Slump

Sometimes I am so keyed up with anticipation that I'm left totally immobile save for a kind of involuntary buzzing. Work has been busy. Studying has begun. My birthday is this week. My sister is moving across the country. It's hard to take a step when my mind is going off in so many directions. On top of that, I started Donna Tartt's Goldfinch. Where is my strength? I wonder. Where is the energy for all of these lovely pursuits and better selves?

Meanwhile, I've pretty much watched this video more than 50 times since it was posted:

Bright

I wanted to write about Guardians of the Galaxy which I watched on Wednesday for the husband's birthday, but found that I didn't have a lot to say. I am so happy to see Chris Pratt, the movie star as I like him so much. The movie itself was funny and entertaining. I guess it just didn't give me cause for a whole lot of introspection, but it was fun.

I also watched the first episode of Outlander last week. It's hard to ignore Ron Moore and I admire Caitriona Balfe's Claire already. I don't get Starz so we'll see how into the show I get. My self-imposed summer break feels like it's coming to a close and I'm not sure how eager I am to get wrapped into a show once I go back to intense study mode.

I'm pathetically behind on my yearly goal to finish 50 books before the end of the year. But I'm in the middle of Alice Munro's Dear Life. I want to finish before I make up my mind. I just finished The Love Letters of Dylan Thomas. I was hoping for one thing and got something else. I wanted to be dazzled and touched. The peek into his thoughts were still good though.

Meanwhile, this song has been on my mind a lot lately:

Food Envy

I was sulking over a bowl of canned soup and a bag of Cheetos tonight, a kind of culinary navel gazing wherein I felt put upon for the lot I was in. Didn't I just successfully make tea scones over the weekend? Wasn't it true that not even two months ago, I made a not only edible, but delicious pear gruyere pie? Too true, I think. Except with everything I make that requires the use of cooking equipment and more than three ingredients, I have familial supervision, if not wholehearted assistance at all times.

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe one day I will cook a meal by myself with no watchful eye making sure I don't have a disaster. One day is not today, but maybe in the near future. I finished The Year of Magical Thinking tonight and marvel that John Gregory Dunne had ever wondered if his life was a waste. His measure being whether or not they were able to do the things they actually wanted. I share similar feelings. Is my life how I wished it would be? Do I get to do the things I want more than just the things I should? Not always. But quite often. Does this mean I have a happy life? Probably.

Magic

I'm hoping to finish The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion tomorrow. I'm enjoying it immensely while also carrying a persistent feeling that I am going to die. Luckily, I am not known for an accurate intuition. When describing the sudden illness that falls her daughter she says:

"...I had always at some level apprehended, because I was born fearful, that some events in life would remain beyond my ability to control or manage them. Some events would just happen. This was one of those events. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends."

She also quotes a line from a poem by  Manley Hopkins, "I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day."

Simple and perfect. I am often captured by tragedy, letting it pull me in and whisper its secrets. I try to remember every feeling, every thought, but pain tends to avoid traveling by word. This attraction made me a morose little kid, but it frees me as an adult. I can articulate my feelings a lot better. I can view challenges with better perspective now. Distance, even. I am not altogether cured, but I find I don't really want to be.

DC

Finished David Copperfield Tuesday night after some pretty intense reading sessions. I aimed to try to be like Agnes and seek out the good in others. Perhaps that's more of a Dickens attribute. Not overlooking the faults or eccentricities of people, but allowing those things to build their character rather than pit it against them.

I failed after mere hours of this resolve. Wah, wah. I failed again the next day.

I am trying to turn these failures into more of a progression into the right direction. Maybe one day I'll hit that sweet spot where my irritation/annoyance/self-awareness won't even be triggered at all and I'll become this amiable woman whose thoughts can match her outward appearance. For now, I'll be happy discouraging my (sometimes, inconvenient) expressive face.

In any case, I'm glad I finished and am excited to take on my next novel. No more Dickens intimidation for me!

Davy

I spent most of Monday and Tuesday night with the endeavor to finish David Copperfield tonight for a book club that is actually next Wednesday. Oops. The blog must sometimes suffer to hopeless literary pursuits. I reached page 488, so the absence in memory was not rewarded nor punished. I am definitely developing a crush on Dickens as I admit to initial reluctance on my part to even broach the famous tome.

It seems like the biggest thing I'm taking away from the story is that personal quirks sometimes matter very little on a person's character. The villains seldom twirl a convenient mustache. The handsome scholar may prove less than heroic. All the while, young David Copperfield observes and learns.

Anyway, something for me to think about when I next meet someone new.

Slowhand

I recently finished the audiobook of Eric Clapton's autobiography, Clapton read by Bill Nighy. I was reminded how candid and fair I thought the book portrayed his life. His focus was almost completely on his addictions and his music. He learned guitar by listening to a piece of music he loved, practicing the piece over and over until his copying matched the record.

