Proper Placement

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homeI like staring at the art on my walls. I’m not sure if it’s a sense of pride or a sense of person that keeps me standing still. If I don’t know the artist, I certainly know the image. In most cases I know both, for they are all portrayals, stills if you will, of my island life. Stories in frames. My home in intimate detail. My history in watercolor, oil and pencil. My memory lane matted and framed. Neimic, Stone (Jr. & Sr.), Barnes, Larson, Johnson, Bush, Tihansky, Caroll, Brooks, Wyeth, Drexler to name some. A little bit of everyone. The cliffs, the ocean, the harbor, the woods, in town, out of the way. Most of me is represented in art.

We have a whole room dedicated to art, shrine-like and stark. Off white walls, red trim.  It’s not a room of comfort and coziness. You can’t sit down and enjoy the images and I like it that way. It’s my private sanctuary. I walk around the room and gingerly touch the frames, evoking home like a seance. I think about other art I want to own. Original Brooks, Wyeth, Neimic. Call me crazy, but I’d like the cemetery under a cerulean blue sky. In real life I have sanctuary among the headstones so why not in wet paint?

Kill

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Why is it that we think we can take the ones we love for granted? Treat them like sh!t just because we know we can. Why does that saying, “we hurt the ones we love” even exist? Trapped in the car for two hours yesterday and that’s all I could think about. Rant about inside my head. I came up with so many excuses it made my brain hurt. Emotional sabotage. I’m afraid to speak for fear of letting more garbage come out of my mouth. I don’t know what I want to say, I barely know what I want to mean. I come across as foolish and frivolous when my feelings are anything but. It’s stupid to think that I can reason with the unknown. Sometimes, I am bold enough to think I am indestructible and I can wrestle any insecurity to the ground, pin it under my pride and carry on. Not so. Never so. I saw metaphors in the landscape. Trucks rolled by me, as big as whales. State troopers hungry like sharks evoked fear in this sea of bumper to bumper transportation. I’m a minnow in my little green sirsy bug (with the new cracked windshield and squeaky brakes). I’m cruising along, singing, “…these are days…” at the top of my lungs, trying to drown out the voice of stupidity. I don’t want to think about what makes us hurt one another. Because we can, so we do.

The Cage

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Schulman, Audrey. The Cage. Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 1994.Cage

As soon as I saw this book I knew I would read it in one day. The Cage is only 228 pages long. The storyline is simple. Beryl is a young photographer, known for her moving portraits of animals. She is recruited for an assignment in Manitoba to take stills of polar bears in their natural habitat. The catch is the assignment involves working with three other men and a cage barely big enough to contain her. Nothing will stand between her and the bears except for the much anticipated cage. When the cage didn’t make it’s debut in the story until p.150 and it was afforded a few pages of description (Beryl sits in it only twice), I knew the Cage was a metaphor for something bigger: Beryl’s life. She is confined by her insecurities, her rigid sense of self. She is uncomfortable with relationships and intimacy, constantly jittery and unsure. “She sometimes wished she had ears like a cat so she could fold them back as cats do then people pushed their faces in too close” (p. 45).
Beryl and her crew spend some time in Churchill before going out on the expedition. There, Beryl befriends a local and spends some time bear watching at the local dump. It reminded me of an episode of Northern Exposure when Ed & his date go to the dump to watch the bear forage for food.
Needless to say, the expedition ends with death. Beryl even speaks of the impending doom as a premonition the night before. I was shocked by the tragedy even though I knew it was coming. It was a given someone had to (and would) die by bear. It’s like the proverbial gun in the first act, by the third act it needs to go off. Schulman did a great job leaving the story open. Ultimately, I was unsure exactly who survives. I closed the book wondering what Beryl was going to do next. Just the way I like a book to end.

BookLust Twist: This selection comes from Book Lust’s “Adventure By the Book: Fiction” chapter (p. 7).

