Bastard out of Carolina

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Bastard out of CarolinaAllison, Dorothy. Bastard out of Carolina. New York: Penguin, 1993.

The only way I can describe how I felt after finishing Bastard is raw. Raw and used up. Maybe it’s because this is my second time reading it. Maybe it’s because I reread this in two days. I don’t know. There are a thousand different ways to describe the book itself: coming of age, looking for acceptance, southern, white trash poverty, motherhood gone by the wayside. It’s a nightmare of a mother loving a cruel stepfather (Pearl calls him “violent and predatory”) more than her own daughter. I could go on and on but that would only ruin the depression. Oddly enough, I loved it. I loved Bone’s defiant voice as she tried to make her way through life as the oldest daughter of young mother Anney. I loved her keen observance of her surroundings, “It was dangerous, that heat. It wanted to pour out and burn everything up, everything they had that we couldn’t have, everything that made them think they were better than us” (p 103).
The social commentary on men and women, men against women was poignant, too. “A man belongs to the woman who feeds him…the woman belongs to the ones she feeds” (p 157).

BookLust Twist: Bastard out of Carolina is mentioned twice in Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust. First, in the chapter called “Grit Lit” (p 106), and then in the chapter simply called “Southern Fiction” (p 222).

pps~ I was wondering if this was ever made into a movie and it has…back in 1996. Where have I been?

raindrops revive

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Third day home. We had the morning to hike our asses off; to get to the places we didn’t cover the day before. Cathedral to destroy fairy houses built in bad places (& rebuild for good), Gull Pond to ponder the gulls, Blackhead if only to get lost on deer trails, the lighthouse. Giant sandwiches for lunch. Giant appetites to match. I still can’t believe I could eat so much! When the storm crept across the sky we were already lounging across couches, groaning with bellies full and books cracked open. This picture was taken from my vantage point on the couch. We didn’t couldn’t move for hours.

The rain never bothers me at home. Things get a little muddy, but somehow the air tastes different after a good, good storm. The salt has been replaced by something sweeter. The stuff myths are made of. I can’t explain it anymore than that. The rain helped my equilibrium as well. The scales were being tipped in favor of here and, for once, there finally started to slip away.

Gift from the Sea

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GiftsLindbergh, Anne Morrow. Gift From the Sea. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

I have to say this is something every woman should read annually. The words and their meaning will change every single time and they will be different for every reader. In the simpliest of terms Gift From the Sea uses seashells, (whelk, moon shell, oyster) all gifts from the sea, as metaphors for life, vehicles for deeper thoughts. On vacation (ironically on an island, like me) Anne picks seashells and ponders religion, relationships, growing old, being young, nature, love and marriage…She picks at nagging thoughts like scabs, letting them bleed, revealing raw emotion and a tender heart. Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

“…I think best with a pencil in my hand” (p 9). I agree!
“…I have shed the shell of my life for these few weeks of vacation” (p 22). Since I was on vacation when I read that I had to smile because it happens to me, too.
“…social life is exhausting; one is wearing a mask” (p 32). Very true! Couldn’t have said it better myself.
“And since our communication seems more important to us than our chores, the chores are done without thinking” (p 100).

I read this in an afternoon. Gulls cried overhead, sea air salted my skin, waves crashed in the distance. It was the perfect setting for Gift from the Sea.

BookLust Twist: From the chapter called “Journals and Letters: We Are All Voyeurs at Heart” (p 130). I swear on everything holy I did NOT have More Book Lust with me when I wrote this review. I was still home without any of my Pearl books. So, I was incredibly surprised to read these words from Pearl, “Some of us still reread them yearly to remind ourselves of what’s important in this frantic world” (p 131). Pearl is referring to everything written by Lindbergh, but I had the exact same thought specifically about Gift from the Sea. Gift from the Sea is also in Book Lust in the chapter, “100 Good Reads, Decade by Decade” (p 175).

