other drummers, I wasn’t sure who sat (or stood) where. But, really, to be honest, it was the interesting sculptures that held my attention. Gentle spotlights lit up twisted limbs. I saw dolphins in one, confusion on the other. They looked magical in the light. Their shadows created monsters on the floor.
Finally, the lights went down and the boys came out. The very first thing Mickey did was introduce the weird sculptures. Gnarled stumps pulled from the ground. Ever see the video by the Cranberries – the one where a bunch of women work a stump from the ground, take it home and after bathing it it becomes a man? It looked like that stump was on stage. The first stump was called “Squid” and was as old as the Civil War. That was the one I called confusion. The second stump was a giant Redwood called “Twin Dolphins.” I was pleased Mickey saw what I did. Then Zakir and Mickey proceeded to play the stumps. Using hammers, drumsticks, fingers…anything and everything, the show opened with the playing of trees. The sounds knocked and echoed, banged and trembled. Loud and soft. The entire auditorium was filled with the sound of drumming on trees. It only got better from there.

Getting Away

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For years I have wanted to make it to the Pumpkin Fest in Keene, New Hampshire. I can’t remember all the reasons why we didn’t; all the excuses for not going in years past, but this year we finally made it! I ended up taking nearly 100 pictures. For every shot a little stress melted away. For every sweet pumpkin face I relaxed just a little more. Only an hour away from home but miles away from the madness.

There is something magical about pumpkins. I know there is no way I could put this into words. At least sanely. In short, I see faces in the uncarved orange orbs. I see Jack way before he is born. Today, it was fun to see the creativity of others. The messages people want to put out there – through a pumpkin. We saw a lot of Greenbay Packers pumpkins (what’s up with that?), a few Patriots pumpkins, and lots of humor. I personally liked the puking pumpkins best. It’s all I can do to stay away from the bottle myself these days. Pumpkins in trees, pumpkins on cannons, pumpkins in fountains, on street corners, in flower beds, on people’s heads. Kisa got a funny pic of me with two such nuts.
Then, there was the food. We started with sampling spicy pickles. They start off sweet and end with heat. Perfect for hamburgers. (We bought a jar on the way out.) Then we went for the whoopie. Pumpkin, of course. Next, teriyaki chicken on stick and garlic bread. Yet another whoopie. Pumpkin, of course.
We blew off the crafts except for the food related items. Heidi Jo was there so, of course, we had to buy nearly $40 worth of her wares (we missed her at the Big E). It was all about the food.
And the pumpkins.

Cult of (multiple) Personality

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Someone really liked a picture of me that my brother-in-law took. He said “that’s so you” when he saw it. What do you mean? I was puzzled and didn’t get it. When it comes to me, myself and moi, I rarely get it. “You are awkward. Silent and awkward, waiting for the photographer to go away so you can go back to where you are comfortable.” Where is that I want to know. I cocked my head, trying to remember the moment for myself. “Behind the lens, on the fringe, out of view” my friend replied. Ah, yes. That’s me. Completely. Now I remembered my goaway attitude. Yet, when I went to add the pic to a disc for my mother “spaceball” was the title of the pic. Spaceball. One man’s idea of spaceball is another woman’s fear of you. Two personalities on one face.

The latest issue of Real Simple came with research on how to find your “right” scent. I love these quizzes that tell you what type of person you’re supposed to be based on how you prefer to socialize, spend your holidays, or how many times you let the phone ring. This time I let kisa answer everything. Kind of a HowWellDoYouKnowYourWife? stunt. I’m shameless. To my utter delight he answered every question “right”… even the ones where the answer is, “well, it depends. Is September considered Autumn? Well, then I think B” or “that’s a tough one…is it that time of the month?”
By the time we were finished I was across the board screwed when it came to picking a scent. It was a tie between woodsy, clean, and oriental. Floral came in dead last. Weird. The most popular scent was my least favorite…according to what drink I would order out with the girls, what piece of furniture I’d most likely own, and whether I prefer the smell of books over baking bread or the ocean. There wasn’t one scent that won out so I told my husband I guess that means I’ll buy a bottle of each!

Ask me how I like my eggs and true to Runaway Bride style I wouldn’t be able to answer you the same way twice. I want to be Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn and Ani DiFranco all at once. I’ll tell you I’m an orphan after you meet my Black Crow family.  I don’t think I’m the same person twice in one day.

RedSox Rudeness

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sox.jpg

Mind games. I hate mind games. But, I’ll get to that later.
The Cleveland Indians used to be my favorite team. I know, I know. Don’t say it. I lived in Jersey at the time. I was a wayward soul. Lost without a baseball clue. Maybe it was the drum. I’ve always had that thing for drummers. I can’t explain it. Anyway, I’ve since left the dark side and pledged my undying love for the Boston Red Sox. Being from Maine and living in Massachusetts it’s the right thing to do…right? It’s hard not to love a team that call themselves idiots and piss in the Green Monster while still on the field. Calling myself a fan is definitely the right thing to do.
The wrong thing to do is fly your opposing pitcher’s ex-girlfriend out to sing the National Anthem. Hello? It should be all about the game. Since when did teams have to start thinking about psychological bullsh!t in order to secure a win? Like I said, I hate mind games. I know, I know it happens all the time. It’s the name of the game, so to speak. Next thing you know someone will posting big pictures of king cobras on the JumboTron because the center fielder has a problem with reptiles. Play the game, boys. Just play the game.