13 Clocks

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Thurber, James. The 13 Clocks.New York: Simon & Schuster, 1950.clocks

Even though it took me less than an hour to read 13 Clocksfrom start to finish I enjoyed every second of it. Illustrated by Mark Simont, this was fun to look at, too. Where to begin with this wonderful children’s story? It’s a fairy tale, it’s poetry in motion. For starters, it has a lot of alliteration however silly, “You sicken me with your chocolate chatter…” (p. 110). Huh? It’s clever and heroic, funny as a fairy tale. Typical story: beautiful maiden is locked in a castle. She is being held captive by her cruel uncle (not) and can only be saved by a prince. Of course there is the typical, impossible challenge her captive gives all suitors. Each in turn typically fails until one can outwit the captor. Which one does, of course. All fairy tales have to have a happy ending, right? There is even a “message” at the end. The happy couple is told, “remember laughter. You’ll need it even in the blessed isles if Ever After” (p. 120). Didn’t someone say that to me on my wedding day? But, I have to admit my favorite line was uttered by the villain, “We all have flaws,” he said, “and mine is being wicked” (p. 114). I told you I have a black cloud.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust under the chapter, “Not Only for Kids: Fantasies for Grown-ups” (p.175).

Perfect Day

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Glamour sent me a Happy Birthday email and asked me how I would describe my perfect day. I can’t really detail the days that haven’t happened, even those wildest fantasy days, so I drew on something from long ago. This was my perfect day.Hands

We were best friends, you and I. Back before your cousin showed me his meaning of best friend. Back before life got in the way. Back before adulthood and responsibility. We were friends.
We would start the day, you and I, by foraging for breakfast. We’d shamelessly stand begging for donuts at TY’s door, then climb knotty crab apple trees to eat the fruit whole, crunching through worm holes, seeds and not ripe cores (and the occasional worm).
We’d roll down Store Hill coming to a jumbled stop in bunches of sweet wild clover; a midmorning snack. Never mind grass stains or stares.
We’d head to Arnie’s Beach for elusive milk of magnesia blue sea glass and Arnie. We’d slide down rocks, over the slimy-spit laden seaweed and into the ocean until our shorts were stained black and worn through in places. Turn over rocks hoping to catch a crabby crab. Stare into tide pools waiting for the minnows to dart by. Smash perriwinkles with rocks for a raw lunch.
Skip pebbles on the Ice Pond’s tranquil face and laugh about an earlier prank. Look for coins in illegal faerie houses and steal every penny without guilt. Roll over mossy logs  to look for black and yellow salamanders and gray leggy potato bugs. Dirt clogging our fingernails and hair.
Climb the big chestnut tree in Lex’s yard, get lost in the leaves and yell lewd things at the tourists, “You have big boogers, lady!” Jump down to scare the city slickers. Hide in lobster cars if that wasn’t enough. Give them the wrong directions to Lobster Cove if we wanted more.
Penny candy at Zim’s: fireballs and Swedish fish, Bit o Honeys and Bazooka Joes.
Wander to the dock to lay flat on our bellies. Playing I-Spy with the harbor’s bottom. Peer through the rippled water; the toilet bowl was off-limits because it was always there.
Take the skiff out for a round-the-harbor row, trailing fingers and toes in the icy water’s wake.
Climb to lighthouse lawn and play lion, tying knots of tall grass over our heads for forts.
If there was time, drop in Treetops for mocha and markers. As the sun set over the water and the end of day was near we would head for home. You for dinner, I late for curfew as usual. We could tell by the bell. Covered with sweet dirt and sticky candy. We swore, you and I, we had a rubber band between us; a band that would stretch and stretch until we each got home. You’d yell “got it?” and I’d call back “yes”. Back and forth through the neighborhood until we couldn’t hear each others’ fading voices. We swear the band wouldn’t break until we got to our front doors safely. You and I. A perfect day. To this day I don’t see a rubber band and not think of you.

PS~ I never did meet Arnie.

Girls’ Guide To Hunting

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Girls GuideBank, Melissa. The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing. New York: Penguin, 2000.

This is another book I picked up before the Book Lust Challenge. I think it’s from my sister, yet I found it in my mother’s collection at home. I loved Melissa Bank’s narrative in the beginning when the main character, Jane, is a child. She’s a little too smart for her age. Unfortunately, as Jane gets older, the voice/narrative loses some of it’s wit, sarcasm and charm. All in all what fascinated me was Bank’s ability to mature Jane through voice. The story about the neighbor was the only part that threw me because I took all the other stories to be about Jane, even the one about cancer. The neighbor story didn’t seem to fit with the sequence as well. 

I find it interesting that it’s now being made into a movie (due to be released this year).

BookLust Twist: From Pearl’s Book Lust in the chapter “Chick Lit” (p. 53). How appropriate!

