Friday, March 28, 2008

To the girl who censored my book before I bought it (used)

Really?

Did it bother you so much to even see the words "damn" and "hell" and "have" + "sex" and all it implies together that you had to black out the words themselves? I feel sad for you. I especially feel sad you also blacked out the word "God." I would understand if the God had been used in a profane context, but the people were just talking about God because the world was most likely ending. I would definitely be having some God-filled conversations if my world were literally ending, wouldn't you?

And if your parents were the ones who (I'm certain) lovingly scratched out those offensive words, then I hope you gleefully whispered them to yourself as you were reading. And what are they going to do when you hit high school and have to read The Scarlet Letter (adultery! bastard offspring! lascivious ministers!). By the way, I'm really sorry about The Scarlet Letter, it is apparently required reading. No, whatever you do, do not see the movie instead.

And I can't help but get the feeling you never finished reading the book, or it was ripped out of your hands and sold to the nearest used bookstore (at least it wasn't burned, I tell myself). That makes me sad as well. You missed a beautifully heartbreaking study of hope in the face of hopelessness, the agony of growing up when there's little left to look forward to, and the fierce love and foibles of parents just trying to keep their families safe.

Good luck to you in your life.

I remember the sound of bells

Not church bells. Or tinkling silver bells. But the heavy clanking bells that hung off the necks of the goats that walked daily down the street outside the window of the bedroom I was sleeping in.

I remember family meals, noisy and raucous, a sea of English and Greek and laughter and arguing, while we ate food I had never encountered before (and would not again): crusty bread, chicken that had flavor, vegetables from an actual garden, and hand-made pasta. I remember the crunch of the cucumbers, soaking in olive oil from family groves, crisp cold watermelon, plump sweet grapes that hung almost obscenely from the arbor that ran the length of the patio alongside our almost motel-like family homestead.

I remember talking to my Dad on the phone before he headed over, trying to read to him a list of books to bring me, and him cutting me off before I could get three words out. All he heard was books. Now I think of this and laugh at the lack of communication. He, worried about the $2/minute phone call not understanding how starved I was for the written word. Me, desperate to read something written in English, not understanding how much that call was costing. That was the summer I was 11 and I made the dive into adult literature, picking up my mother's fat paperback edition of The Stories of John Cheever. The book was red and the words were just that, something to satisfy my dependence on reading and my need to view something so familiar as an alphabet I recognized. It was nearly ten years later I would read "The Country Husband" in class and feel a strangely dislocated sense of unease, like I had just awakened from a disturbing dream whose contents were forever lost. It took another several years for me to recognize I had, in reading that story again, touched on a long lost memory of uncomfortable recognition that must have sparked when I had first read it.

It was my eleventh birthday when we flew from Chicago to Greece. I was not ready for four months of culture shock. And maybe I could have done things differently, but I think, given my nature, I handled it the best I could: loping around the village like the child I still was, appreciating the beauty of the young men around me like the woman I would too soon become.

I remember knowing not to get too attached to the lambs tethered to the storage shed, for they were just days away from being slaughtered for Stacy and Maria's baptism. I remember watching the humane way my great-uncle killed them; I remember eating their meat in celebration in the clearing beside the quaintly beautiful church. My father wore white shoes and danced, even though he often felt as lost as I did. I had candle wax and olive oil on my hands from baptizing Maria, then just six months old and already the love of my life.

I remember faces. Old, young, angry, sad, laughing. One by one the relatives I had met started passing. I have this great picture of my grandmother and her two sisters. They were so crazy about each other. Only one is left now. I remember eight months ago, feeling melancholy, wishing I could go back in time to tell my grandmother (yia-yia to me), I understand now why you are so sad. I am so sorry you have to miss your family this much. I understand now.

My family's village is burning. My family is safely (we think) evacuated to the nearest large city. They were told to go to the sea and I think, what the hell are all these old people supposed to do there? Sit in their cars and wait for the flames to get close enough they have to jump in the water? Hope there's a sea breeze to keep the fear of death blowing away from them?

I remember. I remember. I remember it all. The smells, the sounds, the confused and confusing emotions, the food, the love, most of all I remember the love.

My family's village is burning and there isn't a damn thing I can do but cry.

I haven't felt this fucking helpless in almost two years.
[Note: this was written during the fires in Greece last autumn. My family's village survived through the courage of several residents who had stayed behind to set up fire breaks.]

In the infinities of parallel universes

We are sitting on the beach and it is a balmy night. The moon is full but distant enough for the stars to take over the sky. We are lying in the sand and you are telling me about the woman in the tourist store who was in her fifties, fake boobs, bad George Hamilton tan, wrinkly neck - who insisted on buying the Union Jack string bikini. And I am telling you about the guy in the Denny's who sent his eggs back four times, insisting they weren't just what he wanted, and about how I begged the kitchen staff not to spit on his food. Then you say, "But you secretly wanted them to, right?" And I laugh. We count stars while the waves lull us to sleep.

Truth is Subjective

I've been reading some blogs lately by my friends in NOLA and most of them are pretty cynical about the city. I get what they're saying; I really do. It must be beyond frustrating to live there now. Friends are afraid to go places they've always gone because of the crime. The demographics are changing, but the class system is still firmly in place. My last trip home, I went to my brother's in Chalmette and wanted to cry for all the closed businesses and endless lines of trailers along once-busy Judge Perez. I felt, coming back to Austin, a sense of returning home only because this has become what is familiar to me now.

I described Austin to Rebekah as this: it's a really pretty package, the wrapping is fancy and the bow is fluffy, but to me it's a big empty box. That's not to say there aren't things and people here I love. Of course there are. But when you focus so much energy on the outside of the package, and get frustrated and angry because there is no bow, you lose sight of the great present inside. I know I'm simplifying. But there are a lot of things in Austin I would gladly give up for a fraction of what I left behind.

