The Fiance's off with friends so I am home, having some fun of my own...um, blogging....
Okay, my life is not the most exciting, but I do have some positives to discuss. First, I had a volunteer "opportunity" - it's not work, it's an "opportunity" - at the Matthaei Botanical Gardens and Nichols Arboretum annual plant sale. I worked as a cashier's assistant and then at plant pick-up, which is a coat-check system for plant shoppers who want to continue to shop or need to bring their cars around for loading. It would have been a fantastically good time except that it was probably 40 or colder with the constantly gusting wind chill. I was miserable. Then, on only two days' notice, I had to show up at my bartending job (not my usual night to work), which was fine because it was warm. I was so exhausted after 8 hours out in the cold (and did I mention that I worked the night before, so I only got 5 hours of fitful sleep, due to thrashing winds?) and was therefore afraid I'd snap, and unleash my exhausted fury on a co-worker or customer. I didn't, though, and that is more a credit to the nice people I work with and the nice clientele than it is a credit to me, though I am pretty nice too, most of the time.
I may have been a bit short with my sister, though, who has been discussing wedding colors and bridesmaid/flower girl dresses with me (she's a bridesmaid, her 6 year old Miss C is a flower girl). I was too tired and confused to talk dresses at the end of the day, so I hope I didn't sound too awful and negative, but I probably did. But a new week begins tomorrow, and with it, a new chance to register for fantastic wedding gifts (why is this less fun than it sounds??), a new chance to find my wedding dress fabric (in case of failure, break seal on credit card and buy a damn ready-made dress!), a new chance to find someone to marry us (did I not mention that shortcoming in our Big Wedding Plans??? Actually, I think I did!).
I've updated the book list to the right. Good stuff now, so check it out! My main book right now is Unfinished Desires, somewhat of a mystery the way it is set up...deep dark secrets, etc. Poseidon's Steed is research for a novel I will someday, God Willing, write. And Say You're One of Them is another in a series of recently (deservedly) popular books out of native African writers...well written, populated by figures that jump off the page with their human-ness, and quite foreign, which gives me a chance to learn about the world I am economically limited from exploring at this particular time. And I am still basking in the afterglow of having finished The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay...new book soon, please Mr. Chabon!
All is well in the world for now. I hope for the same for you, my readers.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
5.09.2010
8.31.2009
Ode to The Line, a Debriefing of The American, and a dash of Tomato Porn
Before I get to tonight's topics: today, my first paying client...paid me! And now, stuff that is not as exciting.
Tonight I stood with about five others in a slow-moving Line at the library, impatiently waiting my turn while reminding myself that I really hadn't been waiting that long. All of sudden a rogue stepped up to the counter just vacated by another patron. The problem with his sudden appearance at the counter: he skipped the Line! He had simply ignored the sign that read "Please form one line here" and blithely sallied up to the counter at the end farthest from the hanging directive. Others in Line grumbled a bit, while I pondered the lack of character, to be so unaware of one's surroundings, much like bad drivers on cellphones or those merely daydreaming. Or perhaps he was from Europe or some such place, where people congregate around a desired purpose in a frightening absence of longitudinal order. Well if so, he had been in the U.S. long enough to get a library card, and probably long enough to wait in Line at the DMV (ha! he could not have survived skipping that Line without some bite marks or bullet holes, right L.L.?). Regardless, we said nothing as the man readied his books and library card, though this faux pas is one of the few remaining that inspire patriotic ferver in fellow Lineholders....but wait! A man, clearly a regular geek/patron of the library (takes one to know one) said politely, with a slight tremor, "Sir, the line forms over here." Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! The man grabbed his things from the counter, turned, and made his way to the back of the line in an agreeable manner, no scowl to be detected! And the last semblance of American public civility lives to fight another day.
Tonight I stood with about five others in a slow-moving Line at the library, impatiently waiting my turn while reminding myself that I really hadn't been waiting that long. All of sudden a rogue stepped up to the counter just vacated by another patron. The problem with his sudden appearance at the counter: he skipped the Line! He had simply ignored the sign that read "Please form one line here" and blithely sallied up to the counter at the end farthest from the hanging directive. Others in Line grumbled a bit, while I pondered the lack of character, to be so unaware of one's surroundings, much like bad drivers on cellphones or those merely daydreaming. Or perhaps he was from Europe or some such place, where people congregate around a desired purpose in a frightening absence of longitudinal order. Well if so, he had been in the U.S. long enough to get a library card, and probably long enough to wait in Line at the DMV (ha! he could not have survived skipping that Line without some bite marks or bullet holes, right L.L.?). Regardless, we said nothing as the man readied his books and library card, though this faux pas is one of the few remaining that inspire patriotic ferver in fellow Lineholders....but wait! A man, clearly a regular geek/patron of the library (takes one to know one) said politely, with a slight tremor, "Sir, the line forms over here." Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! The man grabbed his things from the counter, turned, and made his way to the back of the line in an agreeable manner, no scowl to be detected! And the last semblance of American public civility lives to fight another day.