High

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drugsI started last night not knowing where I was going. When you’re on a treadmill you never know where you are going to end up. We are all gerbils going nowhere, but the emotional, mental end of the journey is a different story. Luckily for me it ended up being my best run in nine months. I rediscovered the elusive runners’ high. I was drowning in the electric buzz for hours afterwards.

It started out like any other run. The Cage was busy so I had to exert energy just to block out the bad music overhead and the bad conversations overheard. My KISA to the left of me & some teenage boy to the right of me. I’m drawn to competition so I kept a lazy, easy eye on both boys (more on that later).
I’m trying something new with the warmup – instead of walking for a few minutes I’m immediately jogging at a gentle pace right out of the gate. Something just shy of speed walking (4.2 for you treadmill junkies). I find that it gets me in the right frame of mind that much sooner. I can get to a good runner’s pace that much easier. Before long I found myself chugging along at a 9.5 minute mile. Feeling no pain. At one point my KISA pointed out our comparative calories burned and competition kicked in again. I upped the incline and pressed on faster. He laughed and I gave up. But, here’s what I learned from this run: when I push myself beyond my limits I reach a mental ecstasy. There is a spreading warmth all over my body; a warmth that hugs me close and lasts for hours. I’m hugged by the high. I literally walk around in a haze, a protective bubble of buzz. I feel like I’m floating and well, euphoric. I can’t explain it any other way: the euphoric groove. I realize there is nothing wrong with treadmill running. The belt below me forces continuous motion from me, myself and moi. I can’t slow down, I can’t even think about quitting. But the thing is, I’m not chained to the gerbil cage. The wheel is not my only running place. It’s not my prison. I realize I have the open road, the great fresh-air outdoors. I am not a wimp. I am not a baby. I will not limit my run to the coddled comfort of indoor containment. There is nothing wrong with getting my butt outside to chase that elusive high. I want it back.

Bottom line: 3.48 miles

Griffin & Sabine

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Bantock, Nick. Griffin and Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1991.

Griffin & SabineNick Bantock’s trilogy evokes very romantic feelings for me. Way before Book Lust the first offering in the trilogy, Griffin & Sabine was given to me by a secret lover. 23 years old, I was in lust/love with the bearer, and I think initially as a direct result, the book won my instant favor as well. Later, I determined it was an aphrodisiac for the mind as I repeatedly poured over each gloriously illustrated page (also by Bantock). I was as careful and as loving as a caress. The delicious unfolding, opening, and reading of letters and postcards was as tantalizing and seemingly illicit as my affair. Never mind the storyline of ill-fated lovers, destined to never be together, however passionately in love. That wasn’t only what excited me. The artwork drew me in and captivated me to no end. If candles, soft music, and wine stir passion through sight, sound and palate then Griffin & Sabine is for the artistic intellect.Bantock

My affair has long since ended. The passion cooled to cold and I went on to marry someone warmer. I have kept every Bantock book ever given to me and will continue to collect them. For kids of all ages and passions on all levels.

Drumazing II

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I found another drum beat I want to run to. Carlos Santana. Supernatural. Track Eight, especially. Migra is the best. Love It. We were driving to work. The sun was in my eyes so I had them closed. There, the in the self-induced dark I was introduced to something new to run to. I could feel exactly how it would work. The beat was exactly to my best tempo. I was running in my mind. I wish I had a way to extract Billy Johnson, Carter Beauford, Horatio Hernandez, Rodney Holmes, Greg Bissonette and Jimmy Keegan (and everyone on percussion) from the horns, vocals and other whatnots that only clog the mesmerizing sound.

JJJIn something unrelated to Santana but along the lines of drums, BubbleGum graced us with an almost 10 minute YouTube performance of ‘Gravity’ (from the tour that started last week in Florida). I know there are artists out there who hold onto their sound and won’t share it for the world and they have their reasons, but I admire the chance takers. It’s as if BG is saying, “sorry you couldn’t make it to the show, but here’s a little something…”, and it’s not a short tease of the song – it’s the whole d*mned thing. But, but, but what got me was J.J.J. on drums, hiding out in the back. I could care less about the sqealing guitar solo (you go, boy), J3 had it going on. He doesn’t sit in his seat and primly mark the beat. He flails around as if his life depends on it, smoking all the while. It cracks me up. So, check out the BubbleGum site. Wait for JM to do his grand finale guitar solo, take a moment to appreciate the talent, then look for J3 in the back. Drums. Gets me everytime. Seriously.

