onesweetnothing

umm....

2006-06-27T15:15:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm still alive.
I've been toying with the following possibilities:
-retiring from personal blogging
- just waiting until the riffraff forget about this blog, and then reappearing, POOF

No conclusions yet, but you'll notice that I've deleted 98% of my archives.

the weekends are harder

2006-04-09T11:04:00.000-07:00

Instead of going to a fun party last night, I stayed home and cried about Rain. I'm healing nicely overall, but the weekends are harder because I have time to reflect a little bit. And my apartment's hollowness without king fuzzy is more apparent when I have some time to spend here. The times I miss him most: waking up, coming home from work, and naps.
I've been so antisocial lately. Mostly it's about just being exhausted. After a full and harried work week, I've got homework. And what time I have left after that, I like to be by myself. Maybe read, maybe knit, maybe watch a movie. If there's any time left after the work, homework, and solitary requisites, I spend time with friends. It hasn't been much lately. I mostly only do it when there's live music involved.

And how are YOU?

I watched Minority Report on tv last night (while I alternated knitting and quietly crying). It's an interesting movie, but I had forgotten how much the product placements galled me. I'm so offended when product placement is really obvious, and the thought that in the future advertisements and retail stores could scan my eye and know everything about me, tailoring their billboards to me as I walk by, well that just freaks my shit right out.
Urban life already seems out of control and even dystopian for the likes of me. I hate the crowds, the ads, the noise. When I walk down the street at night in the (ironically named) Mission with the trash blowing in the street and the smell and the cars circling and circling for parking spaces, I oftentimes feel like I'm an extra in Blade Runner. And I like the Mission! You can imagine how I feel about the Tenderloin. Or North Beach/Marina where the trash blowing down the streets is replaced by fur coats or tourists. I'd better start saving my pennies now, so that by the time eye-scanned advertising comes about, or much sooner, I can afford to retire to a little cottage in New Mexico.

about

2006-04-05T20:41:00.000-07:00

* I'm watching my weight, trying to get back my girlish figure, and I'm actually being very good about it. I feel less bloated and less out-of-control, and it's only been a few (official) days.

* Henry and I enjoyed the sunshine today.

* Daryl and I are going to see Colin Hay on Easter, and I cannot wait. Also? KT Tunstall. Yeah baby. Daryl heard she was coming back and he was on it.

* Daryl and I went to see Feist during NoisePop, and she was fucking amazing. I also got to see Girlyman in March, and they were the cat's pajamas. I had such a blast.

* I've been reading a lot of children's books for school, and some of them are amazingly good. Criss Cross, for example, I would recommend to any adult who likes good literature.

* I had a nice birthday despite the month of grieving immediately beforehand.

* I went to a show at The Make Out Room, and I literally sold the shirt off my back to a stranger. (I had a see-through shirt on underneath though, so I had to put my jacket back on.)

* I took my first sailing lesson and it wasn't all that fun, but I imagine it will get better each time.

* I started to knit a pair of socks, but it was hard and not fun, so I ripped the stitches out hastily.

* I've seen some good DVDs lately. Buddy, Aberdeen, Goldfish Memories, Scotland PA (again), & You, Me and Everyone We Know. (actually, that last one was quite interesting, but it made me uncomfortable on several fronts.)

* I still like my job, and I really like most of my co-workers. (wow.)

* The cd mixes I made had both my dad and my brother in tears (in their respective homes). And they're really snotty about music. This is an unparalleled success. I can't wait to make more.

* Why do some people ask "why?" if you say you don't have a significant other? Why is coupledom considered the default? I want to say to these people: "Why are you in a relationship? You're not exactly a shining endorsement!" Ditto for the Procreation Fascists. They ask married, childless people "why don't you have kids?" Fuck that shit. That really bothers me. I can't fathom why deciding not to have kids, even if you're great with kids, is not just as understandable as wanting to procreate. Why on earth would one choice be "better" than the other?

* Hey looky at my new sidebar. You can see my ten most recent Pandora stations. Cool, eh? Check out 'Daring Females.' Pretty bad ass!

* I'm going to the dentist next week. For the first time in many years. Yikes! I didn't have insurance for a while there, and I even tried a free clinic and a low-fee clinic, but I just couldn't seem to get any care. I only have 1 cavity so far, but I bet I'll be diagnosed with number 2 next week. I bet you envy me, don't you.

* I still miss Rain a lot, but I don't cry over him all the time any more. Thank you to those of you who checked in on me now and again. Daryl and Kathy, mostly. It meant a lot to me. It was a very bad month. Thanks to everyone who showed any kind of support. (update: oops, I spoke too soon. I scrolled down and saw those precious photos of Rainy-butt and almost lost it again. he was so damn important to me.)

Transitory Nihilists can be a little flat.

2006-03-06T18:33:00.000-08:00

friend: You seem busy.
me: Yeah, I guess.
friend: Did you get my email?
me: Yeah, sorry. I had to kill my cat this weekend, so I've been in mourning.
friend. Aw! Did you drown him in the toilet?
me: WHAT? Oh, haha, yeah. Of course. I drowned him in the toilet.
friend:(tilts head sympathetically)
me: Ha ha, no. I mean I had to have him euthanized.
friend: (frowny face)
me: Wait... You were joking, right? You don't drown cats, right?
friend: Yeah we did, but just the kittens.
me: WHAT?
friend: It's the easiest way.
me: WHAT? Wait. Did you live on a farm or something??
friend: No, but my mom kept her bong on the coffee table.
me: Huh. I cannot believe you drowned kittens as a child.
friend: Well, only if they were born deformed or something.
me: Ah, I see. But still. That sounds really hard.
friend: Yes.
me: Well, so I didn't kill my cat. I watched while the vet did.
friend: I'm sorry.
me: Thanks.

The posting of this conversation was meant to be interesting or funny or bizarre, but now it just seems flat. It has third act problems. Forgive me. I've become a Transitory Nihilist*, and nihilists aren't necessarily known for their pithy blog posts.

*nihilism
Etymology: German 'Nihilismus,' from Latin 'nihil,' nothing.
a : a viewpoint that traditional values and beliefs are unfounded and that existence is senseless and useless
b : a doctrine that denies any objective ground of truth and especially of moral truths

In the end everything is okay. If it's not okay, it's not the end yet.

2006-03-05T12:30:00.000-08:00

Right?

Also, I take back that list of things I said I wouldn't miss about Rain. I would give anything to have him back; I would put up with any number of foul behaviors. I'm having to restrain myself from driving up to the vet's and banging on the door and howling, "Give me back my friend! You shot my friend in the heart with a syringe full of death you evil man, and I want you to give him back now!"

things to look forward to?

