Author: gr4c5

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

Anne Frank

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Anne FrankFrank, Anne. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. New York: Doubleday, 1995.

I was prompted to reread Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl after reading the New York Times article about her cousin, Bernhard “Buddy” Elias, donating 25,000 letters, photos and other documents to the Anne Frank House. What an amazing thing to do. I’m sure Hans Westra, director of the Anne Frank House, is…well…psyched. Imagine the historical value of such a gift! It’s a gift for all humanity and truthfully, it’s worth is immeasurable. Anne Frank died when she was 16 years old. Her “dates” are 1929 – 1945 and that alone devastates me. My heart was caught in my throat when I opened my copy of Diary of a Young Girl and saw her handwriting staring back at me. Everyone knows Anne’s story so I won’t bother with a “review” per se, except to say I simply cannot believe there are people out there who feel her diary is a fraud!

Probably the hardest thing about reading Diary of a Young Girl was the fact I was painfully aware of dates. I knew she was arrested and taken from the Annex on August 4th, 1944. As soon as her diary entries had the “1944” date I started to despair. It was like counting down to death row. It was different when I read this as a child. Anne Frank was a character to me. I couldn’t put reality to her words, flesh and blood to her black and white photo. This time it was different, tragically so. I found myself wiping away tears whenever she mentioned “the end being near.”

What fascinates me about Anne Frank first and foremost is her dedication to telling her truth. She started her diary for herself but, after hearing first hand accounts of life under German occupation were needed, she decided to edit her diary for publication. After her death her father combined both versions and created what we all have read, The Diary of a Young Girl. I never knew there were versions A, B & C.

Two of my favorite quotes, about writing, appear on the same page, “I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest” and “paper has more patience than people” (p. 6). I couldn’t agree more. 
“Memories mean more to me than dresses” (p 20) and “Will the reader please take into consideration that this story was written before the writer’s fury had cooled?” (p 120) indicate I would have gotten along with Miss Frank “swimmingly”. Seriously.

BookLust Twist: I would have thought Pearl would have a chapter on the Holocaust and this would be included in it. However, I’m relieved it’s in the chapter “100 Reads, Decade by Decade” (p. 177) from Book Lust.

Before The Accident

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John Mayer TrioA friend reminded me that I haven’t put up a BubbleGum post in a while. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Kisa loaded me up with secret shows (gotta love new music), John posted a halarious video on his site about illegal dogfights off stage (the part about Brutus getting loose is the best part), there’s a buzz about The Breakup  (he was too smart for her, IMHO), and then there’s that haircut. (Now, he completely reminds me of a certain artist – don’t hate me SB, but in some pictures the resemblance is uncanny, um…creepy even. Sorry!)

What I can talk about is something a little more profound, something a little more BryanAdams straight from the heart. I forget what show it was but BubbleGum was chatting with the crowd as he often does. He started off with something funny but then launched into about only having one life to live. Go ahead and groan. You’ve heard this from me before. It’s the only life you’ve got so live it to the fullest, blah, blah, blah. But, here’s a different take on it. This is life as you know it, as Bubble says “before the accident.” Okay, so it may not be an accident per se, so fill in your own blank. Life before ______. Here’s an example: Some people blame their current beliefs, actions, downfalls, whatever, on September 11th and they preface defensively with “before 9/11 I didn’t…” So, now you know what I mean. Tomorrow you could be hit by a car and paralyzed from the waist down. Your days become separated into “before the accident” and “after the accident.” I know all about this. I hear a date, say 1995, and I immediately think, “three years after dad died.” I’m constantly doing the math. There are other dates that trigger that response, too. I think everyone has a timeline that resonates a “before” and “after.” But, But. Here is my question. How are you going to live your life before the next accident?

BubbleGum said many tomorrows from now your topics of conversation will circle around how many medications you have to take and how you can’t remember what you had for dinner the night before. You might need diapers, a walker, or hearing aid. Many tomorrows from now you will be saying, “before I got old…” It’s a different kind of accident, an unavoidable one at that, but one to consider.