Caine Mutiny

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Wouk, Herman. The Caine Mutiny. New York: Doubleday, 1951.Caine Mutiny

I read this book before I took on the BookLust Challenge, even before I even knew of Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust at all. I read it because it was one of my dad’s favorites (although, when I think back I think he was referring to the 1954 movie version). When a 1951 edition fell into my hands last summer I couldn’t resist cracking it open, despite the fact I had always assumed Wouk to be a difficult read. I thought anything and everything he wrote would be filled with technical military terminology; guy fiction adventures I couldn’t possibly understand. I was wronger than wrong.

The Caine Mutiny was about a mama’s New York boy, Willie Keith, who joined the navy to avoid going into the more dangerous, death-sentence army during World War II. He fancied himself a musician and if it weren’t for the tour of duty he’d been in the bar, entertaining the fun-loving crowd, romancing a beautiful nightclub singer. He skated through practically everything from basic training to active duty. Only when Willie’s vessel was put through the dangers of a typhoon, and his acting Captain Queeg froze with indecision, did Willie rise to the challenge of assuming command. True, Willie had been growing up all along, but this was a heroic burst of responsibility. This act, among others, resulted in a court martial of Capt. Queeg and led to the most fascinating part of the book. The court-martial finale scrutinized all characters involved in the events leading up to trial so brutally that I was left wondering if assumption of command from Capt. Queeg was really necessary. There was much more to the story than that. such as the incident with the strawberries, but I’ll leave it at that. 

BookLust Twist: In Book Lust Wouk’s Caine Mutiny is mentioned twice, in “What a Trial That Was” (p. 243) and “World War II Fiction” (p. 253).

Gone and Forgotten

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SunshineI was wondering what I did on my birthday last year. Why didn’t I write about it? Where was I that I wouldn’t say something, anything? Florida. Tampa…no, Brandon, to be exact. That’s where I was. I remember now. I practiced five minutes of yoga and ran two miles in the morning. B made me breakfast. Humidity was fun for me. That same weekend J & I set sail for the Caribbean. Dave and Friends, Sunshine and sand. G. Love & funk. Buffets and booze. No wonder I didn’t write.

I cancelled sunshine this year. No Florida for me. I will miss the run; I will miss my friend of 25 years. Promotion prompted me to pass up pleasure. For this year. 

Things We Say

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When I first started reading Jorge Luis Borges (Collected Fictions, trans. by Andrew Hurley, Penguin. 1998) I thought I was only going to be caught up in the stories. Man talking to himself, but is he really in his head or, is it a dream, a doppelganger nightmare? Knife fights and Buenos Aires. Gallant gauchos. The thrill of somewhere different – Latin America at my mind’s door, knocking to be let in. It hasn’t worked out that way. Not exactly. While I appreciate the good stories (and there are many), there are phrases that catch my attention, hold my imagination, creep into something deeper.

  • “Sleeping, as we know, is the most secret thing we do.” (p 378)dreams

There are others, better ones even, that caused pause in my reading. They all led to more personal observations, more private speculations than I can relate here, but trust me, there were there.
I am always drawn to the good phrase, the things we say. Like this one from page 378. Sleep is the most secret thing we do. In that sleep come dreams that threaten to tell on us, to spill the beans of privacy and even secrecy. Last night I had crystal visions of lunch with my mother and sister. Both has just returned from separate trips, yet had similar stories to tell. I too, had something to say, but insisted on keeping quiet. We ate in an outdoor cafe that was crowded and noisy. My sister picked it out not knowing it was my favorite, yet I would not say so nor even admit as much when asked. Details stay vivid: a CT license plate on a midnight blue SUV, slipping on ice in the summer, iron chairs that scrape loudly on a brick-layed patio. Waiters nearly spilling glasses filled with fragile slices of floating lemon. Daydreaming about apple pie topped with whisper thin slices of cheddar cheese; catching frogs in a pond and slinging elastic bands.

Two nights ago I woke in the middle of the night, something for the pocket, for it bothered me so. I went back to sleep only to have it continue and mutate. Kissing someone who gave all the signs of puking in my mouth. Blood on the floor. In daylight I chewed on the images wanting to make sense of them. The secret too big for a pocket, maybe.

Words that evoke emotion should be taken as such – words with power. When attaching responsibility and ownership to words I lose the ability to see them as they are — without the owner in tow. Ownership becomes the end-all, be-all. I can not separate words from tongue and no longer blame the words, but the person who said them. Borges wrote something about dreams. Because I stripped away his ownership I was able to apply them to my mind’s way of seeing.

