Monthly Archives: June 2012

Quick & Dirty Reviews: Get out, Get breakfast.

It’s about time I did another quickie review blog.  A lot of times I bypass book reviews for several reasons:

  1. My review will be despicable to an author out there who worked until their fingers blistered with pencil scars and bubbles.
  2. I just didn’t want to write a book review at the time, I wanted to eat a sandwich.
  3. Some books need to be shared, and mulled over, and some books just need to be read for the personal journey the reader undertakes.  We’re all Odysseus while we read.
  4. Some books just don’t touch me enough to use my words to share them.  (Sad, but true).
  5. Some books I loathe and I just know my review would be like summer heat blurring and rising from North Carolina asphalt.
  6. Sometimes I finish a book and have no energy at all.  I feel completely depleted.

Without further adieu, here are some honorable mentions (and winners):

1. Salvage the Bones – Jesmyn Ward 

Salvage the Bones – Jesmyn Ward

Don’t get me wrong, I loved this book.  I think that this book is an important read for anyone who wants to become a writer.  One of the most crucial elements of a book is sadness; a dark side, an element of mystery and madness, tension in your muscles, goosebumps rising along the ridges of your arms.  I remember a girl in my advanced fiction class finally unleashed the fury on my professor (Jill McCorkle) because she no longer wanted to write in the dark, she wanted to just write about happiness.  (Not gonna happen).

If you ever want to learn how to build tension, this is the first book I would point you to.  Throughout, I was expecting Hurricane Katrina to hit like a siren and she doesn’t come until the final chapters, that “blood dazzler.”  However, the entire book is tension leading to that storm, to those floods that ripped families and floorboards apart.  It’s amazing how Ward captures the tension of landscape and weather with only mentioning the coming eye in brief sentences strung like laundry from clothespins.

“My baby is solid as a squash, because there is this baby inside me, small as Manny’s eyelash in mid-sex on my cheek.  And this baby will grow to a fingertip on my hip, a hand on the bowl of my back, an arm over my shoulder, if it survives” (57).

In my journals while reading this book I wrote: “How weird is it when you read  passage to decide if you want to buy a book and then you read that passage again within the context of the story and it means something totally different, totally unexpected and you’re not sure how to feel after that moment.  It’s like dating someone thinking their historically European and really they’re Native American and whole worlds suddenly open up for the two of you, dream catch.”

2. Authobiography of Red – Anne Carson 

Autobiography of Red – Anne Carson

This book burned a whole through my idea of poetry.  Anne Carson took a restaurant matchbook and lit the small page of poetry in my mind.  And to think she did it all with a main character that’s a little red monster with wings.  I never knew poetry could look like this, could tell a story this wide and still tell a history of people.  This book was kind of an awakening for me.   I had believed poetry was like a Peace March and everyone is there for some different reason but you all want to find a collective rhythm to your voices, want to huddle in some sort of crowd.  Anne Carson beat the crowds away and wrote on her own terms.  What more do people need than someone who writes who they are on the page in a story that has little to do with them at all.  I’m floored by this, in fact, I’ve sunken through the floor and I’m in the basement against the cold slab of concrete listening to the silence of the pour.

“It was the year he began to wonder about the noise that colors make.  Roses came roaring across the garden at him – of those he interviewed for the science project had to admit they not hear the cries of roses being burned alive in the noonday sun.” I have no page number, I just drew a stick-figure sun here.

Eucalyptus – Murray Bail

3. Eucalyptus – Murray Bail 

If you like trees, Australian countryside, and love stories that are hardly told, then this might just be the book for you.  It took me a while to get into this book, but I was allured by the tree language of Eucalyptus – how they were all named, how they were founded and grew, where they grew, who collected them and who could name them.  Plus, at the heart of this story is a traditional fairytale.  A father sets out to find a worthy suitor for his daughter by having men from across rivers and territories name the Eucalyptus plants he has collected for over twenty years.  What girl doesn’t fall for the fairytale?