What I Don’t Have

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chignonWhat I don’t have is hair sense. I’m the girl who has two styles, ponytail up or just plain down. What I don’t have is the ability to go chignon fancy. What I do have is a friend with classic style and grace.
What I don’t have is matching accessories. I’m the girl with the $5 fish that circles my thumb. What I don’t have is where to start with the silk scarf. What I do have is a friend with maturity and wisdom.
What I don’t have is a cool demeanor. I’m the girl who can rant about razor burn for an hour. What I don’t have is class. What I do have is a friend who is sweet and funny.
What I don’t have is the ability to make small talk with you. I’m the girl who circles her friends and asks their advice. What I don’t have is patience. What I do have is a friend who walks the walk, talks the talk. Straight up.
What I don’t have is strut. I’m the girl who can’t find sexy shoes that fit (but I’m working on it, Ruby). What I don’t have is a stop-’em-dead-in-their-tracks swagger. What I have is a friend who is confident and beautiful enough for the both of us.

So, I’m not fancy. I don’t have that kind of personality. I don’t have fukc me pumps so I’ll settle for cute maryjanes. But. But, what I DO have is an amazing group of people in my life who are stylish, graceful, mature, wise, sweet, smart, straight forward, confident and beautiful with a little bogger thrown in for fun. When I asked, they rallied. When I asked, they answered. That’s all that matters.

Thank you.

Cooking It Up

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I have been a cooking fiend. Last night was scallops and spaghetti sprinkled with chili peppers, cilantro, garlic and olive oil. Skewers of toasted sourdough and mozzarella cubes drizzled with garlic, lemon juice and butter. I’m addicted to gratins and fresh herbs lately. Fish poached in coconut cream and sesame seeds. It’s time to break out the smoker. Hickory chips are waiting to burn. Baked beans with smoky chipotles and bacon simmer with sweet brown sugar. It’s summertime, after all. Aint it funny how I’ve become so consumed by food?
I have a friend who can only be described as my food friend for we only meet for meals. Nothing more, nothing less. We don’t talk on the phone. We don’t see movies. We place all of our conversations in the company of food. Something new to talk about only goes with something good to taste. He wants me to try a deep fried hamburger. He’s the same one who wanted me to try goat testicles
Food circles my life and winds in and out of my days.
To celebrate the Closer I have wine (Merlot, of course) followed by one perfect RingDing. Kisa gets the other one. We lick chocolate off our fingers and smack our lips for a treat too small.
Before Rebecca shows it’s gourmet pizza and maybe now a rootbeer float after. I just need to find a better beer.
Then there are roadtrips. They require bottled water and smoky, salty beef jerky.
Monhegan means crab apples straight from the tree, blackberries from the bush, mocha whoopie pies and lobster by sunset’s dying glow.
If I lived in New Jersey I would want a Creations salad, a spicy italian sub or better yet, a shopping spree at Delicious Orchards. Picking perfect plums, soft gouda cheese and crusty sourdough bread. A picnic by the sea.
If I lived in Colorado it would be a Chipotles burrito chased by Fat Tire – bar none.
My most intimate moments are prefaced by food. Sharing spoonfuls of something good leading to something better. Leaning in over linguini to confess something deep.
Food has always hidden my denying ways. Picking walnuts out of a waldorf while breaking up; bringing the rest home to my sister. Holding an oversized mug of coffee with both hands, steam hiding my face as I hear about the cancer that is killing you. You can’t see my tears. Flinging tomatoes to swooping, squawking seagulls, pretending not to hear, yet I listen.

Feed me.

Beloved

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BelovedMorrison, Toni. Beloved. New York: Penguin, 1987.

It’s been 21 years since I first read Beloved. The one and only thing I remember is my reaction to it. I remember crying and crying, not understanding why the words moved me so. Every sentence was so beautiful in its heartbreak.
After rereading Beloved I realize why I had such a hard time remembering people and plot. Beloved is the story of running. At the center is Sethe, a former slave who cannot escape her past. Everyday she lives in fear of being brought back to someone’s possession. Her history chases her everywhere. Denver is her surviving daughter who runs from loneliness, constantly trying to catch up to her mother’s attention. Paul D is another former slave who shares Sethe’s past. He, too, is in a devastating cycle of running away from his past, never believing he is capable of staying in one place freely. Beloved is Sethe’s murdered daughter, back from the dead to reclaim her life with Sethe.
After rereading Beloved I remembered English class and how we went round and round about the symbolism. What did the number 124 on the house meant? Why was color such a prominant description for things? What about Baby Suggs? In the end we decided one of the most powerful images of Beloved is Denver’s birth. Denver wouldn’t have made it into the world had it not been for the help of a white woman when Sethe was in labor. It’s almost a commentary on how society should be thinking today – we can’t make it in this world if we do not work together.