Life has a way of balancing itself. I am an introvert by nature. I have always lived a good portion of my life inside my head. Any entertainment I needed came from books, movies, or my imagination. From childhood, I processed every thought and emotion fully before expressing myself--if I even did that. My friends in high school used to say: when I spoke up about something, they knew to listen, as it was so rare for me to express how I felt about anything. Truth be told, by the time I was in my twenties, I thought I was invisible. Not literally. I just figured no one ever noticed me. I was "the quiet one" or "the smart one," not "the one you call to have a blast." I thought I was the most boring person in the world. I had some self-esteem issues, yeah, but I realize now that it was okay. It freed me to form my own sense of self, to create ideas and opinions outside the box my peers lived in. I was able to look at a situation and see not just two sides, but infinite sides, each as much the truth as the other.

Sometimes I feel like that invisible girl again. Back inside my own head, where it's both safe and dangerous, for I have infinite sides, and they are all the truth.

We have a lot of homeless people here in Austin. That's understandable. The weather is mild and city politics are fairly progressive. My favorites, though, are the ones who stand at busy intersections holding hand-made signs. They put a lot of effort into those signs, making them clever or heart-felt (some faves: "A couple $$ of some 4:20 would be nice"; "Testing the kindness of Humans"; "Even a smile will make it better"). I never mind these enterprising folk. I figure, hey, this is their job; to stand on this corner and remind everyone that passes--even if for just 2 seconds--that, as Jesus said, "The poor will always be with you." I rarely have cash on me, so from me it's a smile. Sometimes I offer a cigarette.

Two months ago I'm driving home from the car lot where we just put ourselves back into debt to get Rick a much-needed vehicle. My head is swirling, wondering: how are we going to pull this off? and was I going to find a job to help cover this new expense? and were we now going to be able to fix the air conditioning in my car---please God before summer? and is this ever going to end? On the corner stood a rough-looking woman, smiling at the cars passing, holding a sign. I stopped at the light and read, "Didn't Come Prepared" and started laughing my ass off.

I rolled down my window, gave her my last dollar, and thanked her.

More Short Book Reviews

I'm keeping most of these brief. It's just not as much fun to write them when there is no discourse. I miss talking to people about what I'm reading; it is a physical ache in my chest.

The Brief History of the Dead, by Kevin Brockmeier
Probably one of the best books I've read in years. It tells two parallel stories: one about the recently dead, who find themselves in a mysterious city that is neither here nor there, the other follows a young female researcher stranded at a station in Antarctica. Don't be surprised when you finish it if you start thinking about people you haven't seen in decades. This is one of those books that stays with you for a long damn time.

I finally read A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway. I have to admit, I'm not a Hemingway fan. I find his method of storytelling off-putting and care little about his characters. But after I read Special Topics in Calamity Physics (by Marisha Pessl), another book on my you must read this now list, I felt compelled to pick it up. Hemingway describes living in Paris during one of its glittering artsy periods, when American writers ate sausages, drank beer, and wrote in cafes while consorting with Communists and Jean Paul Sartre. His descriptions of the times he spent with F. Scott Fitzgerald are priceless.

Another book which mentions the above that is also at the top of my must-read list is Ex Libris, by Ann Fadiman. Anyone who loves not only the written word, but the physical presence of books themselves should read this slim volume of essays. This is one of those books I finished, picked up, read again, and still occasionally pick up to re-read favorites. Essayist and critic Fadiman writes about the love of books as others write about food, or lovers. She describes growing up in a book-loving family and the strong ties that creates in a way that made me envious, even though I think my family is unparalleled. These aren't just essays about the written word; they also examine her relationships with other book lovers, raising kids in a bookish household, and the curious pain of watching her parents age. This is the book I would buy for each of my friends rather than let them borrow mine, so certain I am everyone should read it.

Continuing the theme of aging and dead people, I finally sat down to read The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. I am a Didion fan, but avoided picking this up, thinking it would be an emotional assault to my sensitive psyche. And while it resonates with grief, Didion's professionally detached style kept me from wrapping myself up too much in the narrative. This isn't to say it was coldly written; her sadness and malaise in the wake of her husband's sudden death bleeds through every page. But Didion is a professional reporter and those instincts kept her from overwhelming her reader with emotive fascism.

Anna Marie turned me on to PopCo, by Scarlett Thomas, but I think I actually sat down and read it first (have you noticed I have no life?), and what a big fat bunch of fun it was. I loved all the math references and did actually pull out a pen and paper to solve some of the codes. If you like books heavy with references to prime factorization and cryptanalysis, with a mystery and love story, as well as a not too gentle poke at the toy industry, pick this one up.

So if I had six free weeks and lots of cash, I would walk the Camino de Santiago, the almost millenia-old pilgrimage that crosses northern Spain. Even after Kerry Egan's description in Fumbling of mind-numbing boredom after days and days spent walking in blistering hot sun through wheat fields, I can't imagine a more surreally introspective experience than walking the same path other pilgrims have for centuries accompanied by little more than my own thoughts.

After Dark, by Haruki Murakami, still vexes me. Not in the way most of his writing does. I really want someone else who's read this to contact me. This is one I need to discuss. Maybe then, I can write a description.

Continuing with my love of literary short stories that have a touch of quirk, I've read Saffron and Brimstone, by Elizabeth Hand, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, by Karen Russell, and No One Belongs Here More Than You, by Miranda July. While I recommend all of these highly, there tends to a spot of emotional ennui after a prolonged period of immersive reading. I would suggest doing it in small, manageable chunks. While, in my opinion, Kelly Link is the master of this sub-genre (and maybe I mostly think that because she was so freaking nice to me at WFC), those of you who believe this world is a lot more bizarre than what is seen at the surface and that we are all so much more complex that we present ourselves to be will enjoy reading some of these.