Juggling Here and There

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Home on day two is always tricky. I am are waiting for street lights to change when the roads aren’t even paved. Traffic is on foot, a gang of overwhelmed artists not sure what to paint next. I step around them and move on. I am listening for a 7am wakeup call when the entire house doesn’t have a clock, alarm, wall, or otherwise (we recommend something). I am thinking the tapwater smells a little funny while the outdoor air smells wonderful. I can’t stop leaning out the kitchen window and inhaling. I am thinking I am missing something and then it dawns on me- I haven’t plugged into the internet, a cell phone or a television set in over 24 hours. Suddenly, there is small panic. I’ll miss The Closer! Who am I missing on myspace? How many emails are piling up on gmail? Yahoo!? Outlook? First Class? What about the blog(s)? Librarything? PostSecret?
Being home is a balance, a juggling act between here and there. I want to be here, but the residue of there is still sticky to the touch, nagging at the brain. It’s not easy to let the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup go. The commute to work is still the autopilot I think of.
It’s day two and I start to compromise. Half shave the legs, half comb the hair. Wear half clean clothes. Half think about that life over there and half concentrate on settling in. Crack open the book.
Day two and we hike the backside cliffs, finding mysteries along the way. Who built this thing and why? How long did it take? I can’t let the mystery be for there is a whole army of them, all juggling rocks and drift wood. All juggling here and there. Just like me.

Under the Tuscan Sun

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Mayes, Frances. Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. New York: Broadway Books, 1997.Under the Tuscan Sun

Under the Tuscan Sun was made into a movie I have never seen, nor do I think I ever want to. I don’t see how the richness of Mayes’s Italy comes to life on the silver screen. I can’t picture the blood, sweat and tears of rebuilding a house; the glorious smells of garden fresh cooking; the love and laughter of enjoying one’s surroundings in moving pictures. I don’t see how Mayes’s  lush language is communicated. Really. Tuscan Sun is the journey of a woman (with the help of her second husband) to rebuild a Tuscan farmhouse. While she struggles with culture, language barriers and politics she falls in love with her Italian life. Try as I might I can’t see it as a movie. Okay, so now maybe I’ve convinced myself to see it out of curiosity!
I think I’m having trouble picturing a movie because I read Under the Tuscan Sun in my own personal paradise – by the dying light of fiery sunsets with the cadance of the surf as my only distractions. To say that I devoured Under the Tuscan Sun is an understatement. During the day I read it between hiking, eating, and breathing in my own love affair with a place. Every single time Mayes gushed about her Italian home I wanted to challenge her. I wanted to boast that it was I, not she, who was living the perfect life. On page 86 she says, “Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with it. Never casual the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.” I found that quote so profound to my place I had to choke back tears. It is hard to explain arriving on Monhegan and reading those words on the very first night home. I had arrived to the only place my soul knows intimately. The only place where my whole being breathes a sigh of relief. Home is who I am, for sure. Later, I bought a guestbook for our rental cottage and wrote Mayes’s same words on the inside cover.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called “Ciao, Italia” (p 46). I like that Pearl describes Mayes adventure as a “love affair” (p 47). We’re both on the same page with this book.

My love affair:
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Sigh of this Soul

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This is my first night home. I remember being exhausted from not sleeping well the night before (I never can in a strange place); tired from traveling all day; tired from being on the water (boats always make me drowsy), and tired from that other life’s load. It was a relief to finally set it down.
We ordered pizza right off the boat. The Humble, large with mom. Sue set aside goat cheese and a decadent dessert for me. Chocolate and cream. We crowded around the dining room table and laughingly devoured it with wine. Welcome home. I felt like a six year old, like Queen Eloise. Skipping and giggling, giddy to be back where I belonged.
Later, Kisa and I slipped away to view the dying light of day, just the two of us, hand in hand. A simple hike to what I call Heather’s point. With arms around each other we talked the “what ifs” of living here, working here, loving here, being here for good. Wild fantasy and speculation gave way to silence as we pondered the possibilities. Lost in our own thoughts of what could be. On that first day nothing seemed impossible.

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.