“The sky above them was another country. Winter stars, close enough to lick, had come out before sunset” (p 175) is my favorite line.

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

Top Ten Tragic

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Doctors Without Borders sent another plea for help this week. This time they sent their “Top Ten Most Underrated Humanitarian Stories of 2006” and since I can’t afford to send them another check I thought I would help spread their word by blogging about that top 10…Do what you can do.

  1. Somalis Trapped by War…still.
  2. Fleeing Violence in the Central African Republic
  3. Tuberculosis Taking a Deadly Toll
  4. Conflict in Chewchnya
  5. Civilians Under Fire in Sri Lanka
  6. Preventing Malnutrition Deaths of Children
  7. Disease Outbreaks and Violence Plague the Democratic Republic of Congo
  8. Ongoing War in Colombia
  9. Relentless Violence & Sexual Assaults in Haiti
  10. Ongoing Clashes Displace Civilians in Central India

To read more about these top 10 go here.

I think was amazes me is that Medicins Sans Frontieres is in each and every one of these areas of poverty, disease and devastation. In some cases they have had to flee the country for their own safety (as was the case in Sri Lanka), but they returned. They go where no one else wants to be. That’s become their motto. It blows my mind.

A word about donating – they are serious about the money they collect. In every mailing they include the statement, “Doctors Without Borders operates in a manner consistent with the Association of Fundraising Professionals’ (AFP’s) Donor Bill of Rights and the AFP Code of Ethical Principles and Standards of Professional Practice.” For more information on their commitment to supporters, go here.

Number 37

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I have decided to be very angry with you. This is in answer to the accusation of MidLifeWhatever. I turn my head in shame because I am tired of you being there in the shadows, so quiet and unassuming. Assume this: you will die that way. You cannot fly when you bind your own wings, sabotage your own flight. Stop living for when and start wanting for now. Come to think of it, what is it that you want? Do you even know? I know there isn’t anything you need. You are not for want. I can assure you that. I can kill your past but only you can keep it dead. When you revive and relive it’s not my fault. Blame games are solo affairs of the cerebral. Think about that. Think about Want. Think about Desire. Think about it, act on it, then thank me later. Thank you now.

My Good Friend RootBeer Float

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This was a night of obsessions. No other way to put it. First it was M coming up from NY, then it was G&S meeting up after their charity walk, then it was R&C taking a break from weekend chores and weekend work-too-hard, then it was S&J finding their way to Bishops. Finally, it was meeting up with J&S so the eleven of us could cheer on Rebecca. I got to hear yet even more new songs (new to me, maybe old to others..I don’t know). They were still great.

1.) Just a Boy (?) – First time hearing this one. Not sure I’ve got the title right.
2.) Miss You – title track off the “new” album. I can’t help but sing along.
3.) On Your Way Down – I love the word beast in this song. It’s so startling.
4.) Yours – I don’t know why but I keep calling this song “Reason Why”
5.) Nothing Left To Take – (which I call My Mistake)
6.) Walking Backwards
7.) Tell Kyle – another new one that is so so sad!
8.) Divorced – I admit, I requested this one. I wanted S to hear it.
9.) Sonnet #30 – Who doesn’t love Shakespeare put to music? The applause was awesome!
10.) Quiet Hands – another request
11.) Miss Innocent – I wanted to ask Rebecca if she had seen Paul McCartney’s commerical with the mandolin.
12.) Gin

I love getting together for Rebecca shows. I love meeting for basil & tomato pizza and eating it crust first. Ripping it apart into cheesy bites, cornmeal dusting my paper plate as we laugh and gossip and catch up. I love seeing amazing friends come together to support the music, even if isn’t their “type.” I took pictures of the couples, capturing their warmth, mine for keeps. One of the best parts of the night was kisa buying a cd and offering it up to anyone who wanted it. Rebecca told me I had married a good man and all I could do was smile. I know.

After the show 7 of us went to Friendly’s because I was obsessed with having a rootbeer float. People joked about me being deprived but I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t grown up with these strange concoctions. Someone else in our group admitted to having one for the first time “just the other day.” HA! Although it wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. Someone told me I didn’t have the right kind of rootbeer. Who knew?
We finished the night watching Mr. Nash’s Drum video and talking about small feet, crazy people, “popping out” (what kind of friend are YOU?) and the Japanese tourist. Laughing too hard for my own good.