2006-03-03T22:25:00.000-08:00

In twelve hours Rain will be gone from the world. I can't quite fathom it. Maybe I'll tell myself that he's going off to a nice farm, that he'll get to run around outside and climb trees again. And shit in the dirt. He loved relieving himself outside, back in the days when we had a yard.

Here are some things I won't really miss about Rain:

- I get to vacuum again. I haven't vacuumed since he got sick, since he's so scared of the vacuum cleaner. I wanted him to have a peaceful convalescence.

- As great as it was to cuddle with him every night, I'll probably sleep better now that he's not fucking around in bed all the time.

- Plus, all the kneading. I've never been a fan of the kneading.

- Okay, I'll tell it straight. He could be little bastard when he wanted to. If he was pissed at me, usually because he wanted extra food, he would go beat up Henry to get his frustration out.

- He always wanted to be on my lap. It's very sweet, goshdarnit. But I have to work, and I have to do homework. So it was not always do-able to have him in my lap, squeezed between my belly and my laptop.

- He loved plastic grocery bags. I mean he really loved them. He liked lying on them, he liked playing with them. So I left them lying around on the floor, so he could enjoy them any time he wanted. But people, it looks ugly. Even just having one empty plastic bag layin' around on your floor makes you look a little bag-lady.

- He really ran this household. He bossed me and Henry around a lot. We're ready for a new Alpha Cat.

- He's not afraid of fire, so I have to have candles up really high. Otherwise he literally lights himself on fire.

- He's a glutton. Once he couldn't go outside any more and didn't get as much exercise, I had to be very careful about portion control. He got very expensive atkins-esque cat food, and it got measured, and they got fed at 7 pm. If I lost track of time, they let me know. Now that gluttony fattypants is leavin', I think we can go back to a more chill cat food lifestyle.

- During law school, he figured out that books and papers, and especially the little tags that marked up my textbooks, were the most important things to me. (Maybe even more important than (gasp) him!) And all those paper products were fairly easy to destroy, isn't that handy? He was pissy when I was in law school. He wanted more of my attention. (He has always been very affectionate cat. Which is nice until you don't have quite as much time to devote to the fuzz. Then the wrath of god rains down on you as your cat turns into a needy, bitchy stereotype.) During law school he didn't think he got enough of my time, so he took it out on my textbooks. Seriously. He saw how quickly he got my attention when he bit and tore my papers, so he kept on. He even learned to pull my carefully placed tags out of my textbooks, which was the most serious of offenses, so far as I could tell.

- Landlords are prejudiced against two-cat-families. Not that I plan on moving any time soon.

- He was the primary scratcher of the furniture. It's partly my fault. I had a couch for many years that was left behind by the man who worst broke my heart. I was totally fine with Rain scratching the shit out of that thing. Unfortunately, as I suspected, this behavior is not particularly unlearnable. Later furniture suffered.

- Less litter box duty. Half, in fact.

- 88% fewer vomit clean-ups as well.

- Since I won't have my surrogate significant other anymore, and I'll be more lonely and less cuddled....maybe I'll be more reachy-outy towards my many (neglected?) friends and new possible loves?

he dies tomorrow.

2006-03-03T16:51:00.000-08:00

I have to take Rain to be euthanized tomorrow. My mom's been gracious enough to say she'll drive me there.
Rain's greeted me at the front door joyously every time I've come home for the last 9 years. I'm not sure how it will be a "home" without that.

...and the world keeps turning....

2006-03-02T23:35:00.000-08:00

terminal

2006-02-27T23:23:00.000-08:00

It's official. He's been diagnosed with cancer. He maybe has a few weeks to live. The hope is that he can spend most of that time fairly comfortable. I'm swinging between being rippingly devastated and somewhat pragmatic about it. Boy, is he gonna have a sweet kitty life until he dies. Chicken livers, anyone? (Or whatever is the bestest, most gourmet cat treat.) No more dieting for The Big Rain Man.

better days

2006-02-27T12:25:00.000-08:00

suck

2006-02-27T00:57:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: Rain's in the hospital, and we're waiting to see what's what. The vet wouldn't look me in the eye when he sent me home to wait. I took that to be kind of a bad sign. Meanwhile I'm working from home, and my auxiliary cat is being super-sweet and lovey. He's not used to being the only child.
************************************************************************

You know what's excruciating?
Watching your best (feline) friend's health falter to the point that it seems clear that his death is imminent. Today I watched him stand up and then do a violent face plant because his legs wouldn't hold him. He's only nine years old. I laid down on the floor with him and cried.
Last night I was sleeping with him in my arms, and I kept jolting awake because it felt like he wasn't breathing. There may be experiences more disconcerting than feeling like the creature you're cuddling is dying in your arms, but at the moment I can't imagine what they are.
Despite the fact that I got to hear some good music and see my buddy Daryl, it's been a pretty shitty weekend. And of course Rain's dramatic loss of faculties is timed perfectly; I have a paper due for grad school and lots of work to do for my job. Life sucks. And the one who would normally be a comfort to me, Rain, has devolved into a vegetable. Fuck.

work

2006-02-23T19:39:00.000-08:00

words on pages

2006-02-20T22:45:00.000-08:00

The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls.
This memoir was really good, one of the best books I've read in a while. Right up there with The Time Traveler's Wife as the best books of the last year or more. It was definitely not a breezy read, though. During the first chapter or so I was psyched to read about a childhood that was actually more troubling than my own. I would read a section and go: WOW, that's quite troubling! And much worse than what I went through! That feeling fell away as I came to recognize some striking similarities between the author's family and my own. It's a fascinating read, and marvelously written. Go Ms. Walls, go.

the wobble that changed everything

2006-02-15T19:35:00.000-08:00

This morning we had a kitty health reality check, which was a real bummer. As I was getting ready for work, I noticed that Rain (my significant other) had a funny look on his face. I watched him for a sec while I sipped my protein shake, and he vomited. Not too strange... but then he wobbled. A serious wobble. He staggered left, he staggered right. His facial expression was priceless; he looked like the stereotypical drunk guy in a saloon. He fell over gracelessly onto his side, and then with dilating pupils, looked up at me like, what the fuck is happening to me? I had a similar look on my face, and I thought (dramatically) ohhhh....everything is changing...right at this moment.

When he got up to try to walk it off, his hind legs wouldn't work. I thought maybe he had had a stroke or a seizure. This is definitely the weirdest/sickest I've ever seen him. He's a hearty guy. I got on the horn to our vet, who said that they were booked. She asked for his symptoms, after which she urged me to bring him in immediately. That urgency didn't do anything to calm my nerves. All the way to the vet's I talked to him, trying to calm him and soothe him. I postulated aloud that this was all just a bad case of dehydration, and that we'd laugh at my urgency later.

