esprit de l'escalier

On commuting and reading

Yesterday and today I went to a conference held in downtown Columbus, at the Convention Center. I bused to and from each day and was thinking on today's ride home about how much I missed riding transit regularly. I do love walking to work, don't get me wrong, but as I stood in the bus shelter tonight, reading my book, I forgot how I enjoyed riding transit. When I lived in Chicago, I rode the train everyday, and sometimes the bus. What I miss is the not having to think about my transport and the reading. Really, this post is about reading and how I miss the chunks of time I had everyday to devote to it, as I commuted to and from work. There was a good period of time where I got really into short story collections, because they were the ideal length for my commute. I read so much. I miss reading that much. I do not make time for it at the moment, and I should.

Currently I am slowly reading two books, and they are both very good for the short little morsels of time I am giving them. The first is Several short sentences about writing by Verlyn Klinkenborg and I am not quite halfway through with it but can safely say that I love it. I got it from the library, but I am going to buy a hardcopy of it, because this is a book I will want to read again. Really, I think you could just pick it up at any point and read for a bit and be perfectly happy. It is about writing, reading, noticing, and thinking about all three. It's written in sort of a free verse format, which I adore, and which makes it great for reading it in little bites, as I have been doing over lunch or breakfast. It's useful and already has me thinking about my own writing (and reading and noticing) habits. I want to give it to several people. I keep talking about it. Check it out. Here's the first page, to entice you:

Here, in short, is what I want to tell you.

Know what each sentence says,

What it doesn't say,

And what it implies.

Of these, the hardest is knowing what each sentence actually says.

 

At first, it will help to make short sentences,

Short enough to feel the variations in length.

Leave space between them for the things that words can't really say.

 

Pay attention to rhythm, first and last.

 

Imagine it this way:

One by one, each sentence takes the stage.

It says the very thing it comes into existence to say.

Then it leaves the stage.

It doesn't help the next one up or the previous one down.

It doesn't wave to its friends in the audience

Or pause to be acknowledged or applauded.

It doesn't talk about what it's saying.

It simply says its piece and leaves the stage.

 

This isn't the whole art of writing well.

It isn't even most of it.

But it's a place to begin, and to being from again and again.

If you write at all, for work, for fun, or read, or love language, or know anyone that does, pick it up for you or a friend. It's really excellent.

The second book I'm slowly reading is Walt Whitma's Song of Myself, which I also think lends itself to slow consumption. I have two copies: one from the library by my bed and a cheap-o Dover edition by the toilet. I'm reading it slowly, and often re-reading passages as I go. I love it. I have also been trying to incorporate more poetry into my life, and I find a poem (or snippet of one) before bed is an excellent tonic for the mind.

A boot and other musings

Just to warn you, this image of a boot-as-a-planter has absolutely nothing to do with the of text that is to come after it. I just thought I'd go through some of the photos I've taken this summer and never posted and, well, post them. I bought a bunch of expired medium format film and find my results middling, at best. Mostly because the film is old. I'm trying to see the beauty in them all the same. I'll post more later.

I finished a P.G. Wodehouse novel today at lunch. I've been reading it in small drips and drabs, mostly in the bathroom and over lunch. For the Wodehouse unintiated, his novels are hilarious romps through the landed gentry of England full of star-crossed lovers, mistaken identities, theft, terrifying aunts, often pigs. The plots are convoluted and a bit silly, but you read them because he does acrobatics with language, has you laughing out loud in public, and just makes you feel good. Plus everything ends as it should. The one I finished today, Piccadilly Jim is not one of his jewels, but it had me hooting over lunch multiple times.

I need to start carving out more time for reading. I miss it. I need to generally slow my life down. I am tired these days and over committed and I'm not sure to what end. I think I need to examine my life and toss the unimportant bits. I've been trying to do that with my possessions and clothes. I think my mental state could use a bit of cleaning as well.

The Last September

I am behind on posting, and have a kitty update, but my brain is super tired and instead I will leave you with this beautiful scenic description from the book I'm currently reading, The Last September by Elizabeth Bowen. It takes place in a manor house in Ireland, during the Irish War of Independence. (Also! I missed my blog's birthday last weekend! SEVEN YEARS I have had this space. I will write more later.)

To the south, below them, the demesne trees of Danielstown made a dark formal square like a rug on the green country. In their heart like a dropped pin the grey glazed roof reflecting the sky lightly glinted. Looking down, it seemed to Lois they lived in a forest; space of lawns blotted out in the pressure and dusk of trees. She wondered they were not smothered; then wondered stll more that they were not afraid. Far from here, too, their isolation became apparent. The house seemed to be pressing down low in apprehension, hiding its face, as though it had her vision of where it was. It seemed to huddle its trees close in fright and amazement at the wide light lovely unloving country, the unwilling bosom whereon it was set... Fields gave back light to the sky - the hedges netting over them thinly and penetrably - as though the sheen of grass were but a shadow on water, a breath of colour clouding the face of light. Rivers, profound in brightness, flowed over beds of grass. The cabins lifting their pointed white ends, the pink and yellow farms were but half opaque; cast doubtfully on their fields the shadow of living. Square cattle moved in the fields like saints, with a mindless certainty...

