This Old Life 10/31/05 9:46am

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pumpkins.jpg

All Things Evil
What is it about Halloween? The one night where pumpkins turn into jack-o-lanterns, shadows dart from house to house, leaves crackle under foot and the air takes on a crisp, smoky smell. Out come costumes that scare, masks that hide, cobwebs, candy and laughter. I love Halloween. I love the haunting, the magic, the feeling of something creeping just behind you.
Every year my living room turns into a shrine of all things October 31st. A pumpkin that screams, a skull that bleeds red wax, a gargoyle with ruby eyes, a witch who proclaims, “I aint yo mama”, a hissing black cat, several ghosts, life-like tarantulas…Every year I get something new. I’m a kid again, wanting to sit in the sincere pumpkin patch of innocence, waiting for the Great Pumpkin chanting “I believe. I believe.”
I love walking around our neighborhood on Halloween. One neighbor shows Nightmare Before Christmas on the side of her house, another has glowing faces in every window. Almost everyone has a creative jack-o-lantern on their stoop. Teenagers race around in the dark, hoping for tricks while excited, giggly children traipse from house to house looking for treats. Laughter is in the air along with something else…something spooky. I’d like to think the dead really are prowling the earth; authentic ghosts joining the fun, blending in for a night of mischief.

Coming Home

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Dear kisa,

You are stranded on a plane somewhere in PA. Engine trouble…something about a starter. I didn’t worry about failure during flying, but more about how tired you’ll be when you finally touch down for sleep. I know how much you hate to be tired.
I had a break through at work today. My BigBossMan reminded me I’m Miss Mucky Muck. If I don’t like something I can make it change…or go away. Imagine that! I’m been counting to ten when all I need to know is three strikes you’re out. Load off my mind and onto my plate.
We’re out of milk. My chai tasted like dirt. The kitchen has been cold without you to cook for. I’m glad you’re coming back tomorrow. Wish it was tonight. I’ll try to kiss you more than the Chipotle.
Anyway, I am ready for bed. Ready to get a new Serious. Speaking of the orange orb, I heard something funny the other day, “That closed sign means nothing to me. That rope across the driveway isn’t going to keep me out.” I had to laugh. Isn’t that how you get your pumpkins? Boys will be boys.

Kisa, I’m tired of negotiating with the cat for bed space. She’s a hog in disguise! Come home soon.
love,
me

Talk Talk Talk

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Dear kisa,

I’m a little late with today’s letter. That’s what happens when your wife is on the phone for over 200 minutes. Yup. You read that right. I was on the phone for an hour last night. Tonight, nearly four. I needed to talk to someone who really understands me. Not that you from last night doesn’t…or that you don’t. Far from it. I’ve got a great friend and you’re the guy who can tell me when to drink my coffee because you’re that clued in to my temperature control. It’s not that I don’t trust every word I give to you…I just needed to give them to someone else tonight.
We talked for nearly four hours. It’s like I had a backpack of sh!t and she not only looked inside and said, “yup, it’s crap” but she took it from me as if I didn’t need to carry it anymore. I needed just one more person to tell me nothing make sense for me to understand it. With therapy in her family I trusted her questions almost as much as her answers. It was good…and I didn’t even finish the bottle.
It’s 1am and I honestly think I’ll sleep tonight. Hopefully, I won’t wake to find the sheet in a ball beside my head, or the comforter stranded down the hall like last night….Just in case, maybe I should have one more glass of wine – tilt that bottle in the air and toss back more than my share (NM) – take me over the limit of reason. I don’t think so. I’m talked out and tired out.
Until tomorrow,
me
xoxox

This Old Life 10/29/05

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This is the time when I could use a drink. What is it that they say? Something to take the edge off…waking up to use the bathroom I find myself really awake as I lay back in bed. How do I get to this point? It happens all the time. I was dreaming of lip balm and Spoletos before. Why can’t I get back to slumber? How did I jump off the Sleep Express? Maybe it’s nerves. I’ll be meeting a bunch of new people today and I don’t think I brought enough makeup to put my best face forward. I pushed away a potential friend because the thought of that initial how-do-you-do terrified me. I’m not good at first impressions. If I could I’d have several first impressions. Like in the movie Groundhog Day. Until I get it right. Whoops! I stuttered. Let me go back to bed and try again. Ooops, I bumped your drink. Let me get back to you in 24 hours. Sorry! I mispronounced your name. Same time tomorrow? Until finally, finally my first impression is gracious and charming.
Insomnia leads to crawling around the internet. First stop, email and news of Natalie. Second stop, quick check of island life activity and photographs of heaven. Third stop, the sirsy message board to check the now grown silent chatter. Final stop, here. To confess my thoughts by the glow of the laptop and to wish for sips of icy cold limoncello….or maybe warm tuaca.

Dear You Day Two

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dear kisa,

as predicted my night was hell. wind woke me up, worry kept me up. i watched too much tv and gave myself too much to think about. but we know all that. we talked and i gave you girly crap about not calling me before the game. don’t mind me. i’m just lonely.
today i read a lot of my montana wild-wild frontier book. i should be reading the pregnancy book but i can’t get into it. it interests me as much as stock car racing and stamp collecting.
i met RT at the mall. yes, the mall. not the best place to purge your worst week but i did it and was glad for it. she shares my WTF attitude and had a few choice words of her own. it made me laugh and it brought me one step closer to moving on. all the time in the world to make it better just got a little sooner, thanks to her.
later i caught a friend on the phone and talked for an hour. it would have been better to sit with coffee and let silences be comfortable but it was nice to just talk and not have tears on the verge of betraying me. i got to laugh a little, smile a little and worry about someone else for a little. i liked that. i wanted to describe the night sky. i’ll write about it for sure.
so fenway we are not. mountaintops rule your view. i’m still waiting on the burrito.
love,
me

rain & not snow

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dear kisa,

i know i will try to hear you later when you call…from The Game…i guess this is more for when you can’t hear me. across the miles. it rained today but that didn’t stop us from going out. we ate at jake’s for lunch, only we had breakfast. i got the usual…without the hot sauce. she forgot it and i was too insecure to ask. it wasn’t as good as when i’m across from you. the cornbread was dry, the eggs not runny enough. i missed seeing you through coffee’s steam. after we went to faces and laughed at the halloween faces. instead of goblins and ghouls i thought of christmas and all the presents i could buy. i didn’t. we wandered thornes and i bought Yungchen’s 2006 album while she bought a bee. don’t ask. i don’t think i understand it myself. the rain made yard leaves shiny and bright. it was only then i remembered you have the camera. i touched the pumpkin’s orange instead. a rub for good luck. we walked in shops smelling perfume too decadent for my skin. clothes too rich for my wallet. i wouldn’t wear them anyway. i prefer black, and today, orange.
last night i slept sideways. tonight i’ll sleep lightly. i’m not as tired as the day before. if i had my cellphone i would make phone calls. i want to ask a man about a sunday that may or may not have happened.
the cat is confused and a little concerned. i don’t think she believes me when i say i’m not going anywhere. where would i go? i ask her.
anyway,
thunder rolled across the skyline and the trees have slipped into black so i’ll say goodnight. i can see you – fat tires in cupholders. hope the fun is yours for the taking.
love,
me

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.