Speaking of American/European clashes (real or imagined), I finally finished Henry James' The American. I must say, I almost gave up about halfway through, when it appeared that absolutely nothing would happen. So our hero Newman travels to Paris to hunt down a bride after having accumulated massive wealth as a "commercial man" in the U.S. circa when steamership was the way to go. He makes some friends and proposes to Claire de Cintre, a titled young widow. Her family begrudgingly allows the engagement, and the story plods on with nary a hint of coming drama (okay, there were hints, just wanted to say nary, and the hints were few and far between). Newman is irritatingly happy and good-natured. I suppose he is the Everyman (the New-Man) American travelling abroad, risking language and etiquette gaffs along the way. Well, his Parisian acquaintances prove disloyal, snooty, and wrapped up in stupid things like gentry, which I think is the point James is trying to make. The good guys in the story get the short end of the stick, except for Newman, who ends up good-natured and relatively happy, until the very last line of the book (don't bother trying to impress your friends with your book knowledge by reading the first and last lines of the novel, it doesn't work with this one, you will have no idea what is going on). Was this review helpful? I think not. Did reading The American make me a better, more enlightened guest at cocktail parties? I think not. Do I wonder why there are people who devote their careers to studying Henry James? I think so, and I welcome their venom (maybe someday I will learn to appreciate James, possibly by reading another of his novels...but that day has not come, especially when my reading time is occupied by such fantastic modern work like The Thing Around Your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie!).
Last but not least, some saucy Tomato Porn. Well, it is a fetish of all in-season vegetables, but Tomoto Porn is much more sonically enticing than Vegetable Porn, and tomatoes are far and away my favorite. Don't worry folks, what you are about to see is not obscenity, which we know is illegal, but simply some tasteful photos of recent footage from behind the garage and at the farmers market. Feast your eyes on this from the Ann Arbor Farmers Market:
And this behind my own garage:
7.05.2009
The Fifth of July and a Book Review
It's the day after Independence Day, which for me used to signify the downswing of summer. After moving to Michigan, though, I find the officially mandated seasons to be quite on target. In Detroit this year, it reached sweat-inducing temperatures exactly one day after the first day of summer (June 20th). In Vegas, summer heat comes in early May (and leaves around mid-October!). Regardless of the frequent and wild temperature fluctuations here, I've enjoyed our weather ever since the clocks sprang forward, ending my first run-in with a mild case of S.A.D. It's more about sunlight than temperature for some folks.
The upside of a cold dry winter is that if during that season for some crazy reason I choose to bare some skin, I would not be ravaged by blood-thirsty mosquitoes, as I was last night despite practically standing on top of a smoky firepit to avoid such a result. I count eight bites on my feet, and one on my arm (the arm bite by a mosquito who had the audacity to appear in broad daylight this afternoon while I was tending to my corn!).
Here is my first book review--anyone reading this can get a more expert viewpoint from a number of newspaper book critics who get paid to do this, while I am a mere dilettante, but hey, these reviews are mostly for my own benefit, kind of a debriefing. I just finished the novel Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer, an author who I had never heard of until a few weeks ago, but whose work I now intend to follow. What first attracted me was the title, how cute! I tend to be random when it comes to reading new or new-to-me authors, and what attracts me to a book is the title or cover art (the latter not being a fair basis for judgment, as authors may not have much control over that marketing/artistic device, depending on their contract, etc.). So I picked this book up because I liked the title and figured it could allay some avid-reader-guilt for having avoided Death in Venice my whole life.
Dyer's book is divided into two parts-Venice, Italy and Varanasi, India of course. In the first part, the main character, Jeff Atman, is a British journalist at the Biennale, an art world event held in Venice, though he actually was sent to cover not the event itself, but to interview a woman only tangentally related to the event who lived in Venice. He's a habit in the arts circuit though, and got invites and passes to good parties and exhibits, his commentary on which provides the reader a brief and amusing look into the Biennale from a rather jaded perspective. In Venice he meets and falls in love with Laura, an American who works at a gallery. The story covers their affair amid the parties and exhibits. In Laura, Jeff finds a partner who seems to share his view of the silly, grand, boring, beautiful spectacle of art as well as the outside world. Jeff embraces this newfound love and the prospect of a new life with this woman, after what seems to have been a long spell of cynical, unmotivated plodding through his former life in England.