Abbreviating Ernie

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Abbreviating ErnieLefcourt, Peter. Abbreviating Ernie. New York: Villard, 1997.

At first glance this humorous book is just plain cut and dried funny. Okay, bad pun. Read on and you’ll see why. Here’s the surface premise, the tip of the iceburg, of Abbreviating Ernie. Ernie and his wife are having sex. He drops dead of a heart attack. She’s blamed for his death. Here’s the just under the surface details: Ernie likes to dress in his wife clothes while having sex. He also likes to handcuff his wife and he can’t seem to “do the deed” anywhere normal. Long story cut short (there’s that pun again): Wife is found holding an electric carving knife, chained in the kitchen while hubby lies dead on the floor missing his “tommyhawk” as one character put it. All of this happens within the first twenty pages of the book so I found myself wondering what in the world Lefcourt would have say in the remaining 271.
Here’s the rest of the iceburg. Abbreviating Ernie is a commentary on the legal system, mental illness, women’s rights, the sensationalism the media can create, the Hollywoodization of a tragedy (what famous actor will portray the prosecutor?), and the exposure to human nature, often seen as failings. It’s about how warped our society can be when confronted with the dark secrets of suburbia. Yet, it keeps you laughing.

BookLust Twist: Abbreviating Ernie shows up in Pearl’s More Book Lust in the chapter on “Alabama” (p 207). While Abbreviating Ernie doesn’t take place in Alabama Pearl makes mention of Lefcourt’s book because Crazy in Alabama has an electric carving knife in its plot.

Tuck Everlasting

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Tuck EverlastingBabbitt, Natalie. Tuck Everlasting.New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1985.

Do I dare say this book was delightful? I read it in an hour over a tuna sandwich lunchbreak. It’s a cute story about ten year old Winnie Foster and her discovery of a family that has eternal life. At first it seems impossible, but after befriending the strange family, Winnie realizes it’s true. The one complication of the story? Someone else (aka “bad guy”) knows the secret and wants to market it for himself.

Favorite line: “The first week of August was asserting itself after a good night’s sleep” (p 86). I like the imagery of this, of August saving it’s energy during the night in order to roast the day.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust.

When I Simply Hate You

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Taser JacketI have decided I need this jacket. Thanks to my friend A, this is all I need. I was reliving my Peach story for him (he doesn’t read this blog) and after he got home he sent me information on getting a taser jacket. Imagine the possibilities! Anytime I have that GetAwayFromMe attitude I can follow it up with a nice jolt of electricity! Just kidding. I have a lot of questions like does it work if the perp is wearing gloves? What’s the reaction time from button pushing to electrifying? Does it jolt the wearer? Obviously I haven’t read the details on the website…I’m just playing with the possibilities.

Respectfully Yours

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I was talking to someone dear to me when all of a sudden she said something so truthful to life I nearly lost my breath. It resonated with me hours later, echoing in my head like the fading sound of a rung bell. I don’t remember how we got on the subject, or even why she said it. The initial thought was lost amid the words of chatter, but what remained was, “I would never post anything bad about my husband on the internet.” There it was. What I needed to hear. What I will believe for all eternity. Words taken right out of my mouth.
I know this woman who rolls her eyes and is quick to complain when the subject of her married-for -life partner comes up. It makes me squirm, twisting to get out of the way of vows turned sour. Why does it hurt ME when someone is ugly about someone not me?
Today, I told my husband I was on the verge of mental not wellness. Seriously feeling unbalanced…like I was coming unglued somewhere secret. Telling him was like picking at a scab and letting him peer into the disgusting, bloody wound – just trusting he wouldn’t turn his head. When he didn’t I knew I was right. He has pockets for my secrets.
I don’t understand what makes us take people for granted. What makes us assume they will always love us, no matter what we do? I thought of the woman who criticized and ridiculed her husband. If he did the unthinkable, died or just disappeared, what would she do? Where would the roll your eyes attitude go in the face of abandonment? If I had to crawl into bed with that fear I wouldn’t sleep very well.

Aspects of the Novel

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Aspects of the novelForster, E. M. Aspects of the Novel. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1940.