The Blue and the Gray

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CommagerCommager, Henry Steele, ed. The Blue and the Gray: From the Battle of Gettysburg to Appomattox.2nd ed. New York: Merridian, 1994.

I’ve never been overly excited by historical novels, especially ones that spit out fact upon arid fact. To say that I was not looking forward to reading Commanger’s Civil War book was an understatement. To my surprise, I am delighted with the reading. It is a delicious combination of letters, journals, diaries, newspaper reports and so forth. With all the first-hand accounting, it lends itself to a very voyeuristic snapshot of one of the most widely studied wars of our time. Rereading the Gettysburg Address didn’t make me feel like I was back in high school. I enjoyed discovering the origin of the speech. “David Wills asked Lincoln to make “a few appropriate remarks” and the result was the most memorable of all American addresses” (p.59). Wish I knew that in 7th grade.

Some of the more pondersome passages: “I could stand by and and see a man’s head taken off I believe – you get so used to it here” (Cornelia Hancock, nurse in Gettysburg p.187). Makes you think. “We called all hands and gave three cheers and a tiger!” (Captain George Hamilton Perkins, p. 212). What exactly is a tiger? All I could think was, “They’re Grrrreat”, the Tony-The-Tiger exclamation. Something to look up later.
PS~ In addition to being a fascinating read, Commager includes maps of significant battles, although they are hard to follow. Maybe because I have the paperback version? (Not the edition pictured here.) The images are cramped and  blurry.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust (p. 58) under the category of “Civil War Nonfiction.”

Among the Tibetans

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Bishop, Isabella Bird. Among the Tibetans.New York: Fleming H. Revell Co., 1894.Isabella Bird

Holding this egg fragile book is amazing. I know there is a 2003 edition out there, but this 113 year old edition is certainly more tantalizing, magical even. What is it about an old book, with it’s tired binding nearly gone, its cover frayed and faded, its thin pages brittle and yellowed? Even the illustrations in Among the Tibetans are glorious in their ancient detail. I know I’ve said it before, but a book that is a pleasure to hold is even more enjoyable to read.

From the very beginning, I loved the narrative of Tibetans. Bird seemed like someone I would have loved chatting with over tea. With statements like, “…of whom the less that is said the better…” (p.9) and, “…was prepared to ‘wink’ at a moderate amount of dishonesty, so long as it affected only myself.” (p. 23) I formed an instant opinion that I would liked her. The fact that she carried a pistol at all times only bolsters my opinion.

As for the work of Among the Tibetans, I was drawn to images of the culture, the landscape – everything that painted a portrait of Tibet; for I imagine it to be much the same in the 21st century. I want to believe travels to Tibet in 1894 would have been similar to such a journey today and I read Bird’s narrative with that in mind. The only thing I could wrap my narrow mind around was the descriptions of polygamy. A woman marries the eldest son, always, and his younger brothers are all sub-husbands to her. While I think it’s practical to keep the land, traditions and heritage all in the same family I don’t think I could handle more than one husband. One is my limit!

BookLust Twist: Pearl appropriately calls Bird, “one of the more dashing and irresistible travelers” (Book Lust, p143). I couldn’t agree more.

PS~ Among the Tibetans is cataloged as being written by Isabella Bird. I took the author’s name from the title page where she is described as, “Isabella Bird Bishop, Hon. Fellow of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, Etc. Author of “Unbeaten Tracks in Japan,” Etc., Etc.”

Inside Breath~ Day 25

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child's poseI couldn’t find my shirt and didn’t want to practice topless. I didn’t think Now & Zen would appreciate it. So. So, I skipped class for the 3rd week in a row. I needed this class. I really, really needed this class. My solution was to try a little restorative yoga at home. My favorite instructor was right – what I was avoiding was exactly what I needed. It’s cold in my yoga “studio” so I wore a sweatshirt; a blessing in disguise. As I hung over in a standing forward bend the hood fell over my head and stayed. From then on, every pose was shrouded in private purple. It was bliss to stay in each pose for at least fuller minutes. There was darkness and warmth in my hood. I needed this. Child’s pose -> extended child’s pose -> star pose -> seated straddle forward bend -> seated forward bend (probably the most relaxing of all poses. I let my stomach and chest rest full weight on my legs and almost fell asleep) -> supine twist -> child’s pose to end.