I am trying to hold in one steady glance
all the parts of my life.
-- Adrienne Rich, "Toward the Solstice"
Saturday, December 27, 2008
An attempt to plan my reading year
So where am I now? I've only got about four hours left of Villette, so I'm hopeful I'll be done before the year ends. (I think that will put me at 47 books finished in 2008, which is really excellent when you consider how busy our lives are!) My book group has chosen short stories by Chekhov for January, and Crime and Punishment for February, and luckily I own a collection by Chekhov PLUS the Dostoevsky novel, so will attempt to read both of those before we meet to discuss them. (I read Crime and Punishment a LONG time ago; it should be good to revisit it.) There's also going to be a discussion at TSCPL in late January about the novel Atonement, and I checked out the CD in hopes of making that my next audiobook after Villette.
Beyond those three, I don't have definite plans, but there are books that have been "calling" to me from my shelves in recent months, that I hope to get to in 2009. I think the one I've had the longest is Vanity Fair, so despite its length, it's on my short list of "likely leisure reading" for the coming year. Other novels that are in my sights: Brookland by Emily Barton, The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, The Keep by Jennifer Egan, Poison by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer, and The Lightning Keeper by Starling Lawrence. I'm also looking forward to reading a second collection of stories by Lydia Davis, called Varieties of Disturbance. I just got that one for Christmas, so it's the "newest" (to me) book on my potential list for 2009. I've picked up several books of poetry in the past two months as well, including four on Black Friday. They all look good, and unlike the novels I listed, they're all quite short and should be quick reads. ;-)
I continue to struggle with emotional eating and my love of fattening coffeehouse drinks. One book I had on my wish list for a long time was The Hungry Self: Women, Eating, and Identity by Kim Chernin. I found and bought it not long ago, and would like to fit that in between novels, and sooner than later. I've also had a bizarre kind of thought, that what I need to do is replace my addiction to food and sugary beverages with a "safer" addiction. If it were possible for me to get hooked on exercise, that would be the best thing, hands down, no question -- but seriously, ME, addicted to exercise??? That seems VERY unlikely to happen. But what if I could feed my love of reading, what if I could "binge" on books? And I don't mean just BUYING more books, though I certainly LOVE buying them and having them, but READING and "sampling" them, FEEDING myself with words, DEVOURING and INGESTING them - the books I already own. I saw a book some weeks ago that seemed to reflect this train of thought, and yes, it was an impulse purchase: Crack Wars: Literature, Addiction, Mania by Avital Ronell. This and the Chernin book are on my short list of non-fiction for the first months of the new year.
I have been writing this post off and on for about three hours. Jeff has said a couple times, "You're still writing that?" (And standing behind me a moment ago, he said, "Oh, this is the part where you talk about what's going on right now..." That Jeff, he can be funny, and then other times he thinks he's being funny but he's not.) But I'm glad I got a bit of an outline started - what I'm reading, what I plan to read soon, and the next batch of books on my radar. Just one small step toward getting my head in order.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
A video tribute to Papa
At church last night, the minister talked about waiting, and his message was that we're all essentially waiting for heaven. There's some truth in that for us, that we're waiting to see Papa again, and I'm waiting to see my own father. Waiting is longing, and sadness, but also expectation, hope, and faith.
Someday soon, we all will be together, if the Fates allow.
Until then, we'll have to muddle through, somehow.
We wish you happy memories, both old and new, this Christmas. May peace be with you.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas comedy: "The 12 Pains of Christmas"
Monday, December 22, 2008
A midnight clear
I really like this movie, a little-known film called A Midnight Clear, which I first saw a good 15 years ago. It's based on a book by William Wharton, and the cast includes Ethan Hawke, Gary Sinise, and Kevin Dillon. But even more than the film, the song they play over the closing credits is astounding, easily one of the most haunting Christmas songs I've ever heard. It's "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" sung by a woman called Sam Phillips. (I just learned that she was previously known as Leslie Phillips and sang contemporary Christian music.) I've never seen it available anywhere. Watch the video, listen to the music - and the song starts in earnest after Gary Sinise's yelling ;-) - and you WON'T be disappointed.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I can't find the time to tell you
I was quiet for a few seconds, but then I asked, "Why can't you tell me?"
He said, "No, that is the title, 'I Can't Find the Time to Tell You.'"
"Ohhhh." I got it.
Lately I've been thinking about time, and how I never seem to have enough of it. More specifically, I've noticed that I rarely read on my breaks at work (though I currently have two print books going, and one more to read for book group next week - and one audiobook), and don't write enough blogs/journal entries/poems as I'd like to. I think one of the big reasons for this is a lack of focus. I'm not too skilled at multi-tasking, but instead, I do most things slowly, methodically, carefully, thoroughly. When I wash the dishes by hand, you know those suckers are clean and well-rinsed. That's just the way I am.
I've said before that, throughout college and grad school, I always felt like I never had enough time to do all the things I wanted to do, or that I should have done, but it wasn't until after Kyle was born that I truly wished there were more hours in the day. When I want to spend a solid hour doing something just for me - primarily reading or writing - without interruption --- well, usually it isn't possible, there will be interruptions maybe 97% of the time.
I know, I know, family is important - and yes, I love my husband and children - and probably I sound selfish writing in this Greta Garbo mode, like I'm whining that I want more time and space for my own stuff - me me me! But when I can give myself over to a big juicy novel, or work out some confusing thoughts or rough emotions on paper or through the keyboard, it makes me feel so much better. It usually makes my head more peaceful and my heart happier - and don't these results make me a better wife and mother, and perhaps a better person? Maybe so --- but still, there's that TIME requirement.