I loved holding this book in my hands. Old and musty, it just felt right to read. There is an inscription on the inside cover, “Presented by Miss H. Miller’s Freshman English Classes, February 1941.” My father was four. My mother still had another seven years before even being born. But, anyway.
Aspects of the Novel came out of lectures Forster gave at Cambridge University in 1927. In these lectures Forester divides a novel into six crucial parts: story, people, plot, fantasy, prophesy and pattern and rhythym (counting as one element). Story asks the question what next. The trick is to keep the reader asking that very question. As soon as they can predict the next “they either fell asleep or killed him [the author].”  (p 46). There is a grave price for being predictable in literature.
In the element of character (or people as Forster refers to them) love is an emotion highly questioned. Love can be more complicated than food or sleep and Forster begs the question “How much time does love take?” (p 79). 
In the element of plot readers are not supposed to be asking what next, but rather, why? Why does this happen? They keep reading to find out more.
Fantasy and prophecy are the mythologies, the magic of writing. This is where the reader *thinks* the next twist in the plot should be obvious, but acutally isn’t. It’s the unbelievable made believable. 
My favorite elements are the combined Pattern and Rhythym. I like that Forster draws from art for the description of pattern and music for rhythym and continues with one of my favorite words, symmetry. “History develops, art stands still.” (p 244)

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust, mentioned twice- Once in the chapter “Commonplace Books” (p 53) and again in the chapter called “The Writers Craft” (p 236).

Insult to Injury

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My husband knows the word “rant” all too well. I’ll go on for hours about something until it becomes nothing – the way writing a single word over and over will start to look strange and lose meaning twenty times later.
First it was about blood work. They wanted my blood and made me make an appointment. They told me when to stick my arm out for the needle. But, when I showed up it was all my fault. “You need to follow up on the appointment.” What? Doublecheck the receptionist to make sure I’m really in the book? “Well, even though you had an appointment you need to make sure the doctor put in the order.” What? So, now I’m following up on the doctor? Let me get this straight so I don’t waste 90 minutes on another day. “You shouldn’t make the appointment so soon after the doctor has seen you.” What? The receptionist told me the opening she had available. I just agreed to show up. Now you’re saying I need to refuse her suggested appointment time. Could I be anymore confused? Insult to injury- the nurse called my machine and said they found the drs order for blood work and I can come in “anytime” (giggle, giggle).
Then it was about my car. When they were done, they wanted to leave it behind the building, locked up, keys in the glove box. They wanted me to pay now and pick it up with my husband’s keys later. Behind the building, locked up. My keys would be in the glove box. It’s not behind the building. It’s not locked up (window is rolled down and door is left completely unlocked). Keys are not in the glove box. Only this is where stupid me, myself and moi come in. We don’t notice this for nearly a week. I call the mechanic six days later. “Do you guys have a spare set of keys lying around?” “Chevy Prism?” “Yup.” “Last name _____.” “Yup.” “Yeah, we got ’em.” “And you couldn’t call me?! Can you bring them to me since you said my car would be locked up with the keys in the glove box and NONE of that happened?” Silence. “Hey. You guys told me you would lock it up and leave the keys in the glove box. Since that didn’t happen you need to bring me my keys.” Who knew I had the brass bra? “*sigh* We’ll see what we can do.” Insult to injury – I was late for work.
Then it was my feet. “Do you have anything in a size 5?” “Nope.” “But I see 5 1/2s here.” “Last year’s stock. We’re not carrying anything smaller than 6 on the adult side. Kids has size 5. Check there.” Insult to injury – size 5 didn’t fit. Neither did 4. I’m a 3 1/2 KIDS if I want to shop at Marshalls.

As I Lay Dying

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As I Lay DyingFaulkner, William. Novels 1930 – 1930: As I Lay Dying, Santuary, Light in August, Pylon. New York: The Library of America, 1996.

As I Lay Dying is terribly sad. Through a stream of consciousness every character tells the tale of Addie Bundren’s dying days. Addie’s five children, husband, neighbors and doctor all chime in. Strangely enough, even Addie expressing herself…from her coffin. I’m not exactly sure what Anse (Addie’s husband) did besides being selfish and greedy but Addie’s final revenge on her husband is to have him bury her in her birthtown of Jefferson – a long and difficult journey. Even the kids have something against their father. In one chapter Cash doesn’t look at pa and in another, Dewey doesn’t look at pa. Eveyone has something bad to say about “pa” but, the one thing I find admirable in Anse is that he sticks to his promise saying, “I give my promise. She’s counting on it” (p 92).

One of my favorite lines is from Addie when she says, “I could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time” (p 114).

BookLust Twist: From Pearl’s first lust book, Book Lust in the chapter “Southern Fiction” (p 222).