And to wrap things on a more serious note: my non-fiction loving readers should pick up Crazy, by Washington Post journalist Pete Early. I had long known of the disgraceful criminalization of the severely mentally ill, but Early's research breaks it down in numbers that are harrowing. This is not just an expose of the way our justice and social system has failed some of the most vulnerable members of our society, but also a heart-wrenching look into Early's own psyche, as he was spurred to do this by his son's diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. Read it. Get angry. Now let's organize and do something about it.

A final note: I recently was able to purchase, brand new for $4 and some change, the Dame Darcy illustrated Jane Eyre. Now I know some of you are thinking, "Does she really need another copy of that book?" The answer is, apparently, yes. And not just for Dame Darcy's Edward-Gorey-on-crank drawings. Jane is one of my literary heroes. I have looked up to her as a character since I was a wee thing just cutting my teeth on literary analysis. This is the book I read when I am feeling small, penniless, and plain; and I am always inspired by her resolve not to give in to the circumstances of her life again and again. Jane is a character who forges her own destiny and refuses to give in to what society expects of her. She is a rebel. And I love how she talks to the reader. Yes, Anna Marie, it annoys you, but I view it as inviting metafiction. And Rochester, in my humble opinion, is one of the most fucked-up, romantic leads of all time. He is all emotion and instinct, and desperately in need of redemption. I don't think I could have stayed away from him either.

I am the squirrel; the squirrel is me.

Caveat: I cannot promise this will have, in the words of Mark Twain, "the stately grace of a torchlight procession," but I hope it expresses something I find nearly impossible to put in words.


I have long been an observer of human nature. Through mythology, folktales, and plain-old stories, I have formed layer upon layer of opinion and theory about the human condition. In recent years, I turned that inspection inward, realizing the same depths and complexities at which I marvel in others is also present in me. But I also know that I am a part of this world, messy and precarious as it is. I am part of the problem and solution. I am as much of the world as I am in it.

Part of this examination involves a very heady study of religions in general, but more specifically, I am fascinated by the concept of faith, which I define as an unshakable belief in something that cannot be empirically proven. Though this definition is not limited to matters of religion or spirituality, those are the very matters of which I speak when I talk about my own faith. Like many, I have engaged in a long and, I believe, unending quest to refine my own faith. It is a twisting road that enters dark primeval forests—a thought which is sometimes exhilarating and is many times frustrating. But I slog through.

I suppose the closest definition I could give to my own faith (and to put a quick stop to all the comments I can already foresee: No, I don't think I have to label my faith anymore than I think I have to label my politics or my outward ethical and moral philosophy on life, but I gravitate to this need to put some name to what I'm feeling.) would be as an ethical deist (i.e., Reform Jew) with slight underpinnings of red-letter Christianity (Jesus is way cool) under an umbrella of Buddhism.

I'm not here to talk about the first two, though I welcome any questions and comments about them, and would love to have a discussion about either one. I'm here to talk about the Buddhism. And yes, technically, I don't see Buddhism as a religion. Even 11th Century Zen masters differentiated Buddhism from other religions based solely on the idea that, while the tenets of the dominant three (Christianity, Judaism, and Islam) had to be accepted on faith, the precepts of Buddhism proved themselves through diligent practice. Yeah, I'm still working on that diligent practice part. Hence, the "Buddhism is a faith-based organism" for me. And no, I'm not even here to tell you something (most of you) already know. This isn't a tutorial about the Buddha. This is my attempt to explore a specific concept within Buddhism that I have trouble grasping, and an invitation to everyone to chime in on it.

The colors of the mind, excited by a flower or the moon should not be seen as self at all, but we think of them as our self
--Zen Master Dogen, from The Shobogenzo


I love Buddhism. Specifically Zen Buddhism. It is contemplative and spare, while still allowing for the ornate complexity of human nature. It addresses my concerns abut this world and still manages to convince me the world is perfect and is exactly how it should be because this is how it is. Sounds fucked up? Possibly. Maybe makes a little sense once you wrap your mind around it? Definitely. Doesn't mean I don't want things in the world to change. But what I recognize is this isn't going to happen unless I change. Because (and here's where it gets tricky for me) I have no individual thing called a "self". I am a part of every little blessed thing in the universe, and it is all in me. So if I want the world to change, I have to be the part that changes.

Wait, no self? WTF?

Exactly. I have no individual sparkly thing inside me that constitutes what we've called a "self", or soul, or spirit, or choose your own word. All I am is a collection of thoughts and memories packaged in some flesh, carrying out my own existence for however long the flesh holds out. Those memories don't really exist; they are part of a past that is long gone. My thoughts are little more than electrical impulses that generate these things called "feelings" and "opinions", because I label them as such.

The concept of "self" is very very difficult to let go of. Even if I can accept that I am an infinitely tiny part of a greater whole, accepting the idea of "self" as a mythic fiction goes against everything I've been taught. We are all told how special and unique we each are. This helps us develop egos, which help us thrive in this me-generated culture we live in. This is specifically a part of The Big Three: the concept of a soul, of a personal relationship with God, of each and every one of us living a life specifically designed or at least created by something greater and more powerful than we can grasp. Of our own littleness before big mystery. Of course, I won't get into the slight hypocrisy of this: that we can all accept we are the product of an omnipotent being, but not accept we are so entwined with this great omnipresence, we have no individuality at all. And therefore, no purpose, which leads to more difficulty. I want to believe I have a purpose. I was put here for a reason. I was given a specific set of gifts and talents to accomplish something, even if it's little more than make the people around me feel loved. Otherwise, what's the point?

On the other hand, purposelessness has its value. There is no ego wrapped up in it. There is no sense of failure; no long, late, pointless conversations about "living up to my potential"; and maybe I can contemplate putting down that fucking bat I've been beating myself up with for years. I am exactly as I should be because I am as the universe made me. I am this computer and you reading and that gnat flying around annoying the piss outta me. I am the squirrel that chatters at me all angry because I'm in it's space and I am the space it wants me out of.

I am the most evil person I can think of and I see how that person did what he did because he believed he was making the world a better place. I am the most beautiful person I can picture, and guess what? She has doubts and insecurities. These people are me, and so he loves his kids and she loves to dance.