Thank you, Mr. Sendak

I was really saddened today by the news of Maurice Sendak's death. His books brought me much joy throughout childhood, young adulthood when I read him to my babysitting charges, til today when I've given his books to my friends' children. Outside, Over There always gave me chills, but I returned to it again and again. (I also love the name "Ida," which stems directly from the heroine in that book, who saves her baby sister from the goblins.) The Nutshell Library made me laugh and sing. (My tiny copies are somewhere in my parents' house.)  In the Night Kitchen always made me laugh and now makes me think of my godson (pictured above), because he loves it so. And then of course there is Where the Wild Things Are. A book I can recite much of. A book I truly, truly love. A book I will read again to myself tonight. Thank you, Mr. Sendak.

Curled up

I'm headed to bed early tonight. The only thing missing in the photo above is me. I've been tired all day, humming "Cicadas and Gulls" from Feist's new album (which I adore) to myself. The day was cold, and each proceeding day is to be colder and wetter. I came home to a package - a new book not yet on the bookshelves. Somehow I was asked if I'd like an advanced copy of James Wolcott's new memoir Lucking Out. Um, yes. I'm still not entirely sure how my name got on whatever list, but I am grateful. I already dove into it and am loving it. Thanks Mr. Wolcott, for saving me from a night of bad tv with your delightful prose. I'm headed back into it now. Full review when I'm done.

Random thoughts before bed

I was all cozy in bed about an hour ago, ready for sleep, but I find myself still up and surfing the web, so I thought I'd drop a few lines on you, dear readers. I spent the evening packing for a weekend trip to Chicago, listening to Pride and Prejudice on my smart phone. I laid out different outfits, listening to the last third of Austen's novel. Of Lizzie finally knowing her true feelings for Darcy, having those feelings dashed by the imprudence of her youngest (and silliest) sister, and having everything turn out for the best. My love for Austen has been recounted in this space more times than I care to dig up links for, but it had been a while since I revisited P&P the book and not the movie. (My feelings on Joe Wright's film, starring Keira Knightley, has completely changed and I now love it. I didn't hate it before, but I unabashedly love it now and will watch it if I find it on tv.) I enjoyed listening to the story again and always find myself grinning like a fool during certain scenes. Oh, dear beloved books. Thank you for always knowing how to warm my heart.

See what happens when I go on an Austen bender? I start talking like that. As I struggled with packing, I realized that everything that was being laid out on the bed was fairly monochromatic. My hostess, Natasha, will not be pleased (nor surprised). Everything was in the blue-black-purple range. I need to get some more colors in my wardrobe. Maybe I'll do some shopping while in Chicago.

What I will be doing there includes the following: seeing Josh Ritter at the Vic tomorrow night (a favorite musician at a favorite venue); lunch, a photowalk, and a visit to the Vivian Maier exhibit with my friend Sharon (I cannot wait for Friday for all of that); visiting with friends and favorite munchkins; and who knows what else. Now I should really try for that sleep. I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow.

On adolescence and friendships

I spent this past Saturday, like I've done on many other bright Saturdays, curled in a sunny spot and finished a book. This go round the book in question was Skippy Dies by Paul Murray, which had been recommended to me by a flickr friend. It's a tale set in an all-boys Dublin boarding school, and it's irreverent, funny, and sad, about friendship, fitting-in, love, sex, drugs, divorce, death, molestation, history, expectations (yours and other people's of you), lies and all the ways these things screw with the minds and lives of adolescents. I loved it.

The book focuses mainly on a rag-tag group of friends, who are about fourteen, and their history teacher, and how their lives implode over the course of a couple of months. The book shifts perspective, from the eponymous Skippy, who is a sweet, shy boy who falls in love with the beautiful Lori from the neighboring girls school, to Lori, to Carl, the deeply, deeply troubled boy who starts dealing drugs and spiralling out of control, to Howard, their sad sack History teacher who is plagued by the events of one night, when he was a student at the same school. (I promise you it's also hilariously funny.)

What really struck home with me is the group of friends that surround Skippy. He is the quiet glue that holds them together, and when he dies (not a spoiler, but in fact the title of the book, and the action in the first chapter), his group falls apart. But they were going to fall apart. That's what happens as you get further into adolescence, your group of friends change. Part of the sadness of the book is seeing it happen, partly, I think, because I was remembering my own rag-tag group of friends from middle school and how it fell away by the second year of high school.