I love hearing a cover redone in a creative way that still stays true to the music, but is a new interpretation. I guess that's why I've been listening to so much James Vincent McMorrow lately. He does a wonderful cover of Steve Winwood's "Higher Love" and Chris Isaak's "Wicked Games". Homeboy even covers "Whip My Hair"!

Though not a cover, I adore his song, "We Don't Eat". Definitely music to warm my heart.

FI?

I've been a little conflicted lately on what to do in the next few years. This year's tax return enabled my husband and I to pay the last bit of my student loan and bump up our emergency fund. I'm so happy to be debt free, but I'm not sure my next step. In 2011, we slowed down our aggressive saving/debt payments a little to save for trips and basically mess around. Everything feels like a big question mark. House? Fun? Travel? Nest egg? In keeping with my quandary, Get Rich Slowly had some literary advice for me.

I checked out both Your Money or Your Life and Work Less, Live More at the library. Hopefully this will give me some perspective for the future.

The Love of Words

I tried to think of hobbies I loved to do and found that the one I love the most only made me sound lame, but who cares?

I love to read. This is probably obvious in that I mention books quite often in previous blog posts. Though some are more challenging than others, navigating through stories of people's discoveries, adventures, tragedies and triumphs is one of my favorite things to do.

I started reading with a competitive spirit in mind. Mrs. Hammer's third grade class bred students with enthusiasm. We learned to play the ukelele, ran through exercise drills every morning, killed it in multiplication and bested all others in personal reading. The incentives were irrelevant (okay, I can't remember the incentives) but an entire wall was dedicated to who was best in class in every aspect.

Amanda Bagley and I were always one and two when it came to reading, alternating every week or so. She was of course one of my best friends and her mom was our girl scout leader. Man, it would grate when I came in at number two. This is when I would also read books I found in the library that were crazy above my reading level. Plot to The Red Badge of Courage? I don't think I ever knew!

I love this quote from Neil Gaiman which does a much better job to elucidate my point:

Sometimes fiction is a way of coping with the poison of the world in a way that lets us survive it. And I remembered. I would not be the person I am without the authors who made me what I am - the special ones, the wise ones, sometimes just the ones who got there first. It's not irrelevant, those moments of connection, those places where fiction saves your life. It's the most important thing there is.

Oh the practicing I must do!

You win, V-Day

I've been sucked in by Valentine's Day, I think. I'm still not expecting presents or a big to do on the actual day, but every time I try to come up with a topic for this blog, I can only think of love stories. Next week, I will try to showcase a love story each day. I will start with my second favorite passage from Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney.

"It's like when you were born. It sounds crazy, but that's exactly what it's like."

"It hurt that much?"

"Terrible," she said. "You just didn't want to come out. I didn't think I'd live through it."

She sucked breath through her teeth and gripped your hand fiercely.

"So now you know why I love you so much."

You were not sure you understood, but her voice was so faint and dreamy that you didn't want to interrupt. You held her hand and watched her eyelids flicker, hoping she was dreaming. Birds were calling on all sides. You didn't think you had ever heard so many birds.

I don't want to comment too much and lose some of the magic of the scene, but I like the dynamic between mother and son. They don't have to completely understand each other. Sometimes the presence, the touch of a familiar hand, make up for the silences.

Je t'aime

As I've said on previous occasions, I wouldn't call myself a social person, but there are times, like tonight, where the benefits of social situations outweigh the drawbacks. These past few weeks I've thought a lot about love. The good kind, the simple kind, and the darker side, the kind that can bring about so much pain one almost forgets why it was all worth it. Tonight I got to have stirring conversations with women I've come to truly adore. Being social usually drains me, but sometimes it's invigorating and I wish I wasn't always so reticent to go out more.

As I've grown older, I find it more difficult to look to couples around me as examples of true love. I'm not sure if youth played a part in this perception or my limited circle. I wonder if my own public interactions with my husband convey how much I care for him. I wish I could say that it always does, but I'm not sure. My sarcasm can come off mean.

I'm reading My Life in France, Julia Child's memoir. Her companionship with her husband is so refreshing, so supportive. Besides giving me serious Gallic envy, I love that Paul Child is not only her husband but her great friend. How exciting to share adventures with your best friend!

Three Gifts

I just finished Terri Pratchett's Wyrd Sisters and besides the after effect of me talking in a terrible British accent for most of yesterday (my sister's description, not mine), I also concluded that Terri Pratchett grants great godmother wishes. "Three good witches are supposed to give the baby three gifts."

