Author: gr4c5

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

Autobiography of a Face

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AutobiographyGrealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face.New York: HarperCollins, 2003.

I had all the right conditions to finish this book in two days – traveling, vacationing, but most of all, fascination. I couldn’t put it down. On the surface Autobiography of a Face is the tragic story of one woman’s struggle with cancer and journey through recovery. Only her struggle isn’t as an adult. She is a child. Confronting Ewing’s sarcoma at age nine Lucy battles through radiation therapy and chemotherapy. Her tone can only be described as matter of fact as she recounts the loneliness and pain after countless surgeries to correct the deformity of losing a third of her jaw. Deeper than that, Autobiography is about rising above the cruelty of others, shaking off the superficial prejudices of what supposedly makes a face beautiful. Lucy is defiant and remarkably stoic in her recollections of childhood taunts, adult avoidance, and across the board lack of social acceptance.
Critics call this book the vehicle with which to free oneself from self loathing and fears of rejection. It is a message to stop wallowing in self pity and live with dignity – no matter what. It’s also a call to be human and have real emotions as Lucy admits, “and as much as I wanted to love everybody in school and waft esoterically into the ether when someone called me ugly, I was plagued with petty desires and secret, evil hates” (p 181).

My favorite quote: “speaking seemed like something one could grow tired of” (p 77).

Lucy’s story ends with her getting published, finding friendships and getting on with her life. Yet, there is a darkness to it all. She is criticized for not telling the whole truth. There is mystery surrounding her untimely death in 2002. Her story leaves you asking what happened and wanting more. What the book doesn’t tell you is that her multiple surgeries led to an addiction to pain meds and subsequently, heroin. She died of an overdose at the age of 39. There is more drama after death, but I’ll leave that for you to figure out.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Other People’s Shoes” (p 181). I can’t even begin to imagine being in Lucy’s shoes.

If I Could Give You

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If I could, I would give you the ocean for your birthday. I would bottle up every wide blue wave with love. Just for you, I would give you just one more day. If I could, I would give you another day of salty skin, fogbound sky and pounding surf. I would command the seas to rise just a little higher. Just for you. If I could, I would throw you a gull party with the loudest squawkers. Lobster tails and ears of corn for party favors. If no one comes we’ll entertain the crows, for one more day. If I could, I would find the finest purple seaglass and present it as a blooming flower. If I could, I would give you just one more day. If I could, I would buy you one more humble or whoopie pie…or maybe one of each. Just one more day.
Instead we’ll have Mocha dreams in a bed fit for a king…or at least a knight in shining armour.

Happy birthday, my love.

Laughing in the Mirror

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Someone wrote me the sweetest email about this silly little blog. He said he admired the way I “attacked the love and your life.” Because I was in the middle of something I read it as, “I admire the way you attack the love of your life.” It made me want to rush home and check the mini-blinds. That’s me, rushing to conclusions. Instead, I realized English wasn’t his first language, so I reread it and had a good laugh. He said the only thing missing was the “100 things about me” post and dared me to create one. Actually dared me! I was tempted to dig up the one from MySpace but refrained simply because I’m not that person anymore.  I now can go to a party and not feel like the naked wallflower with zits, vericose veins, hangnails and split ends. I now can pick up the phone and talk to Germany. I now can walk by a dog without breaking into a cold sweat. I can step over an anthill without screaming bloody murder.  
So, G – thank you. Thank you for letting me look at myself. It was fun. So, here you go. Instead of looking in the mirror and sizing up the image with a critical eye, I laughed my way through 100 things.

Joke of the Day…Is On Me

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Joke: What do you get when you combine an island off the coast of Maine and bunch of knitting yogis?

Punchline

They want $1,900 per person for this retreat. What if you have your own place to stay courtesy of Chez Mum and you don’t care for the touristy critter dinner? (I’m already getting one of those, complete with bib, in less than a week.) I’m curious to see what they’ll say. I’m also curious to see if it would be worth my while to run away from work during one of the busiest months, to knit and practice yoga in my hometown when I have knowledgeable, fun, beautiful people here who could do the same thing for, I’m guessing, way less.