I'm not saying I have even come near grasping the enormity of this. I think if I could, I would stand speechless in awe, not babble on for several hundred pointless words. But every once in a while, my brain manages to touch on it just enough to spark some vague sense of understanding. And that excites me. And makes me want to see more.

Butterflies Are Free

So there are these butterflies just flitting about in my back yard.

Yes, flitting, though at first I thought they were just small quiet birds. But when they would sit still for more than two seconds, the dull gray-brown of their outer wings would give way to brilliant orange and purple patterns that made my heart stop. I would stare and not breathe in hopes they would stay open-winged, but of course they wouldn't--that is not the butterfly way.

This morning I was outside watching them and smoking, lost in the morning fog of no-thought, when I looked down and saw one just sitting on my chest (that's a euphemism for "bosom"). I was so startled I let out a yelp and blew on it so it would fly away. Then I laughed, partly because of my reaction, but also out of sheer delight to have had something wild and beautiful choose to touch me if just for a few seconds.

Now I stand outside for the longest time and pay the closest attention and not one of the butterflies will come near me. And I think about emotional connection and friendship and how I'm always seeking one and running from the other.

I live a quiet life. I mostly like it that way. Sometimes though, it feels more like suffocating isolation, and I live for those brief moments when I'm not paying attention and something beautiful dares to touch me. I only fear I will continue to startle myself out of allowing the contact to remain too long.

I don't quite know what I'm trying to say, except this: There are people in my life who are important to me and I'm smart enough to let them know. This isn't about them, but about the rest of you who are wild and beautiful and were maybe in my life for too brief a time and--for reasons too ridiculously moronic to get into right now--I didn't let you know how much it meant. I didn't laugh with delight at your presence. Or maybe I did, but you thought I was just laughing at that stupid joke you told, or something (I'm now realizing how difficult it is to talk to a collective you and remain purposefully vague).

And maybe you're one of those you's reading right now and thinking, "Well, this isn't about me." Trust me, it probably is. And I was a fool to not let you know before now.

About Those Jokes You Send Me? I Delete Them.

It occurred a few times in the short months I'd been with myspace, but that was a few times too much. Perhaps my anger is exacerbated by a recent forwarded joke email I received in this same time period, but it doesn't matter. For too long I've kept my mouth shut and I refuse to do that anymore.

I'm talking about racist jokes.

Several times a bulletin has been posted that I've opened only to contain some form of mild racism. I'm sure the people who posted the jokes found them funny or they wouldn't pass them along. What confuses me is, if I sat down and talked to these same people, they would be right there with me--racism is bad, discrimination against any person is wrong--and yet they feel it's okay to post a joke making fun of a socio-economic situation that we couldn't even begin to understand, much less make fun of. What I truly don't understand is the mindset that makes it all right for someone who doesn't consider themselves a racist to post jokes like this. Is it because you feel there's some element of truth to them? Then perhaps you should rethink your personal definition of racism.

Anyone who knows me well knows I can't stand jokes such as these. I hate assumptions about people based on their race or religion or who or how they choose to have sex. I find these jokes as offensive as if I were the person they were being told about. They cut me deeply and set me on edge for hours.

Don't get me wrong. I don't care what you think. I'm not here to change your opinions. But when I meet someone and I think they're ginchy, I respect the differences between us. I lay down boundaries, be they politics, religion, or music. We all have what we think are right thoughts. I am asking you to respect mine now.

Maybe you think I need to lighten up, or I'm being a hard-ass. But I think we all need to figure out the thing that we're willing to take a little heat on and stand up for it. This is now one of my things.

Short Book Reviews Based on Long Thoughts

I'm going to keep these as brief as possible (I know most of you are thinking, "Thank you, baby Jesus!") just to get my impressions across. I'll put them down in order I finished them.

Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro

First off, whenever I would pick up this book to read it, I would sing the title like it was that Depeche Mode song, but of course with different lyrics. I don't know why, it's just the way my brain works. Second, I'm going to give away something not revealed until the middle of the book. I don't think it ruins anything, but it does fuck with the way Ishiguro wanted us to view the characters before the truth is revealed.

Imagine it is England in the late 1990's. Scattered throughout the country are "schools", some elite, some no better than government housing factories. Populating these schools are generation after generation of cloned children being raised for the sole purpose of providing vital organs for donation when they reach adulthood. The maximum number of donations they give is four, the final always being the heart. Yes, they die afterward. Yes, they are aware of this. The whole country is aware of this. The clones--while kept isolated--are trained in the arts of "normalcy" so as to pass in public. This is necessary as most of the world views them with revulsion or fear.

This is a sampling of words and thoughts I wrote in my journal after finishing this book:
isolation, slavery, ignorance, how complicit are we to not "see" the atrocities committed around us and do nothing?, how casually those with power use those without, do souls exist?, would a clone have a soul?, didn't the book prove that?, does that make the ending more or less hard to bear?, were the clones more or less noble than the "humans" around them?, genocide for the sake of those who would kill them.

I can't recommend or not recommend this book. I think it is one that can only be picked up if one: knows Ishiguro's work and is not put off by bleak stories that raise more questions than they answer; welcomes beautifully written, carefully examined novels of the human experience, and; are those willing to question everything they've just read while still admiring the work as a whole.

Was that vague enough for ya?

As Simple As Snow - Gregory Galloway

Another mystery that raises many more quetions than it answers. I figured out this book is being pushed to teens (even though it was published for adults) because teens welcome open-ended, clue-riddled mysteries. This is a book destined to develop cult status. I looked online to see if there were any forums started and I found a couple, but they focus more on the music referenced throughout. I wouldn't be surprised if I checked in a month or two (as it just came out in PB) and whole websites had started. That's what annoys me about it. It was a book written to create a cult following. I kid you not.

