All-Bright Court

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

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

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

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

How Are You?

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

You Cooking Fool

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

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

I haven’t seen him since.

Transmit This!

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

Waiting…

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

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

Second Sex – Failed

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

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

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

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

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

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.