It wasn't dehydration. The vet thinks it was a seizure, and I await his call to tell me what the blood tests may or may not have told him about the cause. I can't tell if Rain's still wobbly or not because now every move his hind legs make seems strange to me, but he's in good spirits. He's sharing my lap with my laptop right now, as he usually does. He's got his kitty valium/anti-seizure meds, and he's got his concerned kittymomma at his beck and call. I'm so glad that I'm working full-time now, because when the vet hands you an expensive bill, you don't wanna be thinking about how many weeks of groceries are sprinting out of your wallet. You wanna be thinking: Bring it. Bring the hundred-dollar blood tests. Fix my baby, because money truly means nothing.

I really don't feel like I can live without him, and it felt like I might lose him this morning. Say what you will; I know cat ladies aren't revered in our culture. Especially single, childless cat ladies. But I am one, and I want my baby to be healthy and happy. Just yesterday I told him and his little nephew/boyfriend that coming home to them is the best part of my day. Every day.
That was such a weird feeling this morning, that feeling you get when someone you love is sick/unconscious and their body is failing them. They go blank for a bit, their "spirit" isn't there, and you remember with a jolt that they're just a collection of cells. That body that contains everything that you hold dear is just meat.

Which reminds me of a funny dead-cat story.
When I was 25 my best (feline) friend died. I had been with her since I was ten. She had seen me through things I literally never thought I would live through. I was, needless to say, distraught. I stayed home from work, I cried for days. She died in my arms at the vet's (on valentine's day, no less), and I couldn't afford the burial process 'til my next paycheck, so the vet, who I was loving more every minute, said she'd let me store my cat in the freezer. With her dog. Her dog had just died too, and she had to put him on ice until she could take him out and bury him. These are the weird little details of life. You can't usually bury your loved ones immediately after they die, so you have to fucking refrigerate their precious bodies until you have a plot and a shovel (and/or the cash). In the end I took my kitty in a Playmate cooler and buried her in the New Mexico mountains, with the best view I've ever seen.

But a couple days after she died my brother paid me a visit to see how I was doing. I was pretty flat, and when I mentioned offhandedly that my cat was being stored in the freezer, he blanched. I, being under the weather, didn't notice his shock. My brother thought I meant that I was keeping my cat in my own personal freezer. Like, next to the frozen peas and the orange juice canisters. I've always been of very sound emotional health and quite together in the face of trauma, and my poor bro thought that I had finally lost it. Cashed in my chips and put that pet I couldn't say farewell to right in the freezer, safe and sound. You can imagine how relieved he looked after he politely inquired further and found out that she was in an industrial vet freezer, meant for just this kind of storage.

Dr. Lu recommends...

2005-12-18T02:10:00.000-08:00

Take a few days off:
- experiment with non-bathing and grocery shopping in your pajamas.
- shop at IKEA while ev'rybody else is at their jobs.
- cuddle with your pets.
- enjoy the sound of the rain and the look of the leaves.
- rediscover how much you love Colin Hay.
- start lifting weights again. and stretching.
- give yourself a facial.
- wear a bra as little as possible.
- rearrange, reorganize, & straight-up throw some shit out.
- reacquaint yourself with your friends.
- reacquaint yourself with your cds and your bookshelves.
- make something with your hands.
- dance. in your apartment, on the street and in the grocery store.
- drink a ridiculous amount of hot cocoa.
- read short stories.
- have a tea party.
- go to a museum.
- take a three-hour nap. get up for a bit, then sleep for another 12 hours.
- remember what's enjoyable about this silly little life.
- go to the beach.
- sit by a fire. stare into it.

| pirates & genres |

2005-11-19T23:21:00.000-08:00

Did you know there was such a music genre as pirate rock? Me neither!
Check out Pirate Jenny; totally great songs!
I haven't figured out what it has to do with piracy yet, but the music is rad. I like the look of the singer too. She looks like a good friend.

Genres I had never heard of 'til Pandora:
Japanese ska
German hip-hop
Video game music covers
Christian hip-hop
Dutch Goth-rock
Space music
Gypsy jazz
Dutch reggae
Norwegian prog metal
Dutch grunge
Mongolian jazz (?!)
Doom Metal
(I'd heard of Death Metal, but apparently this is different? and where does "Black Metal" fit in there?)

The number of types of electronica that people refer to is out of control. I think they're just making it up at this point.

in the Land of Goof

2005-11-14T21:09:00.000-08:00

taken by jayallen, one of my lovely platonic compadres in the Land of Goof.

Madonna does not deserve our contempt.

2005-11-03T21:26:00.000-08:00

There's an invitation to the first Pandora.com Meet-up on their blog. I think it's a super-excellent idea, and I hope I can make it.
The previous entry on their blog is a post by the founder of Pandora. I really respect Tim's way of thinking, and this post is a great example of it.

My brother and my dad are horribly snobby about music (I had to be in the closet about liking pop music growing up, so as not to be persecuted). I wish I had had Tim's presence of mind during arguments about the "intellectual quality" of music. What comes into my head during these "discussions" is retorts like "fuck you, shut up." That doesn't work quite as well as a well-thought-out treatise.

My brother and I regularly argue about the importance (or lack thereof) of Madonna. Seriously, it comes up semi-regularly. I don't enjoy arguing. I don't even really like Madonna. I do like some of her music; it's fun. And I don't think that she can be discounted as an artist because she's not serious enough or existential enough or non-sell-out enough. My dad and brother are perfectly willing to say her name with utter contempt, as though it's a swear word. I may be wrong, but I think there may even a little misogyny within that contempt. If she were a man who intellectual snobs considered a sell-out, I don't think she would illicit quite the contempt that she does as a woman.

My brother outed me to my parents as someone who enjoyed listening to Madonna in high school. We were at brunch, of all things. (we never ate out, but when we did, there had to be a fight, I guess.) I was minding my own business and he totally piped up, "Well, she likes Madonna!"
[A-Ha! Silence! Stunned stares! The Family has been disgraced! She was raised to have a discriminating mind, a subtle ear! She has forsaken us!]
Indeed, I got in trouble. I got quite a speech. About why Madonna did not deserve my attention, blah blah blah. I was old enough to know better than to discuss. I just waited 'til they were done and nodded when my mom asked "Do you understand?" My parents claim not to remember this particular mental beat-down, but my brother remembers. He's still, to this day, personally insulted by the fact that I do not feel repulsed by Madonna.
Whatever.