This isn't to say it isn't a great book. It certainly had me going for a while afterwards, hunting for clues, rereading certain passages, looking for that hidden thing that would explain: 1. what really happened to Anna Cayne; 2. what is the deal with Mr. Devon; 3. what is going on (if anything) between the narrator's mother and Mr. Hathorne (not the narrator's father); 4. where did Carl disappear to for those days; 5. if you're an author who names the narrator after yourself, does it make you less pretentious if you only give clues as to the narrator's name??????

Eventually it occurred to me that I have too many more books to read to be swept up in clue-mania, but it was fun for a day or two. I would definitely recommend this book, but only if you don't mind a little frustration with your speculative fiction. If you do read it and get a clue, drop me a line.

Down the Rabbit Hole - Peter Abrahams
After my immersion in two separate surreal worlds (as I was reading the previous simultaneously), I felt a mental breather was needed and I got it in spades with this delightful little mystery. I love reading mysteries and detective fiction for the chance it affords for me to shut off my brain and let the story tell itself. I never try to figure it out ahead of time. It is the mental equivalent of a candy bar: empty calories that satisfies for a brief period.

This book, though was written on a young teenage level (could be read by anyone 11-15, the language is a tad sophisticated for anyone younger, unless you're my godsons and got your vocab skills from your mother), and I had it figured out about halfway through. I still finished it, though. Very enjoyable. Our protagonist, Ingrid, is typical of most 13 year olds throughout history. She is more Trixie Belden than Nancy Drew, confident and spunky enough to get in the middle of shit, but unsure of herself enough to seem realistic. Her burgeoning relationship with classmate Joey is so cute. It transported me back to the days when I liked a boy and I thought he liked me and entire phone conversations would go like this:
"Hi."
"Hey."
"Hi."
"Do your math homework?"
"Not yet, I hate math."
"Yeah. Me too."

I mean, that's how we bonded back then. Over a shared hatred of math.

Pick this up for the 'tween in your family and read it with him or her. It's fun, but definitely not for thinking adults who are waiting for the next Lee Child, or whatever.

(Almost) The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show, by Ariel Gore

So I parted my hair on the other side, just for a lark, and I think the redistribution of weight has made my brain all wacky. Seriously, I'm not thinking right. Maybe I've made myself left-brained. Actually my brain has always been kinda balanced, which always led to much confusion in the life-planning: Writer? or Marine Biologist? There is no combining, people.

This was supposed to be a review of The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show, by Ariel Gore, but I just don't have it in me. Last night, I had great stuff, but Rick decided he was ready to write the script that's been tooling around his head for a year or so. I'm a spontaneous writer so it's not like I could write it down and type it up later. Please. Procrastination is my best friend. Just buy the book and read it already. It's fucking fantastic. I read it in a day.

But while I was pining for the computer (we so need another one, or a laptop--hey Mom! My birthday's in June, remember?) (She really doesn't remember sometimes, so I have to remind her), I was thinking of Catholic mythology. It's important to the book, so if you're not well-schooled, know someone who is--but still read the book, don't let being Jewish or Hindu stop you from reading a book with Catholic themes.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, catholicism. I was raised in a religiously lax house and baptized Greek Orthodox (whose reigning chant is "Our Christianity is older than your Christianity! Neener!"), which is a cool religion, as far a religion goes (not a fan of the organized sort). It's got chanting like in synogogues, and incense and lots of stained glass and icons everywhere. Plus, liturgies are in another language. I like not quite understanding what the priest is saying. It makes it all more mysterious. Which is the point of the whole Jesus thing anyway. Mystery.

But Catholics have a strangle hold on all of our entertainment mythology. Vampires? Catholic (hello! Holy Water, crucifixes--also Orthodox, but does anybody mention that? Would an ankh send a vampire into spasms of pain?). The Exorcist? Catholic. (Why oh why did William Peter Blatty make his Greek character a Catholic priest? Cuz catholic priests kick ass, apparently) Even The Omen is Catholic-centered, though the Evangelicals have pretty much cornered the market on End Times these days.

Why Catholic? Because it's kind of creepy? All that black and incense and stories about demonic possessions (except those stories are in the bible and could be claimed by any religion). Plus, Latin is a scary sounding language. It sounds kind of like people are speaking backwards to someone with mild cognitive disabilities. The Church lost so much when it started saying its masses in English.

I've always wanted to be Catholic--a little. I wanted the Saint cards and a rosary. They're so pretty! Plus, Catholic school uniforms are cute, unless you go to a school with stupid colors (like Mt. Carmel). Of course, I don't have Catholic guilt or that holdover from going to a Catholic school all my friends seem to. (what do they do to you in those schools, anyway, that everyone's so fucked up?) And they have cool special prayers they say that supposedly make one feel better. Plus, because I'm part Irish, I could say, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" and not be faking. It would be real Oh, yes it would.

But, alas, I'm not. I'm not really anything, but I say Greek Orthodox when others ask, mostly because the majority of the population doesn't know what the hell that is. And all of you know how much I love being different. And I'm not lying. I was baptized, have attended, and was married in an Orthodox church. I just always secretly wish I'd had one of those ceremonies where all the little girls dress up as brides (can anyone say slightly pedophiliac?) and I still remember my friend Meghan (Mary Meghan Murphy--how Irish Catholic is that? She never took advantage by saying "Jesus, Mary and Joseph", though.) had some rite of passage where she got to choose another name. How fucking cool is that?

Hello, today my name is Seraphina.

Magic for Beginners, by Kelly Link

I have a confession to make: I stalked Kelly Link while she was in Austin for World Fantasy Con in 2006. How could I not?

My friend J. saw this book sitting on the couch and asked if I was learning how to do magic. I said no, it's a book of short stories.

But really it is much more than that.

Perhaps, in the reading of it, I have gleaned some knowledge into the paranormal, the quixotic, the hidden theme park adult playland for zombies and other recently departed and those dead souls waiting to be reborn. In finishing it, I feel I just came home from playing at my weirdest, coolest new friend's house, the one to which I thought I'd never get invited. I hope she lets me sit at her table for lunch tomorrow.

