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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                                      monkey.jpgjapanese.jpg

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.

My Beautiful You

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Disclaimer: I am writing this for several people. Hopefully you will recognize yourself in the lines…or maybe in between.

Dear You,
I chose you first because we are strangers, yet I like you. I do not like you for reading me, but what I read of you. When your writing is silent I worry. Yes, I worry. I do not know you, but you read right. I care. I may not know how you take your coffee or cook your steak, but I know you are human – of flesh and feelings – and that alone, my friend, makes me care.
Dear You,
I got your call the other day. I am sorry I missed it, sorry I didn’t return it. I don’t dial the digits because I’m afraid of sounding dumb. I’m a broken record. I miss you. Last night I dreamt of red, red apples cut in half and lime green thongs on a sleeping girl. Art as art does. Know that I prefer your now to then.
Dear You,
Thanks for being you. I don’t say it enough. You. Thank You. You. I reread a diary entry. We stood outside a closed ice cream shop. It was late, late, late yet you weren’t going home. I walked you to his apartment above a sweet store. You broke into a perfect British accent – so perfect I had to write it down. I don’t remember why you were imitating a Brit but I told my diary you made me laugh so hard I cried. To this day I can picture that night perfectly. Standing on a sidewalk, chatting as if we had just bumped into one another, you saying something to make me laugh… some things never change.
Dear You,
I’ve been meaning to ask you…been meaning to tell you…yet I don’t have the words. I step on toes to say I love you. I don’t know what that means to anyone but me.
Dear You,
You confuse me. I’ve backed down from friendship because nothing seems related to me. At least not where you are concerned. I don’t know where I fit in so I edge myself out. I wasn’t important enough to have the forwarding address or the latest news and I have accepted that. I’ve moved into a different space of being. At least with you. We’ve talked about this before so nothing’s new. Don’t mind me if my mind is not on you.
Dearest You,
You alone have all of me.
Love,
Me

Black Dog of Fate: a memoir

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Black Dog of FateBalakian, Peter. Black Dog of Fate: a memoir. New York: Random House, 1998.

I must have started this book four or five times. I don’t know what it was about the beginning. I’d pick it up, read for a few pages and put it down again, never getting beyond the first chapter. By the time I’d return to pick it back up I had forgotten what I had read and needed to start all over again. Page one. Finally, I took Black Dog of Fate home with me Columbus Day weekend and read it from start to finish. When I was finally able to devote the time and attention to it I couldn’t put it down.
There are very few books I try to push on other people. Very rarely do I try to tell people what I have read and how I feel about it, urging them to see for themselves. This story was different. From the moment I put it down I found myself struggling to put into words what had moved me so yet I needed to say something.

Here’s what I wrote within seconds of finishing it on Monhegan:
It’s the history you don’t commonly read about. It has the facts everyone would like to wish away; a genocide too horrible to imagine as real. The Armenian Massacre wasn’t a standard topic in my history class. As a rule I think we, as a society, want to sweep all and every horrific moment under our subconscious. This is a memoir about a boy’s growing knowledge and deeper understand of his heritage. True to adolescent ambivilance Balakian doesn’t understand the importance of his ancestry. In his youth all the stories his grandmother wanted to tell him were lost on him. It’s only after he is ready does his grandmother’s words mean anything to him. “I came to find out more about the arid Turkish plain when I picked up a book at a time when I was prepared to read it” (p 147).  

Other lines that struck me:
“…she would pass me the salty green nuts so we could celebrate with our teeth” (p 13). I think food is always the most appropriate way to celebrate.
“Hokee, soul. Hankids, rest. The soul’s rest: a memorial” (p 140).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “A Geography of Family and Place” (p 97).

Big Sun Smiling

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BigSun

What happens to a person when she has reached the point of laughing for no reason at all? Giggling because there’s no turning back? Stirring stirfry on the stove I answered the phone as if I never left work. My husband giggled on his end and brought me back home. Woops. I mean…hello? Too late. He continued to laugh at me. There was no taking back the slip, nothing left to do but laugh along. The ingredients for Pad Thai were in front of me but I was miles away from my kitchen. Hopeless and pitiful. Yes, I admited, I was still thinking about work. Obviously. I could hear kisa’s eyeroll over the phone coupled with his gentle sigh. He knows where I’m coming from even if he’s not from there. Cutting limes and chopping peanuts I was thinking about a mouse.
There is a mouse in my office. He (?) has broken into my packets of hot cereal and crackers, strewn crumbs across my desk. The sad thing is I knew this before I moved in, even before I ever dreamed the office would be mine. I simply moved in without memory of the mouse. Now, I’m reminded and all I can do is sigh. It’s just one more thing.
Last night I dreamed of a cruise ship. My family on a cruise and me waving goodbye from the wharf. According to my new dream book that means my family is either going to die or I want them to go away. Well, since they are nowhere near me I have given myself worry. I resisted the urge to call them all day. What would I have said? How to explain my latest neurotic dreamscape? I have to laugh at myself for how ridiculous it all seems.

  

Yellow Raft in Blue Water

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Yellow raft in blue waterDorris, Michael. A Yellow Raft in Blue Water. New York: Warner Books, 1987.

This is high school to me. I remember being holed up somewhere reading this nonstop. Hot off the press, freshly published and oh so new I couldn’t put it down. I reread it and reread it until finally I could move on to other Michael Dorris creations, which somehow were never quite as good. Nothing compared to A Yellow Raft in Blue Water back then and it is still a faovrite to this day.

Someone described this book as an onion, reading it was like peeling back the layers of a story, and while that imagery is accurate enough, I like to think of Yellow Raft as a game of telephone. First, there is Rayona. She tells the story from her perspective. She is all of fifteen years old…at that difficult age where rebellion against your mother is the easiest thing to do. As she says, “when mom and I have conversations, they mostly involve subjects not personal to our lives” (p 26). She tells her story like it’s the honest truth. Then, there is Christine, her alcoholic mother, and her story. In the beginning you want to hate her for how seemingly unfair she had been to Rayona. But, learning about Christine’s heartbreak you realize Rayona’s reality is only her perception. The wires of communication have been crossed and in some cases, completely disconnected. Christine had her reasons for everything she did (and didn’t do). “I never had been good company for myself” says Christine (p 185). Finally, there is Ida, Christine’s mother. Her story is, by far, the most revealing and tragic. Everything you heard whispered from Rayona through Christina is trapped in the warped truth of Ida. All three women are stubborn, flawed by fate, and determined to make the best of life as they know it even if it means coming off as cruel to others. Being on the inside, privy to their hearts, makes you want to shake each one screaming, “talk to your daughter!”

Favorite lines:
“Ghosts were more lonesome than anything else. They watched the living through a thick plate of glass, a one-way mirror” (p176).
“A bath brought me peace, made me float free” (p340).

BookLust Twist: In both Book Lust and More Book Lust. In Book Lust Pearl mentions A Yellow Raft in Blue Water early; on page 23 in the chapter “American Indian Literature.” In the chapter “Men Chanelling Women” (p 166) in More Book Lust Pearl adds A Yellow Raft in Blue Water because Michael Dorris does an amazing job setting the voices of three very different women free.