Why I don't often read, and don't even blog too often, when I'm at work: my breaks and lunchtime aren't that long, so it can be really hard to get that focus that I mentioned above. Fifteen or twenty minutes is probably long enough to become immersed in a novel, but I don't want to sink into it and then have to put it down and go back to work. And crafting a blog entry (or anything else) isn't a quick thing, either: I started this one around 740am (Jeff got me here a few minutes earlier than usual, and I start work at eight) - and now I'm at the end of my afternoon break, almost 325pm. I'm inwardly debating: do I post it as is, or wait until tomorrow to add a bit more and do some polishing - in short, to make this jumble more coherent?
Decisions, decisions, and I don't have time for them, I need to get back to work!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Happy anniversary, with a little help from the Flintstones
Jeff and I got married eleven years ago today. Time flies when you're too damn busy! But we're all right -- we have each other, and we even still like each other most of the time! ;-)
I thought of this song and video this morning. I remember that my mom and I both LOVED this bit when I was a kid, and she'd sing it on her wedding anniversary. Happy memories.
All Quiet: the book on war
A couple of sections that struck me hardest (from the translation by A. W. Wheen):
Haie Westhus drags off with a great wound in his back through which the lung pulses at every breath. I can only press his hand; "It's all up, Paul," he groans and he bites his arm because of the pain.
We see men living with their skulls blown open; we see soldiers run with their two feet cut off, they stagger on their splintered stumps into the next shell-hole; a lance corporal crawls a mile and a half on his hands dragging his smashed knee after him; another goes to the dressing station and over his clasped hands bulge his intestines; we see men without mouths, without jaws, without faces; we find one man who has held the artery of his arm in his teeth for two hours in order not to bleed to death. The sun goes down, night comes, the shells whine, life is at an end.
Still the little piece of convulsed earth in which we lie is held. We have yielded no more than a few hundred yards of it as a prize to the enemy. But on every yard there lies a dead man.
Here is a description of what the narrator, Paul, sees in the hospital where he is recuperating:
Two fellows die of tetanus. Their skin turns pale, their limbs stiffen, at last only their eyes live--stubbornly. Many of the wounded have their shattered limbs hanging free in the air from a gallows; underneath the wound a basin is placed into which drips the pus. Every two or three hours the vessel is emptied. Other men lie in stretching bandages with heavy weights hanging from the end of the bed. I see intestine wounds that are constantly full of excreta. The surgeon's clerk shows me X-ray photographs of completely smashed hip-bones, knees, and shoulders.
A man cannot realize that above such shattered bodies there are still human faces in which life goes its daily round. And this is only one hospital, one single station; there are hundreds of thousands in Germany, hundreds of thousands in France, hundreds of thousands in Russia. How senseless is everything that can ever be written, done, or thought, when such things are possible. It must be all lies and of no account when the culture of a thousand years could not prevent this stream of blood being poured out, these torture-chambers in their hundreds of thousands. A hospital alone shows what war is.
I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another. I see that the keenest brains of the world invent weapons and words to make it yet more refined and enduring. And all men of my age, here and over there, throughout the whole world see these things; all my generation is experiencing these things with me. What would our fathers do if we suddenly stood up and came before them and proffered our account? What do they expect of us if a time ever comes when the war is over? Through the years our business has been killing;--it was our first calling in life. Our knowledge of life is limited to death. What will happen afterwards? And what shall come out of us?
Indeed, what will happen afterwards? What good can come from war, in which fathers send sons away into the world -- to kill others, and perhaps be killed themselves? For what?
Saturday, November 15, 2008
A poem that knocked my socks off
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Morning conversation
Jeff: "For you?"
Me: "No, for the boys. I like eating at home."
Jeff: "Oh yes, another breakfast, with three nutritious servings of Yelling and Screaming. And Fit-Throwing."
Me: "And Bitching and Complaining."
Sigh. It was so much easier when the boys were eating most breakfasts at school. But Ryan says he doesn't like eating there, so now they're back to eating at home most mornings. But it seems that Ryan just doesn't like to eat, period, a lot of the time, whether at school or at home, so his breakfast at home is accompanied by almost constant badgering from Jeff, me, and often Grandma: "You have to eat! That's not enough, eat more! What a waste!" Etc., etc., etc. Kyle isn't as bad about it, but he often needs reminding, too: "It's getting late, finish your cereal!" Etc., etc. Oh, morning time. Sigh.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Cheated
I tried to put a word to how I felt, and found it: cheated. Papa had been to all the boys' music programs in the past, and would have been at this one, too - and surely WAS there, in spirit - but we've been cheated of his presence, his warmth, his dedication. His love for our little boys goes on, but he isn't here to show and express it to them, to hug them, laugh with them, teach them. I cried because my sons, and their cousins, have been cheated.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
What we're doing: basketball
Basketball,
basketball,
being sick with fever / sore throat / virus / whatever,
basketball,
work and school,
basketball,
I spent several days last week in Baton Rouge at a work conference,
basketball,
basketball,
work and school,
grocery shopping,
basketball,
Kyle's school music program is tonight,
basketball,
getting ready for Halloween,
basketball.
Yeah, that's most of it. We signed Kyle up for basketball at SportZone and the YMCA, and we signed Ryan up for YMCA - so that's potentially six hours of basketball per week, if you figure one hour for each game and one hour of practice for each team. Ryan had two games last Saturday, plus his team pictures - on their first day of playing! Kyle had a game Friday evening at SportZone, and Saturday morning at the Y (though not physically at the Y, which would make things a little easier - no, his games are at an elementary school that's maybe a ten-minute drive from the Y). To top it off, Jeff had signed up to coach Ryan's team, with Rick as his assistant coach and Jesse on the same team, but at the coaches' meeting, Jeff found out that a coach for Kyle's Y team hadn't been finalized - so yes, Jeff is coaching that team, too. So, to the potential six hours of actual basketball (because the SportZone team hasn't practiced the last couple weeks, other conflicts), add all of Jeff's preparation time for practice and games, and our travel time back and forth, and yeah, we're basically doing basketball almost every day. And, Jeff's city league team will be playing on Wednesdays starting next week. He's been doing that close to 20 years now...hmmm, I gotta ask him when he actually started that, IF he even remembers. ;-) Anyway, not much time to write, hope I can write again by about Thanksgiving, and maybe report on something besides basketball. Maybe.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Book 3 of 5: a pleasant change of pace
This was the first "book about books" that I remember reading, and I fell in love with it. And, although I'd already earned a Bachelor's in English, one result of my non-traditional educational path was that I hadn't necessarily read all those books that "everyone" reads in school. Fadiman's "mini-essays" about writers and works in The Lifetime Reading Plan made some of those classics more approachable, and made them seem more interesting.