The joke is on me because I want to do it, just to blend in with the crowd. I want the headline to read, “Local girl gone loco”; to see the community’s bemused faces when they realize I’m not home for the hell of it. They don’t know me as someone who knits, runs, practices yoga, goes on retreats…

Small House

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I met someone who doesn’t believe in fairies or faeries. He does not believe in the kind that gather in P’town, nor the ones we build houses for and make wishes to. Our fanciful ideas are nothing but overactive imaginations for the fairies or faeries of either kind, according to him. I have to say it again. According to him.
I guess after reading this news article I’m still thinking of that lie, “to each his own”, spoken like the truth, like it came from the heart.
I think it’s innovative to let the imagination fly. How enticing to think of what could be, what should be! I have to admit it bugs me when someone says no without considering the possibilities. A flat out no is like a stab to the heart. Where is the maybe? What happened to the we’ll see? Why not possibly? When can we try?
We build faery houses for no other reason than to feel like a kid again; to shirk duty and grownup ways…if only for an afternoon. Crouching down to balance stick to bark, building rock walkways and leafy beds. Taking it all oh so seriously. I remember the faery condo G and I made, imagining ours to be the biggest and the bestest. Awards were made for condos such as this, we thought.
Maybe this is where I learned my love of possibility, of taking dares with Yes. Where the only no heard is the one sandwiched between k and w of “I don’t kNOw.” Because even I don’t know leaves the door open, just a crack, for yes.

The African Cookbook

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African CookbookSandler, Bea. The African Cookbook: Menus and Recipes From Eleven African Countries and the Island of Zanzibar. New York: Citadel Press Book, 1993.

This is a gorgeous cookbook. Not just for the recipes and menus, but also for the art. The illustrations by Diane and Leo Dillon are amazing. My personal favorite introduces the recipes of Tanzania (p. 57).
In the first half of the cookbook the recipes cover all the regions of African cooking. In addition each chapter has a section on the culture of the region, how meals are served (traditionally) and how you, the American cook, can pull off your own Tanzanian, South African or Liberian meal. The second half of the cookbook covers additional recipes. Chapters are gouped by product – fish, poultry, beef, starch, etc.
Something else I find interesting is the nontraditional layout of each recipe. You won’t find a list of ingredients and then preparation instructions. Instead, each ingredient is presented as needed in the preparation instructions. Something I am never good at is reading through the entire recipe before starting and with The African Cookbook that step would be imperative.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Africa: A Reader’s Itinerary” (p4).

Majesty

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I’m feeling a little less than majestic; a little less regal and more royal pain in the ass, lately. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. Do I dare say why? Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t feel like a queen in your world. There, I said it. Outloud. Loudly out there.
I think about a perfect storm – when weather conditions have to be just right for something big to happen. Something spectacular, nothing short of jeweled orgasmic. Several different conditions come together to create something powerful and explosive. Each individual condition alone and on its own would be puny, laughable, forgotten even…but, with all elements combined together you have something to sneeze at. A force to be reckoned with. A goddamn hurricane Ophelia times ten. You said my conditions had to be perfect and for the moment I agreed, only because I couldn’t think of how to respond and well, because you seemed right. Again. Correct as usual, King Friday. Only…not so much now that I think about it. And think about it, I have – now that I’m not on the spot. Now, I have a rebuttal.
They say actions speak louder than words. So, I have been the screaming one. In the bathtub I sunk below the water to drown my passions. Before work, I stifled my ambitions to be something else. Even before grocery shopping I let myself cry out with hunger. I raised my stakes and shouted my interest. But, but, but my actions were lost without the royal (dis)order. I lost my voice. Actions stay silent in my world because, according to you, we need a perfect storm. Perfect conditions.
I am medicated for no reason.
Senza Figli.

Dot3 Dash3 Dot3

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I had been connected, plugged in, and glued to the Live Earth concert pretty much all day. Somehow, we managed to go out for breakfast (gotta love it when the waitress remembers the vinegar the first time requested), write up menus and grocery lists for the island trip (we’ve decided on pizza the first night – go figure), exchange the xBox360 so my kisa doesn’t go insane, pick up ankle weights and two running books so tigrelily doesn’t go insane, walk five miles and still had time to witness some of the best bands from the day. I am sorry I missed out on Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend, though.
Shakira, Snoop Dog, Missy Higgins, Genesis, David Gray, Metallica, KT Tunstall, Yusef, Chris Cornell, Joss Stone, James Blunt, Xuxa, Foo Fighters, Beastie Boys, even Nunatak, the Antartica band of scientists. I was really excited to see them since I have such an affinity for the Antartic. Dave Matthews Band (just knew they would perform Too Much and Don’t Drink the Water), Alicia Keyes, Madonna, and of course Bubblicious. I loved his decision to call it “We’re NOT Waiting on the world to change”….
I am anxious to go home. My carbon footprint on the island is much smaller than the one here, in this life. At home I am a 0.9 as opposed to a 12.7. Here, I am big foot. Giant foot. Embarrassing foot. It feels wasteful, awful. Today we bought eco-friendly lightbulbs and talked about the Prius, maybe my next car.
Answer the call. I suppose I should think of that literally because my phone is ringing.