I'd read Kelly Link's short stories before, most notably her Nebula Award-winning "The Faery Handbag" from the teen anthology Faery Reel. And I'd seen ads for Magic for Beginners in various independent magazines I read, but it never occurred to me to pick it up until I read her unparalleled story "The Wizards of Perfil" in another teen anthology, Firebirds Rising (Sharyn November's Firebird series may not have Charles Vess's formidible artwork gracing its stories, but November is an editor with a keen eye and ear for teen fantasy and science fiction - and yes, I stalked her last fall at ArmadilloCon).

Magic for Beginners is one of those books that cannot stay within the boundaries of a single description.
-It is fantastical writing with a literary bent.
-It is a collection of literary short stories with an air of magic realism.
-It has zombies (but not the kind that eat your brain), and interview with a recently-divorced cannon (the kind that shoots people over the crowds), a haunted house guarded by rabbits (or is it the marriage that's haunted and are the rabbits preparing for war?), a not-so-nice fairy tale involving cats (or are they witches?), zombie contingency plans, metafiction, and stories within stories within stories that cycle back into themselves in such a way one could read the story forwards, backwards or even in a starburst pattern from the inside out.

Every story stands out with its perfection of literary style and unique subject matter. When I finished reading, I instantly started seeing connections and links where there probably aren't, but that's just me.

The book not only contains "The Faery Handbag", but another Nebula winner, "Magic for Beginners", a kind of metaphysical reading experience wherein we're watching the characters of a popular TV show interact through their obsession with a popular TV show. I did love this story, possibly a bit more than most of the others, but my personal favorite is "Stone Animals", in which a seemingly perfect family moves into a seemingly perfect house with a lawn heavily populated by a colony of rabbits. I will tell you no more than that.

These aren't happy stories. They're melancholy and best read between 2 and 4 a.m. while the zombies are at their local convenience store looking for things that aren't there and handing pajamas to the night clerk.

P.S. Yes, this is small press (a personal dream of mine--to open my own, not work at hers) and there are a couple of noticeable typos, but hey! it's small press, forgive a little. I know from experience, it's hard to edit your own work.

♠♠♠♠♠
On another front: If you're aware that Bob Saget is absolutely nothing like his character on Full House, love Sarah Silverman because she isn't afraid to cross any line, and aren't easily offended, rent The Aristocrats. It is one seriously demented and hilariously unvarnished look into the minds of today's best comics. Do not drink anything while watching this movie. Chances are, it will come flying out your nose. And seriously, if jokes involving shitting, pissing, fucking, incest, pedophilia, bestiality and stupid punchlines offend you, Do Not rent this movie and then come crying to me and telling me how sick and depraved I am. I already know that shit. It's a Joke, people, that is supposed to be as offensive as possible. Rent the movie. God wants you to.

Something About Music

This is how I have described live music:
It was great!
The singer was so wasted and you could tell.
The sound was crap.
He/She/They did six songs in 45 minutes and while it was fun, I needed more (said after a Mighty Mighty Bosstones show).
It was really really good.

It never occurred to me before recently that my powers of description fail me in this one instance. And I think I know why. When I go see a band live, I throw myself so completely into the experience; and that is a state that is hard to define.

I've been told there are people for whom music is just no big deal. Merely background noise to fill empty spaces. They rarely pay attention to chord progression or lyrics, don't know the names of most of the bands they listen to, rarely buy because the "radio's good enough for them". And I'm not stereotyping here but, most listen to lite rock, country, or classical "because it's not distracting".

Not distracting? Have you ever listened to Brahms Symphony no. 4? Or Wagner? Or even Beethoven; really listened? Composers in that day used music to create drama because unless it was an opera, there were no lyrics about lost loves and my baby's daddy to latch onto.

I have been listening to music my entire life. Not as background noise, not just as Serious Expression of Emotion, but also as an exploration of different cultures. I knew who Zachary Richard was years before I moved to Louisiana, grew up attending bluegrass festivals in New Jersey, saw Ella Fitzgerald sing live in St. Louis (a seminal moment; thanks, Mom and Dad!). I've been going to concerts, music festivals and symphonies since before I could walk. There was frequently music playing in our home: The Beatles, Harry Chapin, ELP, Crosby Stills and Nash, Carole King--artists who not only made music, but tried to make Music that Mattered. (oh please, look at my age! of course I'm a child of the seventies!)

And except for a brief period in my early teens when I fell into a pop-radio music listening crowd (thankfully rescued by the introduction of REM and The Replacements--J.D. you did one good thing for me), I have been chasing musical moments my entire life. I read record reviews about one band from multiple sources before buying, but buy I will and without listening to it first just for the initial visceral reaction of hearing something new. I have been known to be so opinionated about music, people think I hate something I listen to frequently. I have to listen to it that often, how else am I going to give a fully formed summary? Like some books change every time one reads them, music changes for me every time I listen, until it hits that niche inside me where it always belonged. It stays there, waiting to be revisited whenever I throw the CD in.

So when I get the chance to see a band I love play live? Woo Daddy, it's like my insides want to crawl out of my body and dance along beside me. There is nothing that compares to seeing someone play on stage, feeling the energy of fellow fans on the floor with you, knowing just by looking which bands do this because they love it and which do it for the money (don't even get me started on the Stones, they inspire an internal debate which distracts me for days).

But are there truly words to describe what these experiences are like? I can't find them. I think it's because while experiencing live music I'm truly living in the moment, as close to lizard zen as I'm going to get. And that is a state utterly un-recreatable in words or memory. Just try to relive some of the most perfect moments in your life: sights, sounds, smells, feeling and all. It is a rare bird who can do that and I'm not one of them. Something always gets lost in the translation. I welcome that. It gives me the opportunity to seek it out again and have the experience affect me in a whole new way. If we could recreate these moments exactly through memory, what would be the point in doing it ever?