Here are some of Fadiman's comments about authors:
On E. M. Forster's inclusion "in our short, highly debatable list of twentieth-century novelists ... One reason is that he is considered among the finest of them by the most perceptive critics. Finest, not greatest. The latter adjective somehow seems inappropriate to Forster; he would have rejected it himself."
About Jane Austen: "a writer so charming that it seems clumsy to call her a classic."
The opening of Fadiman's remarks on Friedrich Nietzsche: "The rhapsodic singer of the strong, triumphant, joyful superman led a life of failure, loneliness, obscurity, and physical pain." A bit later, he writes, "At times he writes like a genius. At times he writes like a fool, as if he had never been in touch with ordinary realities. (His views on women, for example, are those of a man who simply didn't know any very well.)"
And, some of his comments about specific works:
On Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte: "at bottom the origins of this strange book are untraceable. It was spewed up out of a volcanic, untrained, uncritical, but marvelous imagination. It had no true forebears. It has had no true successors."
Of Joyce's Ulysses: "It is one of the most original works of imagination in the language. It broke not one trail, but hundreds."
"Of all the autobiographies ever written, perhaps the most powerful and influential is the Confessions," he writes of Saint Augustine's life story.
Making the case for Crime and Punishment over The Brothers Karamazov, IF you plan to read only one Dostoevsky novel:
In short, Fadiman speaks to the reader as a friend, and the reader can't help trusting his opinions, and wanting to get to know these books and authors better - sort of like, "Clifton says this book is cool, I gotta check it out for myself." Or at least that's how it's been for me, and that's half the reason I own so many books I haven't read...yet. ;-)Crime and Punishment is a simpler, more unified [book], with a
strong detective-story plot of great interest. It can be read as
a straight thriller. It can be read as a vision. It can be read on
planes in between these two. From its murky, gripping, intolerably
vivid pages you emerge with the feeling that you have lived and
suffered a lifetime. Its action takes nine days.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Book 2 of my most influential five
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
From the time I read those lines, and then purchased my first copy of Ariel, no poet has affected me as much as Sylvia Plath, and Ariel is her masterwork. The despair, the anger, the frantic energy, the power and bravado, the isolation, and the way the speakers in the poems say things we don't often let ourselves say - it is a remarkable, screaming achievement. She ends "Lady Lazarus" this way:
Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Beware,
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
I don't memorize many poems, but there are lines from some of Plath's poems - primarily from Ariel - that I've ingested, that come to my mind unbidden. "I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted / To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty," she writes in "Tulips." "These are the isolate, slow faults / That kill, that kill, that kill," the closing of the poem "Elm." These are the last lines of "Edge," the last poem Plath wrote:
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
From another famous poem - or perhaps infamous is a better word - called "Daddy":
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then, "The Moon and the Yew Tree," which began as a writing exercise, but took on a life of its own. My favorite lines: "This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. / The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue." "The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, / White as a knuckle and terribly upset." "The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. / Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls." "The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. / And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence."
Sylvia Plath's poems, and especially those in Ariel, have influenced my thoughts, my own writing, my judgment of other writers' work, and even my very life, as the initial reason I applied to Smith College is because she attended Smith. Her influence upon me is nearly incalculable.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Five books that have influenced me the most: Book 1
I have a decent list of titles in mind, may need to cut down to five, but there are two or three that must be included. The first of these is I Never Told Anyone: Writings by Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse, edited by Ellen Bass and Louise Thornton. It was published in 1983, and I found it at Attleboro Public Library, probably in the fall of 1985, when I was 14 and a freshman in high school. The content and styles of the pieces vary widely, and some of them "stayed with me" more than others, but it was the lengthy introduction by Ellen Bass that really hit home for me.
I don't know much at all about repressed memories, or about "false memories," so I won't address those topics beyond my own limited experience. What I do know is, while the knowledge of what happened to me was never repressed, buried, forgotten, there were details, and certain aspects of the incidents, that had slipped to the back of my mind. Reading the introduction to this book, I remembered that I had tried to say no - not at first, and not every time, but more often as time went on - and at least a couple times, I was able to resist.
Finding and reading this book when I was 14, when I was beginning to feel the enormity of what had happened to me - this was quite some time after the abuse had ended - brought home the realization that it was abuse, because I had tried to say no, and more often than not, saying no was not enough, and it happened anyway. I wasn't to blame, I wasn't just bad and dirty - I had tried to "be good," to stop it from happening again, to protect myself. Like the girls in the book, the girls that Ellen Bass wrote about in that powerful essay, I wasn't to blame, it wasn't my fault.
The shame, the guilt, the self-blame - for me, it is all still there, several layers below my grown-up self. I try to "manage" it, to keep it down, and for the most part, I can. But once in a while, and often with little warning, I erupt, and it pours from me. I believe that people can change, that we aren't necessarily "trapped" into being the same as we were last month, last year, five years ago, and we might be quite different next year, or five years from now. But part of what makes me "me" - and what makes you "you" - is the things that happened in my life (and in your life, in all our lives) last month, last year, five years ago, back as far as I (we) can remember. We can change, and we do change, but the deeper it lies, the harder it is to touch. I can change my clothes, change my hair, but can I change my heart? I don't know.