Instead of the usual fairy nonsense, they come up with three gifts I can't say I would regret receiving myself. The ability to make friends easily, a good memory and becoming exactly the person you think you are. Beat that, Perrault with your dumb beauty and gift of song! Okay, let's be honest, Walt Disney.

In fact their reasoning was so sound, I find it difficult to come up with three better. The baby didn't need good looks as his father would provide the genes for that. He didn't need wisdom as they would allow the opportunity for the boy to find it himself. Money isn't everything, they reasoned.

I suppose if there were three attributes that I would wish for myself (aside from the Terri Pratchett ones), I would like the ability to say exactly what I wanted to say, with the right tone, inflection, volume and intent as to be perfectly understood. I would like to know the right moments to be silent. And lastly, I would like to have perfect hand eye coordination (the last one would have saved me a lot of embarrassment my entire childhood and adolescence).

Just Kids

I finished Patti Smith's memoir, Just Kids, over the Christmas break. I find it helpful to read about courageous people in case bravery is contagious.

Pattie moved to New York when job prospects were bleak in her hometown and finishing her degree at a teacher's college was financially and emotionally discouraging. On her first night, she meets the man that will become her companion for a large part of her life in New York, Robert Mapplethorpe. As she tries to carve out her way through art, poetry and music, Robert's artistic path is intertwined.

Robert and Patti have the kind of intuitive relationship that I admire. Even when they realize limitations in their relationship, the love that they have for each other is never questioned. They support and protect each other, acquiesce when kindness is needed and provoke when needed more.

I never liked the idea that when two people fit so well together they have somehow become whole or complete, suggesting perhaps that alone they stand as only a part of a person. Robert and Patti are illustrated as two complete people that can stand alone in their accomplishments, cheering the other on with the knowledge that the success was always secretly assured. How do you fit that kind of a relationship in a neat little bow of metaphor or simile? How do you describe, especially when both moved on to other lovers, what that kind of love still is? Patti succeeds in her book. So happy to have read it.

Nevermore

Last Friday, I looked out the window into the dark expanse of nothing as the car carried me further out into the sticks. The husband and I went to visit friends we only ever see a few times a year.

I took this time to think of the letters I occasionally write to myself not to be opened until several years later. My reasons for doing this comes from the desire to pinpoint snapshots of time, but I invariably leave disappointed when the letters are finally opened. I suppose I find myself too unchanged.

The car ride provided its own lull of time and I wondered if I would fair better writing to my past self, being able to read letters of my future. But now that I've gone over the idea more thoroughly, I imagine it would come with the same disappointments of my past.

I just finished The Petting Zoo by Jim Carroll. Billy Wolfram, a celebrated painter, begins to question his identity when he attends an exhibit of Velasquez paintings. The reaction evolves into an emotional breakdown that has him communicating with ravens, checking into a mental facility and taking up pool. His memories scatter throughout the story and the conversations he has with his best friend, Denny, sound like conversations with himself.

Billy's success and the inheritance received from his late mentor have freed him from temporal constraints, but he is hopelessly mired in the emotional.

I think a way not to lose yourself is finding footholds that can keep you present. Keep you sane. The letters to myself didn't quite fulfill the kind of reflection I was hoping for.

The footholds need to be stronger, a measure of support that holds you together or that you can clasp like a talisman until it's safe again. I know even those might not be enough, but I'm hopeful I'll always find myself again when I get too lost.

Clear Eyes

I'm a poor judge of love. I should clarify, poor observer of love. Maybe it's the over-saturation of romantic comedies or television triangles and quadrangles preventing me from identifying genuine love out of the desires and passions of men.

I finished The End of the Affair by Graham Greene yesterday and I'm struggling to come to a conclusion about my regard for the three main characters. I'm not sure why it's important to know if the love Sarah had for Bendrix was real, but it feels important. Is it more than desire, more than the thrill? Can love be true if it makes you more miserable than happy?

My guess? The love that brings more sorrow than joy can be real, but it can't be sustained.

"What are we doing to each other?" Sarah writes in her journal. "Because I know that I am doing to him exactly what he is doing to me. We are sometimes so happy, and never in our lives have we known more unhappiness. It's as if we were working together on the same statue, cutting it out of each other's misery. But I don't even know the design."

My three year wedding anniversary is in exactly two weeks and I can't help but want to have my marriage fashioned after Eric and Tami Taylor from Friday Night Lights. I know teamwork, genuine admiration, and the mutual support of love is less sexy than overwrought declarations, escapades, and fisticuffs but the former feels more real. And the love that I have for my husband makes me want it to last.

Literary Pursuits

Next week, my book club has its annual potluck where we go around recommending new books for the following year. Last year, I recommended four books. The book that was selected out of the four was The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents by Terri Pratchett. One person besides myself actually liked the book when it came time for everyone to read.