I think that's partly why I'm totally out of the closet about liking pop music as an adult. I like a lot of different kinds of music. I have excellent taste, and I was educated strenuously about music, from before I could read. I took music lessons my whole life, and went to a conservatory of music during high school and college. I refuse to follow the prescribed rules about what's "smart" music and what's "dumb." Bullshit. People who claim to think for themselves really should try it; wouldn't each person come up with his or her own opinion if people were actually thinking for themselves?

I read a quote from Janeane Garofalo last year about how people who listened to pop music couldn't be politically progressive. I guess she thought that "alternative," "serious-minded" music led people to question the dominant paradigm, but pop music, happy music, music with simplistic and (gasp) melodious lyrics couldn't possibly lead people to revolt. I can see where she was coming from, but her reasoning is kind of faulty. She's assuming that people who listen to popular music don't go to school or read, or talk to friends or watch documentaries, or engage with any other form of culture that could lead us to want to revolt. Or god forbid, come up with the ideas on our own, think for ourselves!

Sure, some people who listen to, whatever, Britney Spears, may not think particularly critically about the world around them. But it's a dangerous stereotype to assign that simplistic way of thinking to anyone who enjoys a Britney song. Who knows what anti-Bush activists listen to on the radio? I bet Garofalo's personal taste is in the minority there. I know some kick-ass activists who Get Shit Done and devote time and money to Important Radical Causes, and their choices of what kinds of art, music, movies, and books they engage with don't reflect their political beliefs every minute. It is called "entertainment" after all, and we are allowed to be ass-kicking citizens and still enjoy some non-political culture in between our WTO protests.

If we are going to assume stereotypes are true, are people who only listen to non-establishment music doing everything they can to change the world? Or do they just talk about it while they get stoned?
I have respect for brainy Janeane Garofalo. But you don't have to be a snarky cynical meanie to be an effective radical. Who's being simplistic here, really?

*****************************************
UPDATE!

Kevin left a comment that was so on that I'm posting it right here so no one misses it:
way to bring the point. i wish this topic were discussed more.

i believe that radicalism in the '60s was fueled by the Beatles as much as it was by Bob Dylan. and you can't get much more melodic or accessible than the Beatles.

i can't stand it when people dismiss melodic pop as simplistic. does anyone realize how freaking difficult it is to write a good melody?!?

i contend that "Hit Me Baby One More Time," as offensive as Britney Spears may be, is one of the best songs of the '90s.

kevmo

The Time Traveler's Wife

2005-10-27T19:59:00.000-07:00

Dudes. This is a very good book. You gotta read it. Things have been kinda shitty for me lately, but this book has been a great world to lose myself in. It's one of those books that wrecks you a little when it comes to an end.

Brian's patented Film Prescription for Deprogramming

2005-10-02T13:45:00.000-07:00

The Power of Nightmares: The Rise of the Politics of Fear

The Century of the Self

Manufacturing Consent: Noam Chomsky and the Media

the lu index

2005-08-19T18:04:00.000-07:00

During the Past Week:
number of days spent in school the entire day: 4
number of hours spent commuting: 11
number of times I wished I weren't in grad school: 0
number of candy bars eaten: [information suppressed]
number of times I daydreamed about the one day I get to sleep in: 51
number of nights of great live music: 1
number of people I consciously flirted with: 0
number of people I wished I had flirted with: 3
number of times told that my cholesterol is too high and something must be done: 2
number of times I wished I were thinner: 5
number of times I started to knit: 5
number of times I knit for longer than 3 minutes: 1

number of times I cried because the music I was listening to was so gorgeous: 3
number of times I laughed so hard I spit: 3
number of times I masturbated: [information suppressed]
number of times I brushed my teeth: 7
number of times I shaved my legs: 0
number of times I planned to shave my legs: 6
number of boiled eggs eaten this week: 5
number of times tuna was eaten straight out of a can: 4
number of times soup was eaten straight out of a can: 1
number of protein shakes consumed: 5
number of times I wished I'd had my camera with me: 3

number of times I felt guilty about not having called my brother on his birthday: 4
number of times I reminded myself that he missed my birthday too: 3
number of times I was grateful to live where I live: 13
number of times I was resentful that I live where I live: 2
number of times I felt grateful just to be alive: 2
number of times I wished I'd never been born: 0
number of times surprised by my own positive attitude: 3
number of hot-damn-lucky parking spots found: five (hail mary full of grace...)
number of times felt grateful for those parking spots: 37

number of times Daryl bought me a beer because he was embarrassed for me re: what I was drinking: 1
number of to-do lists written: 6
rate of completion of to-do lists: 65%
number of times spent thinking about race relations: 11
number of conversations about gay marriage: 3
number of dollars spent on toll bridges: $9
number of dollars spent on yummy burritos: $5
number of exceedingly graphic, yet casual, conversations about sex: 1
number of times shocked at how conversationally forthcoming women are with friends: 3

number of naps taken: 1
number of times laundry done: 0
number of times I buried my face in my cats' fur: 8
number of times I put my ear to a cat's belly to hear how loud the purring is: 2
number of days I put off calling Comcast because talking to them on the phone is slow torture: 7
average number of hours of sleep per night: 7.5
number of hours of sleep wished for per night: 8.5

handmade goodies

2005-08-15T18:30:00.000-07:00

I made this lovely (if I don't say so myself) choker last Wednesday after work.

I also started this gooorgeous autumnal scarf. Another long skinny scarf. Made from Taos yarn, which is made from Taos sheep's wool and Taos indigo plant dye.* I'm calling it my transitions scarf. (New apartment, new job, new semester, new season....new scarf!)

Previously, it was just some yarn I had to put in a ball.

Even more previously, it was a skein in the Taos yarn shop.

*The yarn did not come from blue sheep, but here's a picture for you anyway.

music discovery

2005-08-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned how much I love Pandora.com?
Oh, I have? Well forgive me: you are going to hear a lot more about it over the next many weeks. Music is the main reason for me to still be alive. Pandora has given me a shot in the arm.
Pandora has already become part of the vernacular of my friend-group. As in: "Ooo, this group is good. I'm gonna give their name to Pandora and see what she does with it." Daryl is already going to a show on Sunday featuring a woman he discovered through my Pandora radio station, Radio Lu. Even supreme skeptic Lulu has already bought a new CD because of Pandora's influence.

I went to this amazing show last night at The Independent. Griddle opened, my lovely Griddle. Then Kehoe Nation, which was just...amazing. Two drum sets, a stand-up bass, a virtuosic barry sax/clarinet player, and the singer/guitarist. The singer is a short Harley-lookin' dude with a ZZ Top beard who has an astounding voice. He went from an operatic (I shit you not: it was opera) tune to an Alice in Chains cover. Anyone who can veer from opera to Alice in Chains and light fires in the audience like that is a god. Both songs featured a guest accordionist who looked like Roberto Benigni. This group had the crowd in the palms of their hands. I don't know how to describe it; I was laughing and jumping and ecstatic.