I credit Ellen Bass, Louise Thornton, and all the brave women whose writing appears in the book I Never Told Anyone, for reminding me that I tried to resist, encouraging me to find my own voice, and helping me to feel I might be someone worthwhile after all.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Voices in my head, these days
The first days after his death, a few old poems started cycling through my mind. As reading and writing have sustained me through many difficult times in my life, it makes sense that familiar poems will approach me when I, and those closest to me, are troubled and sad. Reading poems or books, or keeping a journal, might not be everyone's cup of tea, but I'm sure they've brought some comfort to many other people in distress. So, I wanted to share some of the voices I've had in my head these two long weeks.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
The Bustle in a House
The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth —
The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity.
Heart! We will forget him!
---by Emily Dickinson
Heart! We will forget him!
You and I - tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave -
I will forget the light!
When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you're lagging
I remember him!
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Finally, this is one of my favorite quotes, and has been since I found it in an old edition of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations when I was twelve years old. It's attributed to George William Childs.
Do not keep the alabaster boxes of your love
and tenderness sealed up until your friends are
dead. Fill their lives with sweetness. Speak
approving, cheering words while their ears
can hear them, and while their hearts can
be thrilled and made happier by them.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
How long do you hope for a miracle?
But that was earlier in the day, when we had hope. They told us that he wouldn't wake up until the following day, at least - maybe in two days. Somewhere around lunch time (not that anyone ate a lot), the cardiologist told us that Gerald's heart muscles were actually quite strong, but if his blood pressure didn't come up soon, the medications to increase his BP would begin to damage his heart. Still, he said, think positive, be strong, have hope.
Late in the afternoon, Jeff's sister Stacy came back to the waiting room in tears, but angry. Gerald had been seen by a cardiologist and a pulmonary specialist, but the nurses had been waiting for the kidney specialist. Now, Stacy said, the staff seemed less concerned about the kidney specialist coming by. Then, the nurses and the pulmonary specialist began asking Sue, as tactfully as they could, what should be done if Gerald's heart stops again? The scenario was something like this: they could do CPR again, but if it was successful, there was essentially no chance at that point of him surviving without being hooked up to machines. It was around this time that I wondered, Should we just hope now that his heart keeps beating? Because once it stops, it's all over. Or were we beyond hope by then?
I remember Rick, Stacy's husband, coming back from Gerald's bedside, and saying, "He was fighting all day, he couldn't fight any more." Oh God. It can't be real, this can't be. What will happen to us all now, without him? Kyle said, "Everything will be different now, nothing will be the same as it was." He sobbed. When he was angry at me and Jeff, he called Papa. When he had news to share, he called Papa. Kyle and Papa were running a team in Jeff's online fantasy football league; whenever Kyle saw they'd been offered a trade, he called Papa to talk about whether they should take it. Kyle knew my in-laws' phone number before he learned his own! Papa loved all six of his grandsons, but Kyle was the first, and until he was 2 1/2 and Ryan was born, he was the only grandchild. Kyle and Papa had always been buddies, and I couldn't imagine Kyle losing Papa at only eight years old, still young enough to climb on Papa's big, comfortable lap. Kyle, my little son.
I remember hugging Sue tightly and saying, "I feel terrible for you, I feel terrible for you." They'd celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary this past April. They didn't have many separate interests; they did nearly everything together. It is hard to think of one without the other, but suddenly, inexplicably, only one is left. Surely Gerald is in heaven - he was a good, kind, responsible man - but I can't help thinking he'd still rather be down here with Sue, and with his children, watching his grandsons grow up.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The book sale
The book world was also intense in those days [mid-1800s to early 1900s]. Fights
occasionally broke out in bookstore aisles. When the English translation of The Devil on Two Sticks came out, the books were gobbled up insatiably, to the point that, when two noblemen entered a shop where one copy of the book remained, the lords drew swords. Only the intervention of the bookseller with a borrowed copy of the casus bellus precluded the letting of blood. When John Morley's Life of Gladstone came out in 1903, the chaotic scene in the Macmillan offices made the run on Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire look like a couple of tykes arguing over who gets The Cat in the Hat at the neighborhood bookmobile. Today, the only place one experiences this sort of intensity is at the martial arts exhibitions that are euphemistically called "Friends of the Library" sales (pp. 117-118).
Ah yes, the "Friends of the Library" book sale. It's one of my two favorite days of the year - the other being Groundhog Day. The annual sale of the Friends of Topeka and Shawnee County Public Library begins this Friday evening - 6pm to 9pm, Friends members only, but memberships are sold at the door if you don't have one and you really don't want to wait till Saturday - and is open to the "general public" most of the day Saturday, and a few hours on Sunday afternoon. I'm a bit envious of those towns that have two sales each year (usually fall and spring), while TSCPL only has one, in September. But oh, what a sale it is!
I love how Raabe compares these sales to "martial arts exhibitions." I've never seen fighting at the local sale, but speaking only for myself, the "sort of intensity" he mentions is not necessarily an overstatement. I start working on my "wishlist" of potential purchases several days before the sale - this year's list is already in progress. Approaching the Expocentre close to when the sale opens, I feel a wonderful excitement, a sense of possibility, and rather than going all the way to the end of the line, I wait a couple minutes for people to go into the Hall, and the line to shorten, and then I get at the end when it's closer to me.
Once I'm in there, I've got my list in my hand, and I'm ALL BUSINESS. I always see at least one person I know, usually a few - either members of my book group, no surprise there, or people from work. But there's no time for chatting - I limit conversation to maybe 30 seconds, and even during that time, I'm scanning whatever table I happened to stop near, my eyeballs doing some combination of gymnastics and sprints across the spines, catching titles and authors as they go. I make my way through at least half of the inventory - there being some categories and topics that don't interest me - and I stay for at least two hours, becoming warm, tired, a bit frantic to find one or two titles that really MUST be there somewhere! I check my list frequently, move books set on top of the piles to see what's underneath, skim through boxes under the tables for books that haven't been laid out yet, and periodically assess what I've picked up to see if there are any I've since decided not to buy. Example: often the third or fourth book I pick up will be deemed "not worthy" once I've found an eighth or ninth book (one that was actually on my list), and especially if that third or fourth book costs maybe three dollars, when most of my choices are two dollars or less. There's impulse buying, yes, but also time to consider which books and how many to buy on impulse.