Edited to add: TiVo loves me. It recorded all the artists I missed (and wanted to see): Jack Johnson, Corinne and John and even one I didn’t know I wanted to see – DRUMMERS! Yay!

Battlefront of Id and Ego

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Let’s stand up and be counted, shall we? How many of us lie to our personalities, aren’t true to our own true selves? Especially those of us with a first impression to make? I want to say I’m honest when it comes to the first 30 seconds of “nice to meet you” but, then again there isn’t much to lie about. I speak my mind. I will tell you how I feel, what I believe in (or not). I can be “in your face” with my opinions. I will love you forever or walk away. I can’t come off any smarter, prettier, funnier so what’s the point in trying? What you see is what you get. What I hide is insecurity, self-doubt and the amazing ability to sell myself short. I’ve got it down to an art. But, even that doesn’t stay hidden forever. That truth will surface sooner or later. No lying.
As for others, I love people who say “I can respect that” and mean it, really mean it. The people who say with all honesty, “I see what you are saying.” Does that sound familiar, kisa? It’s like they are the people with ability to see the glass from every direction. They walk around it, circle it, inspecting all the facts, and weighing the opinions of half full and half empty and, in the end, despite disagreeing, still say, “I can respect that.” What they are really saying is I don’t agree with you but I won’t hold that against you. It is the attitude of come as you are. So appealing, so attractive, so impressive. Here’s the deal. I’m learning to walk around the glass. I’m learning to see the invisible angles. I see what you’re saying.
Come as you are, but let me be me if that’s what you really, truly preach. No lying. I now walk away.

Edited to add: There are times when I get freaked out by coincidences – especially those involving complete strangers. I consider Stephanie a complete stranger yet I read her blog pretty religiously. We share the same viewpoints on food and the food network, friends…stuff like that. So, imagine my surprise when she blogged about “to each his own” yesterday. She even says, “it’s why Baskin’ Robbins has 31 flavors” (I love the way she writes, by the way). Coincidentally (again), I should have written mine yesterday, but I took some advice and slept on it. Okay, so Stephanie delves into a topic I could never think about much less write about (swinging), but you get the point. Variety is the spice of life…and…to each his (or HER) own! Rock on, Steph! Thank you for putting it into words much better than my own.

All-Bright Court

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All-Bright CourtPorter, Connie. All-Bright Court. New York: HarperPerennial, 1992.

I adore debut novels. There is something about that leap of faith that a writer must take before anything else can happen. Every writer is a closet published writer. They walk around with the words in their head, barely daring to dreaming of the day those words will be sold in a big bookstore. Opened up for all the world to see.
That’s exactly how I picture Connie Porter, walking around with the words to All-Bright Court in her head, dreaming of the day they’ll be on paper. I can picture the personalities of  the All-Bright Court residents starting to take shape. It’s the story of two decades of african american families trying to make their way in a steel mill town near Buffalo, New York. All-Bright Court is the housing project that ties them all together.

“She found herself saving things to say to her, storing them away in her mind, folding them as neatly as sheets.” (p 82).
“These people lived inches away from one another, and much of what was done did not have to be told. They did not look away because they did not want to know. They looked away because they did know, and looking away was the only way to grant the woman dignity, to go on believing, to let her go on believing she was a woman” (p 85).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust  and the chapter “African American: She Say” (p 12).

How Are You?

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When I was a kid I would start every letter with “Dear so and so. How are you? I am fine.” My dad would joke “what are you? A doctor? Do you have to ask everyone how they are?” Seriously, dad, it was just something to say. Dear Aunt Jo, How are you. I am fine. Thank you for the purple knit sweater. I love the lime green buttons and yellow peter pan collar. The dog head on the back is cool, too. It’s two sizes too small but with a nice blouse I don’t think anyone will notice…
I could have gone on to ask why Jo can’t remember I’m 14 instead of four or point out that purple isn’t exactly my color, especially when it’s paired with lime green and yellow. Never mind that I’m a cat person and practically run from dogs if they even so much as drool my way. I could have spoken my mind when being polite leaves nothing else to say. Nothing but How are you? I am fine.
I’ve always been this way – asking unnecessary questions to fill the silence of not knowing what else to say. Small talk. I’m just not good at it. I talk the lazy way out of conversations. I’m full of How are you? I’m fines.
But, I’m getting better. Last weekend I went to a party and held my own while my husband was being guitar hero II. We talked sexy shoes, sweet swings and superb sightseeing. No small talk, just really good conversation. Tonight we are getting together with my German friend. Kisa by my side to hold my hand and hold back the nerves. I haven’t seen Mr. Germany in years so I have admit I’m afraid of the useless How Are You that might make an appearance. I don’t want to be that way. I shouldn’t be that way. This is someone who has always been so sweet to me. There is no reason to clam up now. I will be fine.