I loved this first part in Venice. It was like...well, like my first couple of years in college. A little work mixed in with a little more partying, fueled at times by a bit of booze but more so by youthful energy and the exciting promise of what a new day and night might bring (turning out to be, like this Venice, full of random meetings and colorful characters). Jeff is very likeable despite his jaded outlook, or maybe because of his jaded outlook, because I saw myself in this character, a character who channelled his despair into a glib, tough sense of humor. It's my measure of a good writer - real, recognizable characters. Yes, I loved the Twilight series (guilty), but even though those books were constantly describing what Bella thought, how Bella felt, what Bella thought Edward and Jacob were thinking and feeling (based on exhausting scrutiny of their words and facial expressions), the Twilight books did not make me feel like I was ever in any character's shoes (or heart or mind) in a given situation. Rather, Twilight's writer (who I think is great!) told an entertaining story but kept you the reader at a distance, despite the very personal nature of the story. On the other hand, Dyer brought me in to this guy's head to recognize myself, my desires, my sense of humor** and coping strategies in the face of the same old sameness, and my kindred joy at the promise of having found a soulmate/co-conspirator to shake things up.
On to part two: Varanasi. I think Brits are more familiar with all things Indian, but this American had to look up "ghat" in the dictionary: steps leading down to a body of water (big thing in Varanasi, which is on the Ganges). Part two is not a continuation of part one. It is the opposite side of the same rupee. It is squalor and death, this after the reader has had a stint in Italian luxury and the embrace of a promising new life. The two parts structured the book into a jarring upside-down V. Up, up to a grand life with a new love. Then down, down to watch the bodies burn at Manikarnika ghat, to fight the native filth and then embrace it, to experience the gradual disconnection of one's self with one's former life.
I waited like a puppy for the Jeff in part one to show up and reclaim his Venetian splendor. I can be such a shallow American. It took a while, but I grew accustomed to the spare, ascetic, and ickier developing-world life of our hero, who never spared the reader a description of a dead body, confused monkey, or bout of dysentery, which means he never spared the reader from the colorful observations of a full life (though not all lives encompass negotiation with monkeys).
If Venice was college, Varanasi was my brief stint housesitting on the Florida Gulf Coast: What was I doing here? Who are these people? Bleak (yes, really, in Florida, go there some time and you'll see), foreign, exotic, and a renunciation of my former, malfunctioning life. I went jogging in 100% percent humidity as angry self-entitled soccer moms honked at me for blocking their charging SUVs, and I worked as a cashier with people who were still mad at the Yanks about the Civil War. I related to no one. And I fled what I felt was unnecessary torture and strangeness from my congenitally relaxed and breezy west coast life. A different outcome than that of Dyer's evolving character, who felt he had nothing to go back to in his former life. Or perhaps he learned something in a foreign world that I didn't take the time to: "I was in my way. I was ahead of me in the queue. I was keeping me waiting. When I drank beer, I was waiting for the glass to empty so I could have it filled and start drinking again....All I'm saying is that in Varanasi I no longer felt like I was waiting....I had taken myself out of the equation."
Regardless of any wisdom acquired on an ancient Indian riverbank, what it comes down to is how well the story, any story, is told. As I happily would watch on film a person shop for groceries for an hour if directed by Woody Allen or Spike Lee, so I could read Geoff Dyer's account of Jeff Atman ordering food at a restaurant in Venice or wandering the ghats of Varanasi. What a pleasure to find a character you care for, even as he cares less, and slips through your and everyone else's fingers.
**"...that it's possible to be a hundred percent sincere and a hundred percent ironic at the same time."
The upside of a cold dry winter is that if during that season for some crazy reason I choose to bare some skin, I would not be ravaged by blood-thirsty mosquitoes, as I was last night despite practically standing on top of a smoky firepit to avoid such a result. I count eight bites on my feet, and one on my arm (the arm bite by a mosquito who had the audacity to appear in broad daylight this afternoon while I was tending to my corn!).
Here is my first book review--anyone reading this can get a more expert viewpoint from a number of newspaper book critics who get paid to do this, while I am a mere dilettante, but hey, these reviews are mostly for my own benefit, kind of a debriefing. I just finished the novel Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer, an author who I had never heard of until a few weeks ago, but whose work I now intend to follow. What first attracted me was the title, how cute! I tend to be random when it comes to reading new or new-to-me authors, and what attracts me to a book is the title or cover art (the latter not being a fair basis for judgment, as authors may not have much control over that marketing/artistic device, depending on their contract, etc.). So I picked this book up because I liked the title and figured it could allay some avid-reader-guilt for having avoided Death in Venice my whole life.