I already own over 300 books that I haven't read, according to my LibraryThing catalog. You might be thinking, Does she really need to go to this sale and buy another ten, fifteen, twenty books, most of which will remain unread by the time next year's sale rolls around? But I wouldn't think such a thing - not go to the sale?!?!? I love the sale!!! It's the kind of thing where I think to myself in mid-May, "Only four more months till the library book sale!" I can't not go to the sale. And, they also have DVDs, videos, and CDs, and the past couple years, Jeff goes in with me and looks at kids' books and movies, and we have a list of items that Stacy and Grandma want us to look for, and a book or DVD might be included with the Christmas gifts if it's in good condition. And you can't beat the prices! Yeah, you bet I'm going. If you see me there, you can say hello if you want to, and I appreciate it, but if I'm distracted - I will be distracted - please understand, it's nothing personal, I'm just a woman on a mission, building my life's library.
Friday, September 5, 2008
No more donations
This makes me a little sad. The first time I donated blood was in 1991, when I was 20 years old. My grandfather (my mom's father) died in September of that year, and I donated at a blood drive at Community College of Rhode Island (that would be "See See Ah Rye" in Rhode Islandese) about a month after his death. When I was done, I remember feeling really good, the best I'd felt since Grandpa died. For a long time after, I associated blood donations with a measure of contentment, a happy inner peace.
At least once, here in Topeka, I wasn't allowed to donate because my blood pressure was too low. While I was at Smith, I donated once or twice, and I remember one of the workers walking by me and wondering what was taking so long. She looked at my paperwork and said, "Oh, no wonder, your blood pressure is 80." (It was actually 88/60, but yeah, probably too low, they shouldn't have let me donate.) I can't say for sure if that was the same donation that resulted in "the bruise," but it probably was. That would have been during the 1993-1994 school year. I had a bruise on my arm for over two weeks! I got worried after a while when I felt a bump under there, called Health Services, and they said it was probably nothing to worry about - if I recall correctly, it was basically a kind of scab under my skin. (Oh, okay, that sounds great!) A few days after my donation, this picture was taken:
The flash was bright, but even so, you can see the gray area on the bend in my arm. Before it finally went away, that thing turned all kinds of colors. But still, it didn't prevent me from continuing to donate blood, when there was a blood drive I could fit into my schedule.
But in early December 2006, the last time I tried to donate before yesterday, I had a bad reaction for the first time. The woman had told me to squeeze my hand every three to five seconds, which I later guessed was probably faster than was good for me - because I had never had a bad time before, only a bruise, so if that's not the reason, I don't know what it was. After that, I was sort of afraid to donate again, which is why I waited so long - until yesterday.
It's weird how fast it happens: I'm lying there, my breath and my chest start to feel just a little different, and then I'm suddenly warm all over and everything looks surreal, and when I try to close my eyes, the blood drive workers say, "Open your eyes, keep your eyes open!" and yesterday I could feel drops of sweat falling down each side of my neck. Then they tilt me back, and put one ice pack on the front of my neck, and one under the back of my neck. They give me apple juice, and ask about every thirty seconds, "How are you doing?" and then, "Are you doing okay?" And the thing is, you can't be sure how you are, it just feels too unreal. They had an Abbott and Costello DVD on, up on a big screen, and it was the disc menu, and I just kept looking straight ahead at it - "Don't close your eyes, keep them open!" - and thinking to myself "Play All, Episode 1, Episode 2, Bonus Features," and again, "Play All, Episode 1, Episode 2," and I nearly said it out loud, "Play All, Episode 1..." By the time you really are "okay," you don't have to think about the question when they ask you. If they ask and you aren't sure, request some juice, and just keep breathing. And whatever you do, don't close your eyes!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A new poem
Again
My head got stuck in the jaws of anger
today; crazy hijacked my afternoon.
It doesn’t last, I say, it doesn’t last –
and I pretend to listen and believe,
as though I were a creditable source.
And that’s the truth, it doesn’t last – but damn,
it always, always crashes back – and ten
by twenty thousand times, it kicks me down.
But I am sitting here, I am alive.
I try to find some solace in these words,
some meaning in the pain, again, again,
a measure of protection … for next time.
The roaring storm is no more than a sigh
when set against the years that fly away.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Random thought
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Finished another excellent book
30. The book thief - finished listening to it this afternoon, crying near the end, but not quite sobbing, as the boys had a couple of friends over, and the last thing any of the kids needed was to see me looking like a wreck with red splotches and tears in place of my regular face. (My sons are too familiar with the sight to be surprised, but could have been VERY embarrassed had either of the friends seen me.) I wasn't doing housecleaning as I listened to the last sections, I was eager to just HEAR it, to find out what happened.
It's not really a sad book, but there's a good deal of black comedy in it. It takes place in Nazi Germany and is narrated by Death, but is also populated by rich and interesting characters. It's both a tribute and a cautionary tale about the power of words, reading, and books. It is magnificent, and I love it. In a way, it reminds me of To kill a mockingbird, in that it seems like a story set free into the world, whole and complete, each sentence just as it should be, all parts perfect and necessary.
Next audio - I don't know. It's a bit like when I finished Middlemarch in the spring (though it's not even half so long!) - I don't want to let go of the book thief and her friends.
There are so many wonderful books in the world, and a good number of marvelous books in my own collection that I haven't read yet. I wanted The book thief for several months before I bought it (maybe last December), and the same with The glass castle. When my book group chose to read Middlemarch earlier this year, my one-dollar copy from the Smith College book store still had the receipt inside...from 1994. I've fallen in love with these three books this year, three books that I had already bought with no immediate plan to read them (an understatement in the case of the George Eliot novel!), that brought me great pleasure when I made time to read them, whether months or years after they came into my bookcases.