I have thought before about how as you age, you get to choose your friends more than you did when you were a kid. When you were a kid, you were sort of stuck with the other kids in your class, and how you fall into the weird hierarchy that schools always have. When you get to college you're in a bigger pot of people and it's easier to find friends that share interests and reflect you better than just proximity.

Since I moved back to the city where I grew up, I've had some contact with my middle school friends. Last summer I reconnected with a good friend from middle and high school (though we were much closer in middle school). We lost touch when we went to college, not because of any negative feelings, just because that's what happens sometimes. It was so great to see her. I think that in Stand By Me, the narrator says something about how the people who knew you at 12 will know you for life. I think that is true, even if those are the friends we lose as we grow up.

Old, lost friends have also been on my mind the last couple of weeks, because I have a lunch date to meet up with my best friend from high school, with whom I've been estranged since we were 19 (a decade ago). Besides some emails over the last 7 years, we have not seen nor spoken since a ridiculous, dramatic break-up. (Are friend break-ups ever not dramatic?) I keep thinking about the specific catalyst for this, and the more I do, the stupider I realize it all was. (Though, for the record, I never understood it. I was the dumped friend, not the dumper.) But the writing had been on the wall for a couple of years. I can see the trajectory of the story now, but I still remember the shock at how I was suddenly being treated. Being dumped is not fun, but being dumped by a dear friend is just awful.

Anyway, I don't want to wallow in the past. It's not really what I'm interested in. I think about all the friendships that I've made since I was 19 and I know how truly lucky I am. I am curious to see her and hear about her life. She knows bits of me, and I of her, that other people just don't know. They can't know. They weren't there when we were sharing our secrets, or talking about boys, or getting blind-man's-bluff banished from my house. I hope to find an old friend.

To get back to my main point, if you want a good read about the thrill and pains of being an adolescent, of figuring out who you are, that is funny, sad, and smart, pick up Skippy Dies. Sorry for the extended navel gazing on my part.

Beer milkshakes

My book club finally met to discuss Cannery Row this weekend. Discussing it only reminded me of excellent descriptive passages I had forgotten. Last month, one of our members decided to be inspired by the following passage:

While he ate his sandwich and sipped his beer, a bit of conversation came back to him. Blaisedell, the poet, had said to him, "You love beer so much, I'll bet some day you'll go in and order a beer milk shake." It was a simple piece of foolery but it had bothered Doc ever since. He wondered what a beer milk shake would taste like. The idea gagged him but he couldn't let it alone. It cropped up every time he had a glass of beer. Would it curdle the milk? Would you add sugar? It was like a shrimp ice cream. Once the thing got into your head you couldn't forget it. He finished his sandwich and paid Herman. He purposely didn't look at the milk shake machines lined up so shiny against the back wall. If a man ordered a beer milk shake, he thought, he'd better do it in a town where he wasn't known. But then, a man with a beard, ordering a beer milk shake in a town where he wasn't known - they might call the police.

We made beer floats with Guinness, ice cream and espresso vodka. They were so much better than the lager-based beer milkshakes I imagined when I read the above passage the first time. Be inspired, read the book and cook up some silly, but tasty, drinks.

Cannery Row

"Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, 'whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,' by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, 'Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,' and he would have meant the same thing."

So begins Steinbeck's Cannery Row, which I recently finished for my book club. When I found out the choice for this go round, I may have cursed because I had alluded the reading of Steinbeck in high school and didn't want to start now. Man, what a fool am I to let a prejudice about a class where we didn't even get to Grapes of Wrath spoil me on a writer. Which is to say I loved this book. I think the opening chapter is a brilliant description of place and sets the stage for his meandering snippets of life in that place.

I loved following the tales of life in Cannery Row and grew to be fond of all of its misfit inhabitants. But what really sold the book for me were the descriptive chapters. One starts out describing early morning there and paints a beautiful picture of the rusty place. My favorite bit, though, describes the cats and dogs. "Cats drip over the fences and slither like syrup over the group to look for fish heads. Silent early morning dogs parade majestically picking and choosing judiciously whereon to pee." How perfect is that?

From hereon out, I solemnly swear to never scoff at the classics until I've read them for myself.

Custard the cowardly dragon

I've been babysitting the above little munchkin lately. I unearthed some books from the '40s and '50s full of poems for kids that I bought a while back. I've been bringing them with me to read aloud from and they are full of all sorts of gems. Including a poem by Ogden Nash that keeps running through my head, about a cowardly dragon named Custard. My charge is a little more interested in her new found mobility than poetry, but I enjoy the chance to read aloud. Really, I wish I could be reading this to my little god son, who likes rhyming poetry as much as I do.

"The Tale of Custard the Dragon" by Ogden Nash

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.