I realized early on that the enjoyment of book club would sometimes consist of me disagreeing with everyone. Every month its a new round of excitement. There is something to be said about the pleasure that comes with being in absolute disagreement with someone, maybe a few someones, and still foster open communication and even lightheartedness.

This is a loud group, but so fun!

I'm changing it up this year and recommending books on my to-read list than old favorites. I think. I haven't quite pinned anything down. Either way, I know I will be taking on the following titles in some form in the new year.

Moonwalking with Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything by Joshua Foer
The Angel Esmeralda & Nine Stories by Don DeLillo
The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obrent

For those curious, yes, I poached all of these titles from Michiko Kakutani's Picks for 2011.

Longing to Stray

My mind has circled around Manhattan this year. Not only has a quarter of my reading material been set in New York, the shows I'm watching, the sites I go to, the movies, well, maybe less movies, but still, it's a whole lot of New York.

Next year will be my first trip to the Empire State (see how I totally avoided to call it The Big Apple) and I plan to eat too much food and avoid looking up at the skyscrapers that will surely overwhelm me.

I know it's probably too soon to even be posting this since my trip won't be until next fall, but vacation planning seems so preferable right now.

Also, Gossip Girl's fall finale was last night and so my focus is now solely on a to do list that I'd rather avoid.

I tried finding a clip of Carey Mulligan singing New York, New York in her new movie, Shame, but I could only find the trailer.

Still So Close

I just finished Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I have a soft spot for grieving stories. Sometimes I am like nine year old Oskar Schell where I give myself a bruise even when I know I shouldn't, maybe because I shouldn't. These aren't real bruises of course, just...whatever they are.

Oskar's dad passed away two years before the story begins. One of the greatest tragedies of death is the selfish realization that there is one less person in this world to love you. I confess, it's gotten me a little down. But since I am adamant in keeping with the general theme of this blog, I will highlight one of my favorite scenes of the book.

It starts:

“Once upon a time New York had a sixth borough.”

It ends:

“The children of New York lay on their backs, body to body, filling every inch of the park, as if it had been designed for them and that moment. The fireworks sprinkled down, dissolving in the air just before they reached the ground, and the children were pulled one millimeter and one second at a time, into Manhattan and adulthood. By the time the park found its current resting place, every single one of the children had fallen asleep, and the park was a mosaic of their dreams. Some hollered out, some smiled unconsciously, some were perfectly still.”

That's not true. It really ends with Oskar questioning the authenticity of the story and a shrug of his shoulders from Dad. It's nice to be reminded to hold onto moments of faith, not because what you believe in is logical or supported by empirical evidence. Sometimes the wonder is enough of a reason.

SLC Library

I am grateful for the Salt Lake County Library System. There was a period of time when I was a pretty voracious book buyer. I loved walking into the local Barnes & Noble or King's English bookstore, wandering through the stacks of shelves and finding a special book to add to my collection. After awhile I soon realized that actual reading wasn't keeping pace with actual buying and I decided to take a break. It also seemed like purchasing books made me less likely to read it once I came home.

In fact, one of my new year's resolutions is to read one unfinished book from my collection and though I have re-read several books of my own, this particular resolution remains unchecked. I have a lot of false starts with books and an annoying Proust narcolepsy.

The library swooped in and saved my pocketbook, but made accessible a lot of books that would have otherwise stayed on my shelf. The three week policy is a nice nudge to finish and if I need a gentler hand, I can usually renew and give myself an extension.

Even on new titles, the selection is pretty vast and the atmosphere soothing. My local library has changed a few times with my residency but I've been able to stay within the borders of the library system. This is also helpful with unfamiliar book club selections or third party book recommendations.

The best thing that the library has done for me is made me appreciate the books I now own and choose to own in the future. My to-buy list is much shorter, but more selective. One day I will actually read all of the books I own and add new ones that will have already become favorites. Win, win!

Shrug and Laugh

A friend of mine sent me links to Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster.

emotionalliteracyeducation.com

gutenberg.org

I was instantly charmed by Jerusha Abbott, an orphan plucked from her duties in an asylum into a fully funded college experience by a mysterious benefactor. The following excerpts are from letters she writes to him, having only seen his retreating back. She refers to him as Daddy Long Legs.

“It's the kind of character that I am going to develop. I am going to pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skilfully [sic] and fairly as I can. If I lose, I am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh--also if I win.”

“It isn't the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--I really think that requires SPIRIT.”

“The feeling often comes over me that I am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability I shan't turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. I may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work.”

“I know lots of girls...who never know that they are happy. They are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are deadened to it; but as for me--I am perfectly sure every moment of my life that I am happy. And I'm going to keep on being, no matter what unpleasant things turn up. I'm going to regard them (even toothaches) as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like.”

Wonderful!