To read an excellent book is sometimes to live within it, to even breathe it, to hold it to your heart at the same time that you offer it to others: "This book is great, you just have to read it, it's amazing!" But for me, there's also a kind of tension that comes with a wonderful book: to want to go back to Middlemarch (for example), while my real life requires me here in Topeka. In spite of that, I know I'm so lucky - my real life is pretty good, and so many people have never been to Middlemarch at all! For those who love to read, the world is so much larger, no matter the miles they travel (or not) in "real life," and my shelves are full of places I haven't seen yet, that I'll be honored to visit, and glad to keep in my mind ever after.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
"It's Hot in Topeka"
We saw this on the Cartoon Network a year or so ago. The show is called "Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," and in this bit, Bloo hears the weather forecast for Topeka, and then runs with it.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
My mother, and her hair styles, through the years
Jerilyn also asked me if I had any pictures of my mom when she was younger, and at various stages through her life. She said she was really curious to see what my mom had looked like when she was younger, but also on a more practical level, some new pictures would give them some new things to talk about, because "we've pretty much talked out" the half dozen or so photos she has displayed now. She and my mom had agreed that "Marie probably has a lot of the old pictures," and I assured her that I did. I told Jerilyn that after my dad died, I'd worked around some of the junk (and the roaches) in the old apartment, specifically looking for things like photo albums and my dad's high school yearbook - the things that could never be replaced if they were lost or ruined - and I'd packed them up and had them shipped to Kansas a while later. (My brother did most of the work in the old apartment, I'll give him that. My time was very limited, so I just focused on finding and getting out what I wanted to keep, while he had to do most of the disposal.) I promised Jerilyn I'd get some photos together and send them to my mom as soon as I could.
As I looked through some of the old photo albums this past Friday (Jeff and I took Friday and today off from work, because Saturday was Ryan's birthday), I marveled at how creative my mom used to be with her hair. I only remember her having long straight hair when I was young, and then late in my elementary school years, or during my time in middle school, she started getting it cut more regularly, and never had it that long again. (I can still hear her saying, "I said I wouldn't cut my hair until the end of the Vietnam War. I didn't know it would last that long.") And, I remember seeing curlers in our apartment at some point, but I don't remember my mom using them, or doing anything to really "style" her hair, as she obviously did in her teen and young adult years.
My mom was born in August 1945, and in the first picture, she's almost three years old. Note the photos with animals - that's actually why I added that first one with the cat. I believe that my mom has always liked animals better than people, but I can't recall if she actually said that, or if it's just a feeling I've long had about her. Most or all of the black and white photos were probably taken at my grandparents' house in Norton, Massachusetts. My grandmother is better at getting dates written on photos than anyone else I've ever known, so most of the dates you see below are thanks to her record keeping.
November 4, 1959
(this is one of my favorite pictures of my mom; she was 14 years old)
September 3, 1979: me, Ma, Lee; at Rehoboth Fair, in Mass.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
When you gonna love you... ?
I was able to push the mood aside - must be a good thing that Wal-Mart is less than ten minutes from our house, not much time to get riled up about stuff - and the actual shopping trip was all right, just LONG because I had to return something and stood in line at Customer Service for close to 15 minutes. I thought about getting an iced coffee from the McDonald's inside the store, before the endless wait at Customer Service, but was able to resist the temptation.
On the way home, I was listening to Tori Amos's Little Earthquakes CD, and the next song cued up was "Winter." I turned out of the parking lot onto 37th St., and had tears in my eyes before I got to the 37th and Burlingame intersection. The start of the song is about a little girl outside on a cold winter day with her dad: "I put my hand in my father's glove," she says. And the chorus just moved my heart, and I imagined my dad...not really saying the words, but that the words must certainly express what he felt for me:
When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?
And then the last verse:
Hair is gray and the fires are burning,
So many dreams on the shelf.
You say, "I wanted you to be proud of me."
I always wanted that myself.
My dad was proud of me, and did love me, as well as he could - and in his way, far better than I've ever loved myself. And heaven help me, I miss him so much tonight, more than in a long time.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Rainy Friday
Here's the video for the song "Rain" by Patty Griffin. It's the opening track on her album A Thousand Kisses, and it's incredible and simply beautiful.
It was cloudy as we were driving to work this morning, and within ten minutes after Jeff dropped me off, the rain had started. It's not too bad, but might have thunderstorms later today.
I was awake for well over an hour during the night, and started a new book, Six Walks in the Fictional Woods by Umberto Eco. I read the first chapter. Needless to say, I'm tired this morning. But, thank God it's Friday.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Coming up for air - finally - maybe
There's a short video of Jeannette Walls and her mom (and some of her mom's artwork) on the Simon & Schuster website. Yep, some of her mom's artwork - but it really is quite good.
I've spent too much time alone this evening and must check in with Jeff and the kids, but one last book note: my copy of The glass castle still had the receipt in it. I bought it at Hastings on October 21, 2006, along with Never let me go by Kazuo Ishiguro, and Wickett's Remedy by Myla Goldberg (buy two, get one free). Having now read all three books, I've gotta say, what an excellent book day it turned out to be.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Warm day, cool ice
I've always enjoyed watching figure skating, but it wasn't until the 1994 Olympics that I began to follow figure skating, to watch as much as I could, and learn lots of skaters' names, histories, and programs - not as in TV programs, but as in short or long, technical or artistic. It was a big Olympics because of the Nancy Kerrigan - Tonya Harding "rivalry," and the incident at the US Championships where Nancy was whacked on the knee (and yes, Tonya was part of the plan). But by the time the competition had ended, it was Oksana Baiul, the 16-year-old orphan from Ukraine, who had won the gold medal. It was Oksana's skating, her incredible grace on the ice, like no one I'd ever seen before, that had won my heart.