It is refreshing, in a way, to have something I can't put into words. I feel I depend on them too much. Though it does bother me a little, when someone asks me what I thought of a certain show, the best I can come up with was "it was great!" Anyone who's heard my opinions on a particular book or movie know I can do better than that.

Well actually I can't. And it's okay, I can live with that.

Are We Bored Yet?

A random sampling of survey questions that have been posted lately and my answers:

Have you ever: Asked your friends to crush out?
Okay, what the fuck does this mean? Am I asking my friends to have a crush on a guy? Stop having a crush on a guy? Both are ridiculous requests. If my friend has a crush on a guy, then she is under the power of something beyond my control. I couldn't even begin to explain this one to someone: Uh, Jenny, I have, like, this really really really big favor to ask you? You know that guy Bob? Well, I have, like, a crush on his friend Smith? And I thought it would, you know, be soooo cool if you could have a crush on Bob? That way we'd be totally crushing out!

Have you ever: Asked a guy out just because he was hott?
I'm not certain. What is hott? Is it an abbreviation of something, like hot to trot, in which case, if I answer yes, I come across as the biggest ass on the planet. But if its some sort of acronym for, say, having only two testicles, then by all means will I say yes, because guys with three testicles are just not my thing.

Fox/Thor?
Again with the what the fuck? This is in reference to something a boy would wear. I have been racking my brain for minutes now and I can't recall any guys I've seen out lately (and I live in hipster paradise) wearing vests made of animal fur or big horned hats. And while I rarely find myself judging others based on their clothing (please, I married a man who wears polo shirts to a hardcore club!), I might find it hard to see beyond the flagon of ale hanging around his hip.

Do you avoid situations with ugly guys?
And what situations would these be? Is situations the new relations? Am I getting biblical with these ugly guys? Well, I don't know. Are they hott?

Do you miss someone?
Yeah, I missed hitting the face of the author of these surveys when I spit at them.

Are you tired? And: Are you excited?
Two separate questions, equal in their idiocy. Do I need to come up with a snarky reply for these, or are you catching my drift here? [And I'm sorry, but what, what, what are we excited about here? I didn't include the question that followed, asking if I'm wearing pants. All of this leaves me to believe that entire survey was created by the most passive-aggressive internet voyeur I've ever met. I mean, first he wants to know if I'm tired (as in not tonight, honey?), then he wants to know if I'm excited. By what, his dumb-ass survey? Please.]


Are you watching t.v.?
No, asshole, I'm staring at the computer, otherwise I wouldn't be killing my own brain cells trying to come up with those perfect answers so others reading my survey will think I'm 1)evasive, but not too; 2)clever, but not evasive; 3)never planning on falling in love again.

Ever spit at someone?
See question above.

Is there anybody you just wish would fall off the face of the Earth?
Yes. Bob, because he wont let Jenny crush out.

How do you flush the toilet in public?
You have got to be fucking kidding me. What exactly am I telling you if I answer, With my foot or while holding a bunch of paper towels? I'm telling you I don't wash my hands after I pee. What if I say, Flush the toilet, what are you, a jokester?? Then I'm evasive, but not too. And if I admit to using my hand unsheathed, then I am reckless, a dangerous fool who takes the lives of those she loves into her own possibly germ and pee-soaked hands and flaunts it at the world! MWA-HA-HA! I dare you to touch me now, Thor!

Pretty Little Dirty, by Amanda Boyden

If the following opinions seem harsh or mundane, please find it in your hearts to forgive me. I've not been in the best of moods lately, and I believe strongly that mood reflects opinion. Perhaps I could have waited, allowed myself more time for reflection. Perhaps I could have eaten a meal before posting this--as those who know me freely admit my cranky nature when I'm unfed. And yet, I feel compelled to share.

I just couldn't, or possibly wouldn't, love this book. It had every intention of enticing me. I wanted to like it some (this is not to say I didn't like it some). I even felt somewhat intimidated by Jenny's comment that she has been noting passages of interest to her. Therefore, before I even started reading it, I felt I was naturally going to be blown away. Sadly, I was not.

We are introduced, through narrator Lisa, to Celeste, apparent perfection in face and form. Celeste is one of those naturally wonderful girls everyone loves. By the age of 11, she is beautiful, smart, generous and unafraid to stick up for anyone. She is the perfect best friend, the perfect daughter of a warm and loving family, a perfect candidate to engage in typical adolescent recklessness that moves very quickly into self mutilation, drug use, and self loathing as evidenced by her increasingly erratic behavior. The problem with all this is I just didn't see it. That narrator-Lisa follows Celeste down this path is unavoidable and far more understanding, being that she has always felt herself inferior to her friend and comes from a distant family with a close connection to mental illness.

Perhaps that's the point and I'm missing it all.

I've read those stories before, the ones in which the seemingly perfect girls secretly engage in self-destructive behavior that spirals down the drugs-booze-hardcore path. Maybe that's what's bothering me. If I've seen it before then I want to see what reasons there are for it now. Lisa's narration doesn't do justice at all. Oh, we see many (unnecessary) chapters outlining the advent and development of their friendship. We have many opportunities to glimpse how wonderful Lisa thinks Celeste and her family are. And no, we are not as naive as Lisa to believe Celeste or her family that perfect, but we certainly see little evidence otherwise. (Trust me, when one is practically living at another's house, one sees more than a few dinnertime tiffs.)

I thought immediately upon finishing perhaps Lisa was to be one of those untrustworthy narrators we all learned about in Sophomore English with "Why I Live at the P.O.", but no. Lisa makes it a point to establish for us early on that she is not a victim of the same mental illness that plagued her mother and that this is a tale being told from future reflection, she's gotten her life quite together, thank you. So we must trust her, mustn't we? Otherwise, why include the disclaimer?