At any rate, I met some of the Pandora guys. And you know what? They're not just talented, hard-working, sweet and music devotees. They are also hot. Of course, how can you be talented, hard-working, sweet and devoted to music without being hot?

the new mexico recap

2005-08-05T17:33:00.000-07:00

I put a bunch of New Mexico pics up, for those who haven't perused them yet.

I've lost some steam, and isn't that the way of vacations. I had such an amazing time that my boss said she had never seen me happier when I came to work 12 hours after getting home. And now my "real" life has come crashing in on the party. Dr. appointments, work, training, school b.s., financial aid snafus extraordinaire, and the occasional cut and scrape just for fun.

So! Where were we? I told you about my fun Friday night in Albuquerque.

Here's the sniff test being administered to the skunked dog after the bath.

Saturday found Kathy and me on a road trip through Northern New Mexico.

We stopped in Chimayo, one of my favorite places, for the Santuario/shrinage/famous healing dirt.

The Holy Water is labeled, but it's always good to add a note requesting that people not drink it.

Then, on to Taos. We were hoping for a little cooler weather; it's usually cooler in Taos and Santa Fe than it is in Albuquerque. It was 96 degrees in Taos. Oh, well.

We toured the grounds of a fantastic, and fantastically expensive, Taos hotel/resort called El Monte Sagrado. This solar "plant" was on their grounds, and I couldn't get enough. It's a statue, it's solar power, it's both! I love practical art, man.

We had to take a pic of me with the Taos Plaza bear. The very first weekend I lived in New Mexico, a similar shot was taken of me with the bear. Back then he wore an apron. Now he's in low-rise jeans, so I took the opportunity to pretend to grope him. You readers know, of course, that I'm too gentile to make out with bears. In public.

Back in Albuquerque, no New Mexican vacation is complete without a walk on the ditches, or acequias, the old-style irrigation in the North Valley of Albuquerque.

view facing West, view facing East with the Sandia mountains [sigh]

Speaking of the Sandias, here's Paul in his side yard. Damn.

Rico took me out to lunch.

This was my home base, at Kathy's house. Thanks to Kathy for her lovely hospitality. I'm glad I went, I'm glad I'm home. Namaste, kumbaya, it's all good.

book review

2005-07-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

Bookmark Now: Writing in Unreaderly Times
edited by Kevin Smokler

My first thought when I had this book in my hands was: I never got the memo. Are we experiencing unreaderly times? I hadn't really noticed. I'm bookish, you see. Raised by the bookish, employed by the bookish, in school with the bookish.

Yes I'm aware of the next generation's addiction to teevee and the internet. But I see the side lots of people don't; library use has not flagged. People are reading for pleasure, children are reading, parents are reading to children. People are foaming at the mouth to get their hands on popular fiction. Aside from libraries, think of how much crazy money Amazon and B&N and Borders are making every day.

There's so much good and great fiction out there--and there's more of it than ever before. I don't have the statistics in hand right this minute, but it's staggering how many books are published each year. And there's exponential growth there. (creating even more information overload, which is another topic for another day.)

Another factor that leads me to think that these times are completely "readerly" is the fact that I live in the Bay Area. You can't shake a stick here without hitting a writer. Writers are rock stars here. Hush, hush! Don't disturb the delicate genius of the chosen ones, the writers. And if we are, or soon will be, in unreaderly times, won't writers be even more like rock stars? Considered rebellious and hip in a retro kind of way? If books and bookishness become more counter-culture, they get more cool points, more punk rock points. And what of the current tidal wave of poetry slams and quality graphic novels and cartoon art?

In library school we discuss ad nauseum the idea of books becoming obsolete, the thought that computers may take over. But let's not forget what excellent technology books are. They still are readable even after you drop them, spill on them, send them in the mail, and de-magnetize them. The same copy of a book can be good for decades, even sometimes centuries. No new technology is needed for future generations to read our current books, so long as they can still read our language. Not so with computers, of course. After the revolution/nuclear war/anti-book dictatorship comes about, we will be damn glad we didn't do away with the physical book.

A book can be passed from hand to hand, a personal revolution making its rounds until it has touched many lives. Picture this: you buy a book, or you pick it up at the gym, or whatever. You love it. You lend it to your dad. He loves it. You have to move, so you give it away or sell it at a garage sale. I pick it up and donate it to the Prisoner's Literature Project. It's mailed to someone, usually a man, in an American prison. Maybe he is innocent. Maybe he is guilty. Maybe he is a murderer/abuser/cheater/liar. Maybe he is not allowed to use the prison library, if there is one.

So this is the only book he can get his hands on. He likes it, he struggles with it, it is his friend, it is his teacher, it is his enemy. He passes the book on. He changes. Malcolm X and many other leaders and non-leaders were changed by books. Sometimes people are changed in prison, sometimes in college, sometimes on vacation, sometimes in a harmless-seeming book club. And I'm not just referring to Malcolm-level change here either. Sometimes we're changed by one phrase in an otherwise ridiculous book; sometimes we just feel like we're understood, we're not alone, and that feeling changes us.

**************************

Whoa, I got a little off track. Books are good, books are powerful. Back on track.
Bookmark Now!
I enjoyed this book. It's composed of many essays by contemporary writers about how and why they write. This book will be excellent reading specifically for writers and wannabe writers and those who are in, have been in, or will be in a literature grad program. Anyone who's interested in books and how and why they get written will be intrigued. As the writers and writing styles are all quite different, there's certainly something here for everyone. In the introduction Smokler wonders why these writers chose a literary life when (he says) so many more lucrative options abound. My feeling, after reading most of the essays, was: they didn't. Mostly, writing chose them.

I've always loved books about writing. Who knows why? My parents had "If You Want To Write" around while I was growing up, and I dug Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down The Bones," etc. But I've never been interested for longer than a week at a time in being a published author. Reading is more rewarding than writing, for me. So there's not really any need for me to read authors' books on their craft. But here are people who have a wonderful way with words, talking about how they work with the words. I like that. I like the stories they tell, I like the words they use, and I like the demystification of the writing process. Also, some authors' how-to-write books are more authentic and passionate than their other books. They happen to be good at talking about what they do, I guess.