This is one of the programs she skated at the Exhibition following the 1994 Olympics, though I don't think this video is of that same performance, but a bit later that year - she was still 16. The music is "The Swan" by Camille Saint-Saens, part of his piece called The Carnival of the Animals. I purchased a Saint-Saens CD because I loved the music so much. I could watch Oksana skate this program every day, and never grow tired of it.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
My LibraryThing anniversary: ah, Book Love!
I've learned two big things about my personal library since joining LibraryThing. First, though I obviously have a LOT of books, I actually thought I had more of them. I don't have a strong positive or negative feeling about that discovery, just that it surprised me. What can I say, I'm not a big numbers person. Second, I own A GREAT AMOUNT of books that I haven't read yet. That finding IS a little embarrassing. I knew I had a lot of unread books, but of the 710 items in there, today, 311 have the tag "tbr," indicating they're still "to be read." I could NOT buy books for five years and still have things to read!
While I spent last year's July 4th holiday between the glow of my computer screen and the hush of my crowded bookshelves, I hope tomorrow to do some cleaning and organizing at home while listening to my audio of The age of innocence - I'm leading the book group discussion this coming Tuesday - and to catch up on some e-mails, primarily responding to those kind friends and family who have actually read some of these blog posts and followed up with a note to me! You know who you are! Thank you SO MUCH, I'll write you back very soon!!!
And now, the end of my lunch break, must get back to work. Oh - the FIRST thing I'll do tomorrow: sleep in, at least until seven. :-)
Sunday, June 29, 2008
"Tell her that I love her." Huh?
In the days since I talked with Jerilyn, I've called the nursing home a couple times, and also talked to my grandmother last Wednesday evening - the same day she'd visited my mom, lucky coincidence. The nurses have confirmed that the improvements in eating and mood have continued these past few weeks, and my grandmother also reported having a good visit with her, the only drop in her mood, again, when they talked about my brother not visiting. She's by no means active - she still sleeps a lot, and doesn't go to the day room for meals - but for no reason we can clearly identify, she continues to be markedly better in recent weeks than she had been for MONTHS before.
It only occurred to me recently that, as she's doing better and is no longer on MRSA precautions (FINALLY), I could try to talk with her on the phone. She has no phone in her room, so this requires a nurse or aide to bring her out in her wheelchair to the nurses' station to talk with me. I called this afternoon to try to speak with her, and the nurse said, "She's in bed, but I'll ask her if she'd like to come and talk to you." I waited a minute, listening to the same on-hold music that Wedgemere has been playing for years, and then the nurse came back. "She said she doesn't want to come to the phone, but she said to tell you that she loves you."
I thought, "Huh?" And then I said, "Wow, she said that?" "Yes." "Wow, she doesn't say that too often." I stopped before saying, I don't remember her ever saying that to me unless I'd just said it to her first. After verifying with the nurse that the improvements have continued, I said, "Please just give her my love, too," and thanked her.
So that is the latest news about my mom. Part of me is really glad, relieved, that the positive turn of a few weeks ago has continued. Part of me is wondering, "Who is this person and what has she done with my mother?" But I push the question aside, and remain thankful that she's been so much better these past few weeks. However long it lasts, relative contentment is a blessing for her, and knowing she's not suffering as greatly as she did in the winter and spring, makes me feel blessed, too. As she herself would say, "We take what we can get."
Monday, June 23, 2008
The 36 hour day
After exchanging a couple of voice messages with my taxi-share person, a woman named Alexa who was (like me) taking a late flight out of Seattle/Tacoma, I met her outside the big rooms where they were having the closing general session. I also ran into a new acquaintance named Jennifer, so the three of us sat together. Alexa and I stayed about an hour and fifteen minutes, then decided to leave.
We ended up heading for the water, and taking a one hour harbor tour, which turned out to be really neat. (Yes, although it WAS a bit chilly, I'm glad Alexa talked me into going.) We then had dinner at Ivar's, and I ordered halibut, which was very good. I'm glad Aunt Anne made that when I was visiting in April, so I've added it to my "list of safe things to order in real restaurants." After dinner, we hoofed it back to the hotel to meet the car and head to the airport. (I NEED to add that I had left my suitcase at the hotel that morning after checking out, but carried my laptop case, stuffed with papers and things I'd collected, around all day. At times it felt a little like weightlifting, even more so when I was walking uphill or climbing stairs.)
All in all, in spite of my heavy laptop, Wednesday was good. At the airport, Alexa and I sat together for about another hour and a half, had some coffee, and I worked on my laptop a little bit while she did some writing. My flight was scheduled to leave at 1140pm, but was already delayed to 1210am when I got to the airport, so I knew I would need some caffeine to keep me going. Alexa and I headed to our separate gates by about 1030pm, as she was leaving around 11. She told me to "say hi to Jeff - I feel like I know him!"
And then, the waiting. I don't remember now how long that delay ended up being, if it was 1220am or even later. I do know that when I tried to transfer in Dallas, I went to the wrong gate, and though it was only JUST THEN time for my flight to leave (about 625am Central Time - two hours later than Seattle time), the woman at the gate I'd gone to quickly checked and said, "That flight is gone." She said they'd already scheduled me for the next one, due to leave at 835am. The other thing I know is that I hadn't slept on that first flight, so had been awake over 20 hours. (I slept on my first flight to Arizona in January 1996, some of the time between Boston and Chicago. That's the only time I remember definitely sleeping on a plane.)
The flight out of Seattle was late coming back from Dallas because it had encountered bad weather. That's the same reason my 835am flight didn't get out of Dallas till somewhere around 1030am. (But that flight I missed - why of course that one got out exactly on time! Dammit to hell.) I made calls to Jeff, and sent him text messages to update him when our calls got cut off - and when I actually had news to share; because of the storms, they couldn't give us good guesses about when we'd get the hell out of there. Jeff had planned to be late to work, but in the end he took the whole day off. He had the boys with him, and they tried to pass time as best they could - hanging out at the Legends mall, though none of the stores were open; the boys had a good time just running wild all around the place.