The blurbs on the book tell me I'm being too harsh. I'm not appreciating the "white-hot prose" of this "hypnotic portrait of two girls spinning perilously out of control", that this is a "funny, sexy, inventively told, and scary as hell" debut novel. Perhaps I am blind. Or maybe I'm just too jaded by the whole genre (GCoA). Or I find--having lived a pretty recklessly misspent youth myself--that there was something essential missing. That I was not hypnotized by a good two-thirds of the book and when it was just getting good, it of course speeds up, details are skimmed over and then it ends. And while the interludes between chapters (each taking place at a different punk show in the early 80's) are blazing with anger and self-loathing, they read as the only unadulterated moments in the book and are the only clues to what we're missing by the time we get to the good stuff. I do believe there could have been a way to ensnare us in Celeste's descent without the initial seven-chapter introduction to the height of the grace from which she would fall. (a whopping 135 pp. of seven chapters, a good third of the book)

Yes, I know, I'm the wrong person to be criticizing. I generally dislike novels like these. I don't find them tantalizing, the "disarming candor about sexual hunger" (per blurb) left me slightly chilled. Having known people who could come as close to Celeste as any real person can, I don't need to live vicariously through passages of drug use and sexual promiscuity. And yes, I am the person who loves long-winded prose and apt passages of description, but I can't name a single novel I truly in my heart love for all eternity about which I would say, "Oh, you could cut about 80 pages from this and it would be much cleaner." Nor has anyone ever heard me say about such novels: "If only they had expanded the final third of the book (of course after cutting 80 pp. from the first third), it would have been a much more compelling read."

And I think that's my real problem with this novel. Not the characters, setting or descriptions, but the imbalance of it. So much attention is given to the earliest years, when I'm waiting (per blurb) for something "racy, dangerous and very captivating", seven chapters of How We Ruled the School don't do it for me.

There are those who would say this is actually Lisa's story, not Celeste's, and as Lisa's story doesn't it all make more sense. Well, pshaw. Of course it's Lisa's story, but Lisa tells us it's Celeste's story. So make it Celeste's.

That is not to say there isn't some true merit here. The middle third of the book (wherein our heroines become muses of a sort, and teenage sexual playthings, to an older art professor and his student) was, in my opinion, the best part. Like, should have been the whole book best part. I wanted to like the early passages which take place at sleepaway camp, but certain events (important again in the development of Lisa's character, though not Celeste's) felt eerily familiar. A can't-quite-put-my-finger-on-it-but-I-know-it's-there similarity to something else I'd read at some point in the past. Perhaps this early disgruntlement poisoned me for the remainder of the book. I couldn't say now.

So of course, by the time I get to the juicy stuff, well, first I'm surprised I'm still reading. So there was something there. And for that, I will recommend this book. Plus, Jenny liked it a lot (and I'm sure it has nothing to do with having a slight crush on the author's husband) and she is an excellent judge of such things. I, however, am cranky and tired of reading about little girls with little hope. Here's to a change of genre!

Rose of No Man's Land, by Michelle Tea

Normally, I run screaming from the room as if someone had offered me a raw tomato sandwich at the thought of reading yet another Girl Coming of Age Novel(tm). There are so many out there with the same tired themes and overused imagery I could vomit. I want to read a GCoAN(tm), I read Jane Eyre, or Ellen Foster; Bastard Out of Carolina if I want that depressing "what hope is there, anyway" feeling. These are all brilliant, original, blessedly written novels that make me want to chew my left hand off with the helplessness of ever writing this well. That's a good thing, people.

But I like Michelle Tea. A lot. I thought Chelsea Whistle was hilarious and loved the way Valencia opened my eyes to a dating culture I was previously ignorant of. Plus, she writes some damn fine words. On top of all that, Rose isn't really a GCoAN(tm). It's more the story of one crazy night in the life of Trisha, a 14 year-old welfare kid living one step above the slums with no direction and an open summer ahead of her. Having lived a couple of one crazy nights myself while in my early teens, I remember vividly the absolute recklessness and insanity that happens marks us forever. I don't need to know the rest of Trisha's story to know this one night will mark her as well.

One thing I've noticed about the difference between adult novels narrated from a teen perspective and teen novels that do the same is the absolute honesty in the voice of your adult-themed teens. It almost seems as if we're less afraid to write books about teens and how they truly think for an adult audience. As if teens couldn't handle the honesty of their own thoughts. Trisha is a wonderful narrator, letting herself get pulled along by the power of her own apathy. Yet, underlying the apathy is a sharply observant mind; not one of those preternaturally gifted observances that adult writers weigh down their young narrators with, but a naturally occurring "I pay attention to the world and this is what I see" openness that is raw and sometimes uncomfortable to watch.
Trisha meets Rose, one of those crazyfun girls and we all know she's trouble. Trisha knows she's trouble. Which is, of course, part of the appeal. All apathetic girls love to hang out with girls who have ideas about what to do, even if it's something potentially dangerous, even if it's something that will turn your life upside-down in one night. We all see that Rose is leading Trisha somewhere no good, but we can't quite scream for her to stop. We need to watch it play out. Eventually the night has to end, right?

I don't like giving away plot points when I'm talking about a book unless it's to someone who's read it. So you're not going to get that here. Suffice to say, any novel which has a climactic event taking place in a tattoo parlor is all right by me.

Trisha's realistic engaging voice carried me through this book. It's not that I wouldn't have liked the story. It's more that I would have felt a bit too uncomfortably close to the material. I think some of us were Trishas in our youths. Some of us were Roses (and they do deserve stories of their own, those tragic, magnetic Roses). And some were Kim Porciatti, a character we never meet in the novel, but whose presence lurks underneath all the action, allowing us to get to know her as well.

Reading this, I felt I'd become reacquainted with a hidden part of my youth I'd swept away as long past. Funny how those swept-away memories are all just tingling underneath the surface waiting to burst forth with their own sort of manic joy at the sunshine.

A definite recommend. Yes, there are drugs, drinking, sex, dirty old men, and casual thievery. And every bit of it feels real. Let me know what you think.