This book is like sitting at a writers' salon or even a writers' support group, listening to them talk about how and why they do what they do. It's about how they write, how they interact with readers (and how much this has changed in the era of email, google, web sites and blogs), why they write, and why books are still important. There's very funny pieces, touching pieces, thoughtful pieces, and illuminating pieces. In my notes about the first piece, by Christian Bauman, I called his writing "bittersweet" and "sinewy."
So there you have it. Neal Pollack's piece is very funny. Same for Glen David Gold.

There's a lovely co-written piece by Nicola Griffith and Kelley Eskridge, a couple, and both professional writers. Here's a quote from Griffith:
"I think of the text of a novel as a blueprint and the novelist as architect and builder. I might specify where the walls and windows go, the height of the ceilings; I'll decide on the elevation and orientation, but the readers provide their own experience and tastes and furniture. They paint the walls and move the doors and put in light fixtures, add the hideous horsehair sofa and hang wishy-washy watercolors over the fireplace. One person moves into my text and turns it into a chintzy cottage; for another it becomes a minimalist temple. Every reader inhabits a different novel." (pg. 89)

This is a good book, people. And lots of big-time newspaper reviewers agree with me. Check it out.

Bookmark Now: Writing in Unreaderly Times
edited by Kevin Smokler

A handful of songs that have deeply influenced my life

2005-06-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

1. "Night Train" by Oscar Peterson

My Dad was a pianist. Not by trade, though he regretted this at times. He was also an asshole. (was. he's changed.) But once a year he would be in a good enough mood, with just the right amount of imported beer in him, and he would play the piano just for fun. And we all sat stock still when we heard him sit down at the piano. We knew all was peaceful for the next 30 minutes. If no-one interrupted him that is. His favorite song to play was the jazz tune "Night Train," a la Oscar P. To this day, this song has supernatural powers over me.

2. "Amazing Grace" by John Newton

This song also has supernatural powers over me too, but for no specific reason. Except, of course, that it's so goddamn beautiful. I only learned within the last couple of years that it was written by a white slave trader, about slavery. He composed it after he stopped trading, and after becoming a Christian minister. Later, he spoke out against slavery.

I've always loved the song, but when I was living in Minneapolis, when I was 21, I formed a particularly special bond with the song. On Wednesdays, after driving a school bus all day, I used to walk over a huge bridge over the Mississippi River to the West Bank to hear an amazing band called "Fat Lip." My best friend and I had discovered the band because the lead singer was an amazing karaoke singer, so good that we stalked him a little. He used to sing Joe Cocker songs and pretend he was bombed, staggering and falling over while he sang.

So he and his band would play every Wednesday, and Tim and I attended religiously. Seriously, it was like church. Except that we would eat popcorn and smoke and get drunk. They are still one of the best bands I've ever heard, and they weren't well-known. They did a lot of original songs as well as some inspired covers. Pinball Wizard and Amazing Grace, for example.

They normally liked to save Amazing Grace until the very end of the 3rd set, on account of its intensity and all. But I would always beg them to play it earlier. I had to leave before last call because I had to get up at 5 AM to drive my bus. So they would play it in the middle of the 2nd set, and they would dedicate it "to the bus driver, so that she can go home and get some sleep and not plow into a building tomorrow, asleep at the wheel." And Tim and I would cry, because their rendition of Amazing Grace was the closest we ever got to god.

3. Mozart's Requiem Mass

No long story. Just a very very moving piece of music. One that I would like played at my funeral. Fully scored, of course.

4. "Let It Be" by Paul McCartney

Ditto. Very moving. Play it at my funeral. Maybe have a woman sing it though. Sheryl Crow, perhaps. Or Sarah MacLachlan.

5. Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata"

God, I love this piece. Note to future suitors: play this for me (or a little Chopin will do) and I'm half in the bag. Or: someone should play it live at my funeral. What the hell.

Actually, fuck that. I want to hear it too! Hmmm.....I'm going to have to hire someone to put on a concert for me before I die.

6. No Doubt's "Tragic Kingdom" album

In April of 1996 I was emotionally thrashed. The most betrayed and ruined I've ever felt as an adult. I already liked the No Doubt songs I'd heard on the radio, and one day I said to a co-worker, "I'm going to go buy this CD tonight, and it's going to change my life. Everything will be different and better tomorrow." I was shocked at how true it was. That CD was some kind of life raft for me.

7. Mozart's Concerto in A for Clarinet

I played this as a kid, and won a few contests and auditions with it. I loved it. I never was into the actual sound of the clarinet, which was a real shame because I was so good at playing the damn thing. The thing that I've been best at in my life so far was playing the clarinet. I didn't have to practice, but I kept getting better. I couldn't lose, and the accolades, yow. What's not to like? And this piece could make even the clarinet sound beautiful. Some parts of the piece are really fucking hard, but I got good at them and even came to look forward to those parts in the score.

I spent my twenties trying to learn to be mediocre and be ok with it. I was through with overachieverness and having to win all the time. When I hear classical music that I played as a kid it freaks me out. None of my current friends know about that part of my life, and I feel a little undone when I hear those pieces, like that youthful performer is going to burst out of me and insist on winning again. It's a beautiful piece, this concerto. Especially the Adagio. I made a judge tear up once, when I played the Adagio. And then when I was 16 or 17, with my brother accompanying me on the piano, I won second place only, playing the concerto. So I retired it.

My personal demons about being a musical performer are so intense that I can't/won't play at all as an adult. I dropped out of the conservatory of music I was attending at age 19 and never really played much after that. I finally sold my clarinet when I was 27 because it was just gathering dust and making me feel bad. I cried when I handed it over to its new owner, a cute band director, and it was absolutely the right decision.

Uf, this got a little meloDRAMATIC. Youch.
Well. Music is a huge part of my heart and soul, and its roots run deep.

Lisa Marie Presley

2005-03-29T17:19:00.000-08:00

I think Lisa Marie Presley is the greatest. I just heard yesterday that she has a new album coming out and I can't wait to get it. I'm glad to see that this one's getting some buzz. Her first album, like 2 years ago, was amazing. I was shocked to never hear it on the radio, never see it advertised, nothing. It was/is an excellent disc. I was always telling everyone how great it was, but it was like I was the only person who had heard of it. I heard about the cd because I read an interview with her in Rolling Stone at the time, and really liked how she came off. The interviewer was clearly surprised at how good the album was. I guess people think she's riding on Elvis' coattails or something. But it's absolutely not true.

She's really talented in her own right. She has a ridiculously great voice, and I like her lyrics and choices in collaborators. She looks like her dad to a shocking degree when she sings, with the eyebrow-raise and the lip-curl and the half-closed eyes. And some of her lyrics are fascinating, in light of her having lived in Graceland and all that. Her mom wanted her to go to school in France and be all schmancy, but she's super down-to-earth and rebellious. She reminds me of a cool (but not too cool), smart bartender at the local dive or something. She's got a real blue collar feel to her, and she's this nice mix of sweet and hard-ass. She's got, as they say, a great head on her shoulders. And she can swear, oo mama can she swear. I love a good cusser.