I was so happy to land, and to find that Jeff had brought a blanket and pillow so I could stretch out and get some sleep on the way back from the airport. We left KCI around noon, got home at 120pm, and I got to bed as soon as I could. I was up from about 645pm to 830pm, had some cereal, talked to Jeff and the boys, sent a book group e-mail, then went back to bed. It's still bizarre to think about any of it happening on Thursday. To me, it just seemed like a really way too long Wednesday. A WAY too long, wacky Wednesday, the first half really good, and the rest possessed by demons.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Up too late, and tired
On a brighter note: Elliott Bay Books was wonderful. I bought three books, two used and one bargain. I'll see the public library tomorrow, and will go home happy.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Quick note on Monday in Seattle
First day of SLA Conference - a good start
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Update on Ma, June 11th
- She's eating better than when I visited, but not as well as a couple weeks back - "about 30%" of the food she's given.
- She has gained one pound, so her weight is an even 100.
- A sore area that's been on her right big toe since I was there weeks ago, became infected late last week. She's on an antibiotic for that, and so far, no troublesome side effects from that medicine.
- She's taking her meds fairly well, but has still been weepy and upset.
- One reason she's been weepy and upset: my brother was supposed to visit her last Friday, and never did. Jerilyn, the hospice social worker, had called him to say she hoped to meet him that day, and Linda said Jerilyn was there from noon to 5pm on Friday so she could meet him and discuss Ma's condition. Needless to say, Ma was very disappointed.
- Ma continues to sleep a lot of the time. I don't blame her one bit.
I need to call my grandmother soon - today or this evening - to chat about my mom, and find out how she's been doing as well. And, I can find out if she's talked with my brother at all in the last two weeks or so. Argh. Argh argh.
Better now
I haven't gotten any detailed updates on my mother in some time, but hope to touch base with someone today - actually have SEVERAL calls on my list of things to do. I'll pass along the latest about my mom as soon as I can.
I found out Monday that my cousin Valerie had her baby girl on Friday, June 6th. They named her Marissa. Val's sister Heidi said that all were doing well, so very good news on that front.
Time to start another day of work, and preparation for my trip. Eek!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Poem written at 3 am
I woke around 230 am, and a poem seemed to start writing itself in my head. I got up a bit before 3, found a notebook with some blank sheets in it, and started writing. By 330, I was done. I may do some editing later, but for now, it seems not bad, and says what I meant to say.
Self-Mutilation
In my dream I
move the knife
along my left arm,
creating pain
that can be seen,
where before
the pain had lain
inside my head,
invisible.
Like an artist
carving, I push
and glide the knife,
releasing blood
to add some color
to the sculpture,
paint streaming red
throughout, then pooling
in the crevices.
When I wake,
my blood runs black
on paper,
my tools not
knife and blood,
but pen and ink.
Out of tears,
finally quiet,
I put this weary day
to bed, pull the covers
over that sad girl
who cannot stand
herself. I write this poem.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
I really *do* have a sense of humor
A couple weeks ago, we got some junk mail from Geico. (We don't have Geico insurance.) On the outside of the envelope was the note, "Important information about your RV." (Nope, we definitely don't have an RV.) The letter inside begins with this:
You live an active lifestyle. You're young at heart. And odds are, most of the great things you've experienced happened while traveling with your RV.
The greeting on this letter? "Dear William Burke." Yes, the mail was addressed to my dad, who has been dead for three years, and never had an RV, or a car, or even a driver's license, in all his life. (And he never lived at our address, you'd think we wouldn't STILL be getting his mail, but we do!) Quick, read it again, with feeling, and a smile of contentment:
You live an active lifestyle. You're young at heart.
Yes, I'm sure my dad is living an active lifestyle. God, I can't even type it without laughing! But the best part is, my dad himself would get a hearty laugh out of this. I said soon after he died, when trying to write his obituary, there was nothing he liked better than a good laugh, except maybe a good meal. Have a chuckle and a second helping today, in honor of my dad. :-)
Friday, May 30, 2008
Change for the better in my mother
I did ask Linda what this means for her hospice care. For the time being, she'll continue with hospice, adding that "extra layer" of care beyond the regular services of the nursing facility. It's true that her physical condition, which had already put her heart at risk before her eating slowed so much, is still far from good. If she's able to eat "normal" kinds and amounts of food - perhaps half or two-thirds of most meals, and not go overboard with candy and those things - she'll gain back some weight, and won't starve to death, which I was so afraid of when I learned she'd lost 15 pounds in two weeks. But although she shouldn't be as weak then as she's been the last few months, she'll have the same kinds of physical problems that she had six months ago and more. A person can't smoke cigarettes for 40 years, eat poorly, and not exercise, and expect their body to serve them well indefinitely. Her body has rebelled for years already, and feeding it is very good, no question, but I don't think this will bring about miraculous changes.
I am working this out in my mind as I'm writing. What I mean is, given that her hospice diagnosis was end stage cardiac disease, her eating again doesn't change the precarious situation her heart is in. I think it's more likely, though, that she'll be here longer than we had come to expect in recent weeks. I do see this as very good news, a positive sign where I had stopped hoping for one. I'm so glad for it, glad to be wrong.
OH - almost forgot. A while after I talked to her assigned nurse yesterday, someone else at the nursing home called me to say they planned to move my mom out of her private room. She confirmed that the MRSA infection my mom has had for MANY WEEKS had finally cleared up (meaning, three successive cultures came back with negative results), within the past week or so, but they didn't want to move her from the private room until someone else needed it. That being the case now, they planned to move her to another room today. I hope she gets a roommate she's able to talk with, so that she might be a little less lonely.