Dyer's book is divided into two parts-Venice, Italy and Varanasi, India of course. In the first part, the main character, Jeff Atman, is a British journalist at the Biennale, an art world event held in Venice, though he actually was sent to cover not the event itself, but to interview a woman only tangentally related to the event who lived in Venice. He's a habit in the arts circuit though, and got invites and passes to good parties and exhibits, his commentary on which provides the reader a brief and amusing look into the Biennale from a rather jaded perspective. In Venice he meets and falls in love with Laura, an American who works at a gallery. The story covers their affair amid the parties and exhibits. In Laura, Jeff finds a partner who seems to share his view of the silly, grand, boring, beautiful spectacle of art as well as the outside world. Jeff embraces this newfound love and the prospect of a new life with this woman, after what seems to have been a long spell of cynical, unmotivated plodding through his former life in England.
I loved this first part in Venice. It was like...well, like my first couple of years in college. A little work mixed in with a little more partying, fueled at times by a bit of booze but more so by youthful energy and the exciting promise of what a new day and night might bring (turning out to be, like this Venice, full of random meetings and colorful characters). Jeff is very likeable despite his jaded outlook, or maybe because of his jaded outlook, because I saw myself in this character, a character who channelled his despair into a glib, tough sense of humor. It's my measure of a good writer - real, recognizable characters. Yes, I loved the Twilight series (guilty), but even though those books were constantly describing what Bella thought, how Bella felt, what Bella thought Edward and Jacob were thinking and feeling (based on exhausting scrutiny of their words and facial expressions), the Twilight books did not make me feel like I was ever in any character's shoes (or heart or mind) in a given situation. Rather, Twilight's writer (who I think is great!) told an entertaining story but kept you the reader at a distance, despite the very personal nature of the story. On the other hand, Dyer brought me in to this guy's head to recognize myself, my desires, my sense of humor** and coping strategies in the face of the same old sameness, and my kindred joy at the promise of having found a soulmate/co-conspirator to shake things up.
On to part two: Varanasi. I think Brits are more familiar with all things Indian, but this American had to look up "ghat" in the dictionary: steps leading down to a body of water (big thing in Varanasi, which is on the Ganges). Part two is not a continuation of part one. It is the opposite side of the same rupee. It is squalor and death, this after the reader has had a stint in Italian luxury and the embrace of a promising new life. The two parts structured the book into a jarring upside-down V. Up, up to a grand life with a new love. Then down, down to watch the bodies burn at Manikarnika ghat, to fight the native filth and then embrace it, to experience the gradual disconnection of one's self with one's former life.
I waited like a puppy for the Jeff in part one to show up and reclaim his Venetian splendor. I can be such a shallow American. It took a while, but I grew accustomed to the spare, ascetic, and ickier developing-world life of our hero, who never spared the reader a description of a dead body, confused monkey, or bout of dysentery, which means he never spared the reader from the colorful observations of a full life (though not all lives encompass negotiation with monkeys).
If Venice was college, Varanasi was my brief stint housesitting on the Florida Gulf Coast: What was I doing here? Who are these people? Bleak (yes, really, in Florida, go there some time and you'll see), foreign, exotic, and a renunciation of my former, malfunctioning life. I went jogging in 100% percent humidity as angry self-entitled soccer moms honked at me for blocking their charging SUVs, and I worked as a cashier with people who were still mad at the Yanks about the Civil War. I related to no one. And I fled what I felt was unnecessary torture and strangeness from my congenitally relaxed and breezy west coast life. A different outcome than that of Dyer's evolving character, who felt he had nothing to go back to in his former life. Or perhaps he learned something in a foreign world that I didn't take the time to: "I was in my way. I was ahead of me in the queue. I was keeping me waiting. When I drank beer, I was waiting for the glass to empty so I could have it filled and start drinking again....All I'm saying is that in Varanasi I no longer felt like I was waiting....I had taken myself out of the equation."
Regardless of any wisdom acquired on an ancient Indian riverbank, what it comes down to is how well the story, any story, is told. As I happily would watch on film a person shop for groceries for an hour if directed by Woody Allen or Spike Lee, so I could read Geoff Dyer's account of Jeff Atman ordering food at a restaurant in Venice or wandering the ghats of Varanasi. What a pleasure to find a character you care for, even as he cares less, and slips through your and everyone else's fingers.
**"...that it's possible to be a hundred percent sincere and a hundred percent ironic at the same time."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)