Lisa Marie Presley with her mom and daughter.

Cheers to more excellent music out in the world. It was really brave of her to start a music career, what with being King Elvis' progeny and all. The critics dream about thrashing those kinds of dreams. I'm glad that she's making a go of it. The world needs more women like her, loud-mouthed and talented and brutally honest. And willing to make (huge!) mistakes and just keep walking through it with her head up like: fuck you, I'm exactly who I wanna be; I dare you to be exactly who you wanna be too.

blogging, pros and cons

2005-02-22T22:54:00.000-08:00

Pros:
*It's much more personally rewarding than I thought it would be.
*It's fun and helpful to look back at old posts, just like reading what you wrote in your journal last month.
*It's a great way to keep in touch with old and far-flung friends without filling their inbox with what-I'm-up-to spam.
*It makes me keep track of what's up in my head (and my heart, cheesily), and it makes me write something regularly, which is great.
*For those of us who have a lot to say but tend to isolate ourselves, it's a great way to feel connected to the rest of the world.
*It's a mini soapbox to talk about the great things and sucky things in one's day-to-day life.

Cons:
*Paranoia, baby! The more people that read, the more I wonder who they are. Someone visited my site today from the conservative town I was born in, and I'm sweating that it was a (conservative) relative. Then I read some old posts and went: oh well, I'm pretty open and talkative in real life, so they already know most of this stuff about me, or at least suspect it. I'm pretty what-you-see-is-what-you-get, so it's not like I'm unleashing a secret life here on the web. (though: why do you suppose I don't use my name?)
*You have to think about all of these people potentially reading your posts (which can affect how and what you post): landlords, employers, family, classmates, strangers, hipsters, potential dates, potential stalkers, and exes. That's intense!
*To some extent there's pressure to write interesting things. And since you guys have expressed a desire to read about the filth in my life, while the aforementioned people may be reading or finding my blog any day....well, it's a tricky balance.
*So dear readers, remember: this is only a snapshot of my life and it's been photoshopped a little! You only know what's really going on, especially the filthy, lurid and controversial details, via personal communication.

-book review-

2004-12-13T01:46:00.000-08:00

This is a stop on your Virtual Book Tour. Your tour travel agent is Kevin Smokler.

Devil in the Details: Scenes from an Obsessive Girlhood
by Jennifer Traig

Short review:
People. This is a very good book. Charming, enjoyable and very well written. And you know I’m picky.

Long review:
Patrons at our library are always asking us for book recommendations. This can be tricky, as the patron does not usually have the same taste as the library employee. Occasionally I get a patron who has my same taste in books, and I attack them with recommendations, bidden or not. It’s so fun to be a biblio-evangelist that I shower them with ideas, handwriting lists for them on scratch paper, using those tiny yellow library/golf pencils.

The great thing about Devil in the Details is that this book is not only recommendable to people who have my same taste, but recommendable to a wide range of random readers as well. This potential wide appeal could make it a perfect holiday gift for those wild cards we need to buy for this year. The cover is spiffy and sucks you in, but once you’re in you discover that it’s more intelligent and deep than you expected. A one-two punch!

The one-two punch threw me at first, in fact. The book is primarily about Traig's struggles with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) throughout her youth. Having had my own mental health problems (depression), I was a little nervous about how the book was being marketed; as lite, fun fair. Meanwhile, the pain of Traig’s childhood is apparent from page one. Well: I don’t know how she does it, but she manages to weave together the pain and the humor of the experience, making for a delightful, but never fluffy, read. Magic!

As I was reading I was thinking: how is she doing this? This is educational, empathetic, and totally hilarious. She’s been sprinkled with the magic David Sedaris dust (and similarly hiLARious parents). We laugh at her sufferings, we laugh at our own sufferings, et voila, we feel better, lighter. See? Magic. At first I was alarmed by my glee at the retelling of her worst OCD moments. She was clearly in a lot of pain. But as Traig points out,
“Obsessive-compulsives make great party guests. With our droll little quirks, we provide plenty of conversation material, and we’re sure to help clean up afterward. In fact, we’ll probably start washing the glassware halfway through the first round and may return three hours after the party has ended to bleach down the floors. Except for the tedium, the time commitment, and the incessant badgering, we’re a riot.”

Another great quote from Devil in the Details:
“OCD sufferers are like hamsters on treadmills, all industrious activity with nothing to show for it. If we were compelled to turn windmills or crank generators rather than alphabetize the canned goods, we could solve the energy crisis.”

The book is kind of a meditation on human strangeness. You start noticing how weird we are, and feeling a kinship with Traig and her “secret club” of OCD sufferers. She writes about her compulsive episodes so winningly and rationally that you start to feel that all humans are on a continuum of OCD-ness. Most of us just happen to be at the mildly neurotic or harmless-but-quite-weird end of the continuum.

For instance, I’m reading her book and writing this review on a Saturday afternoon. I start wondering about the fact that I am clothed only a t-shirt and my brand-new walking shoes. There was, at some point, a logical explanation for why I am clothed in a sort of toddleresque way. But now I’m reading Traig’s book and going: huh, interesting. What a weird bunch of synaptic misfires our every-day behaviors are! How delightfully bizarre. Maybe library school isn’t right for me. Sociology? Anthropology? Zoology?

The book also deals, at length, with the author’s dual religious background. The combination of Catholic and Jew is interesting, and plays out dramatically differently in the two parents and the two daughters. I found the ruminations on family and religious practice intriguing, as a daughter who was raised extremely atheist, but whose mother is now, bafflingly, a minister.

Devil in the Details is already a hit; our library hasn’t been able to keep our copy on the shelf since we bought it. There’s a waiting list to check it out! (the waiters should just buy it, it’s worth the green.)
Traig lives in the Bay Area, has written books about making crafty stuff, and indeed makes her cat homemade toys. We like her! Wait, she has a PhD in literature, makes crafts, and is a cat lady? How is it that we’re not friends already? I collect those kinds of chicks.

Ok, off I go to put on some pants.

[There's a bunch more stops on the Virtual Book Tour, listed here.]

e.e. cummings

2004-11-15T13:30:00.000-08:00

voices to voices, lip to lip
i swear (to noone everyone) constitutes
undying; or whatever this and that petal confutes...
to exist being a peculiar form of sleep

what's beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated: i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May

-bring forth your flowers and machinery: sculpture and prose
flowers guess and miss
machinery is the more accurate, yes
it delivers the goods, Heaven knows

(yet are we mindful, though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling, being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)

i mean that the blond absence of any program
except last and always and first to live
makes unimportant what i and you believe;
not for philosophy does this rose give a damn...

bring on your fireworks, which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil; very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub, like any other pastel.