You Cooking Fool

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It was two nights before the wedding and the lobsters were in the pot. This guy was cooking our meals. Judging by the back pocket he either flipped them or forked them to death. With polka dotted oven mitt in hand, it’s hard to say. As the sun set over the ocean, wine flowed like a red tide, stories were getting taller, while laughter was getting louder. We passed more than the bread to sop up buttery plates. We all partied our way through the final nights of solitary. What once was you…or I…would become we and us in a matter of days, mere hours. Nerves hadn’t set in as long as the sound of the crashing surf was there to calm us.

He was the Las Vegas Lobster Cooking King. Straight out of the gambling desert. He stood guard over our bright red critters and growled his endless love for family. After the ceremony he chased after us with an oversized umbrella, shielding us from the hurricane’s rain. Us, as newlyweds who wouldn’t notice the cold for hours. He left his arid desert for the rain soaked eastern seaboard to celebrate love…and to cook lobsters.

I haven’t seen him since.

Transmit This!

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You know when something is so good you want to shout it from a mountain? I don’t know why…just to share perhaps? Just to be a moron, maybe? Well, I feel like shouting today. I’m on the road again. Finger on the trigger, lemme saddle up.
Transmit this from your mountain top: today I hit golf balls. 1/2 a bucket for the first time in nearly eight years. Okay, so I’ve lost the sweet spot. So my swing feels alittle stupid, but, but, but I hit enough good ones to know my clubs haven’t forgotten me. I had to laugh at him. Here’s what I said somewhere else: Fukc him and his idea that I’ll never be any good. Fukc him and his high fairway only horse. I like swinging the club and that’s all that matters.
Transmit this: I’m back in the game.

Waiting…

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Butterflies. That’s the only way to describe the feeling of being this excited about something. How can I explain this without selling out? It started with an idea shared with a friend. Originally, I wanted it to be our idea – something to share. When she handed it back to me I thought I would harbor a disappointment for longer. Instead, I resurfaced inspired by the secret. I vowed to keep it private, sharing it only with myself and moi. They, in their weird way, will help me through this construction area. I only hope blonds have more fun.

Art & Water – I said I was stalking you. I lied when I didn’t say why. I know why. I do. I feel the box closing in on me when I am so close to breaking free. So close to being normal. My heart has been shredded, chewed up and puked up when it comes to guilt. I can fall on a thousand swords and never forgive myself. Dramatic? Hell yes. When it comes to history I don’t know myself like you do.  

Second Sex – Failed

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Second sexde Beauvoir, Simone. The Second Sex. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1971.

Okay, I admit it. I got two paragraphs into the translator’s preface then skipped to the author’s introduction. There, I got as far as page v . Mind you, the introduction starts on page v. Then, I skipped to chapter one, got as far as paragraph three where I promptly fell asleep. I couldn’t get a single page entirely read. Not a one. Here and now I’m evoking the BookLust 50 page rule and admiting defeat with The Second Sex (see Book Lust Rules). Women everywhere hate me now for what I’m about to say.

I am not a diehard feminist. I have strong beliefs in what a woman can and can’t do. I’ve said before that women are more cerebral than men. They frequently change their minds, then change them back again. This makes them flighty, indecisive. Not exactly the type of person I would want in combat. The ability to drive a car? Please, don’t even get me started! I could go on, but I don’t think I can take the hate mail.
My second reason for not wanting to finish (or even properly start) Second Sex is the fact that it was written in 1952 (from a treatise written three years earlier, in 1949). Much has changed for women since that time. We’re more accepted in the corporate world, the political realm & even the far reaches of outer space. It’s becoming more acceptable for women to be the bread winners while their husbands stay at home with the kids. One might argue that reading Second Sex would be good from a historical standpoint. True, but I’m just not that interested in standing in that light.
My third reason for not reading Second Sex is purely a selfish one. The book is long – over 750 pages! I just don’t see myself devoting my entire summer vacation to something that reads like a textbook.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “I Am Woman – Hear Me Roar” (p 120). Pearl calls de Beauvoir a pioneer  of the women’s movement. I’ll take her word for it.

Note: This makes the seventh book I have given up on since starting the Book Lust Challenge.