(While you and i have lips and voices which
are for kissing and to sing with
who cares if some oneeyed son of a bitch
invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

each dream nascitur, is not made...)
why then to Hell with that: the other; this,
since the thing perhaps is
to eat flowers and not to be afraid.

kill

2004-11-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

oh.
my.
god.
I watched Kill Bill vol. I last night, and it was so good! I was not expecting to enjoy it, and only rented it for research purposes (you know, keeping up with the culture around you). I really liked it. I wasn't expecting the women to be such bad-asses. I was expecting that kind of sexist fake badassery...You know, an excuse for women to run around in bikinis, and lots of screen time for ass. I can tell whether a film's women are really bad-asses or just t'n'a with bad-ass facial expressions by how I feel after the film. Sounds weird, but it's true. (sometimes the message can be subtle enough that I don't totally get it consciously.) If I see a film where the women are window dressing, I leave feeling empty. And I am temporarily aware of how important it is for women to be thin and hot (as exhibited by the film's main purpose for the women), so I'm thinking, hmm, maybe I need to lose some weight, while simultaneously feeling bored and disinterested enough to want to eat a pound of M&Ms.

After Kill Bill, however, I did not have that weird diet ennui thing. I literally stood up and started do faux kung fu moves around the apartment. Seriously. The women in the film were such undeniable bad-asses that I actually felt stronger and tougher and better about my life after watching it. It's a good thing the citizens of Oakland were safely in their beds because I could feel the power in my thighs and my biceps, and I was jonesing for something to do with that power! After ha-ya-ing and tae-bo-ing my way around my apartment, vanquishing imaginary foes, I drove the video back to it's store in my little flip flops and pajama bottoms, my hair in a bun. I may be a hidden bad-ass, but I don't mess around with late fees. I filed my nails a little and cuddled up in bed with the boys. I couldn't come up with any badassery to get myself into last night, but beware Bay Area! I still have Kill Bill vol. II to watch.

ok, another favorite poem

2004-11-05T20:02:00.000-08:00

--Benevolence--
by Tony Hoaglund

When my father dies and comes back as a dog,
I already know what his favorite sound will be:
the soft, almost inaudible gasp
as the rubber lips of the refrigerator door
unstick, followed by that arctic

exhalation of cold air;
then the cracking of the ice-cube tray above the sink
and the quiet ching the cubes make
when dropped into a glass.

Unable to pronounce the name of his favorite drink, or to express
his preference for single malt,
he will utter one sharp bark
and point the wet black arrow of his nose
imperatively up
at the bottle on the shelf,

then seat himself before me,
trembling, expectant, water pouring
down the long pink dangle of his tongue
as the memory of pleasure from his former life
shakes him like a tail.

What I'll remember as I tower over him,
holding a dripping, whiskey-flavored cube
above his open mouth,
relishing the power rushing through my veins
the way it rushed through his,

what I'll remember as I stand there
is the hundred clever tricks
I taught myself to please him,
and for how long I mistakenly believed
that it was love he held concealed in his closed hand.

and now, a poem

2004-11-05T19:44:00.000-08:00

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

one of my favorite poems, (I even memorized it once upon a time!) by W.H. Auden

influential books

2004-10-24T14:58:00.000-07:00

Here is a list of the 20 most influential books in my life so far, for those who haven't seen it. I'm adding short descriptions for the ones you may not have heard of.

This is not necessarily a list of my favorite books. Rather, these are books that changed me fundamentally and make up a chunk of who I am today, as if some of the pages melted into my skin. This list is ever changing and I may have forgotten some. (the dates are approximately when I first read them)

1. Free To Be You and Me (70s, duh)

2. Dr. Seuss books (70s)

3. Pippi Longstocking books (70s)

4. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis (1980)

5. Walden, by Thoreau (1986)

6. The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath (1986)

7. Sula, by Toni Morrison (1987)

8. The Dead (story in Dubliners), by James Joyce (1987)

9. 100 Selected Poems of e.e. cummings (1988)

10. A Room of One's Own, by Virginia Woolf (1988)

11. Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems (1989)

12. Animal Dreams, by Barbara Kingsolver (1993)

13. Any book by Thich Nhat Hanh (1994)
Thich Nhat Hanh is a Vietnamese Zen Master. He was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He writes well and thinks well. He's the best.

14. The Artist's Way, by J. Cameron (1997)
This is a workbook for getting in touch with your creative side. Cheesy, I know. But I know many people whose lives it changed. A friend of mine who thought she'd never be creative again ended up going to UCLA for a Master's in Dance and Folklore after reading it. She also started going to Circus School. Seriously. I taught myself guitar and won poetry contests after doing the book. And left social work to finish my degree and go to massage school. Of course that's all in the past, but my point is: sometimes cheesy is good. It can get things moving in the right direction.

15. Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet and biographical info (1998)

16. Collections of short pieces by MFK Fisher (1998)
Fisher is one of my very favorite writers. She started publishing in the Depression Era. She writes about food and life. Her short pieces often include recipes and mouth-watering descriptions of cooking and eating, often in Europe. The fact that I am not a connoisseur of food or wine, and the fact that I have little interest in becoming one, should make this endorsement all the stronger.

17. The Girl in the Flammable Skirt, by Aimee Bender (2000)
This is one of the best books ever. Short stories. Magical short stories. Magical short stories about real women. One about a librarian, even. It won some prize too. Damn, this is one of the few books I'm motivated to actually own.

18. The Rough Guide travel book for Spain (2000)
The Rough Guides are my favorite travel guides. Yum, yum, yum. Plus, that month alone in Spain the first time quite changed me. I owe the discovery of my favorite place on the planet to this book. La Alhambra. (click through the palace pictures to the Generalife garden pics too!)

19. Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabal (2003)
This is the story of "a man in a police state who loves books too much." The character rescues books from the trash compactor every night, so many that they actually threaten to crush him in his own home. (he ran out of room and started storing them above his bed.) Hrabal is (was?) a popular Czech writer, and the short book (which I rescued from a Goodwill bin, ironically) is touching and philosophical and magical. Here's a quote: "Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel."

20. Party of One: The Loners' Manifesto, by Anneli Rufus (2003)
This is a book about being alone, and wanting to be alone. It "rebuts the prevailing notion that aloneness is indistinguishable from loneliness, and that the only experiences that matter are shared ones."