Tattoos on the Heart – Gregory Boyle

4. Tattoos on the Heart – Gregory “G” Boyle 

I didn’t review this book because my social justice rant would have loomed large and so would my Catholic understanding.  No really, I would have sounded like Nancy Pelosi at the pulpit.  Sometimes I can get a little over the top on my world views and so I kept quiet on this.  I did try to write this blog several times and still have a draft post lost in my dashboard.  I read this book shortly after coming home from Philadelphia and after working over a year at the teen center.  This book and Homeboy Industries cracke open the world for me when I was trying desperately to glue it shut.  Can’t let light in without a few cracks though. For this, I can’t say it better than G, so here are quotes from the book:

  • “Here is what we seek: a compassion that can stand in awe at what the poor have to carry rather than stand in judgment at how they carry it” (67).
  • “Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded.  It’s a covenant between equals” (77).
  • “He says, straight out, ‘you are the light.’  It is the truth of who you are, waiting only for you to discover it.  So, for God’s sake, don’t move.  No need to contort yourself to be anything other than who you are.  Jason was who he was.  He made a lot of mistakes, he was not perfect, and his rage called the shots for a good chunk of his life.  And he was the light of world.  He fit the description” (108).
  • “Mother Teresa diagnosed the world’s ills in this way: we’ve just ‘forgotten that we belong to each other” (187).

Briar Rose – Jane Yolen

5. Briar Rose – Jane Yolen 

This year my number one book trend has been WWII literature.  I think there’s something immeasurable about WWII that makes us all connect in some way to the length of terror that happened.  I’m fascinated by WWII because I don’t know my grandfather, but I know he was overseas at that time and came back with PTSD so bad he was calling his own children derogative terms and holding his shaking fingers together like he curled them around a soft neck.  I’m fascinated by the way Hitler used language to round up a civilization.  The first step in mass-murder, and mass-genocide is the power of language, of propaganda.  Whenever someone tells you that infamous nursery school rhyme, “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” it’s beyond untrue.  (I’m sure I will tell my future kids that though).

Jane Yolan’s Briar Rose is the second retold fairytale into WWII literature that I’ve read this year.  The first was The True Story of Hansel and Gretel which left me weeping whenever I was in silence (usually in the car) for about a week.  My expectations for Briar Rose were high and I can’t say it didn’t meet expectations, but it was a young adult novel that wasn’t as outrageous as The True Story of Hansel and Gretel.  The thing I love about this book is that it’s competent YA literature.  Jane Yolen didn’t dumb down the story, she didn’t make sure nothing gruesome was told in less detail – she put it out there and let it fester.  I think this is a pitch-perfect YA book and the fact that she retold Briar Rose using it as a scar story rather than a triumph made it all the better.  For kids like me who desperately yearn for knowledge of their grandparents and great-grandparents, it’s a fantastic read.

6. Life on Mars: Poems – Tracy K. Smith 

This book has lines of beauty and poems that make you feel like a speck of pepper on someones sandwich.  Was it the best book of poetry I’ve ever read? No.  Did it win a Pulitzer? Yes.  Sometimes books that win prizes have agendas far more complicated than just the fact that they’re wonderful books.  This year the NASA program had to go through a funding cut, this year Tracy K. Smith wrote Life on Mars mostly about space and its many mysteries but also about her father who worked for a number of years at NASA.  This is just a correlation, not a cause and effect of Smith winning the prize.  This book of poetry has moments of subtle tenderness, but I can’t say that it’s a complete collection of poetry.

Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if Smith was actually on Mars when she wrote these poems and other times I was right there with her, huddled in the vowel and reading aloud as fast as I could just to feel my body melt into the words and sigh with my “Oh my God, that’s beautiful.”  The poems where I was lost or made little sense were altogether frustrating because I could see that she was getting at the heart, her heart, but she never broke through.   I hate when poets say they wanted that poem or that line to be ambiguous.  While sometimes that can mean “showing not telling” usually it means pure confusion.  I hate poems where I feel like she’s so close to saying something meaningful and yet she gets to the crust and backs off.  FACK. Don’t back off, cut your feet on the cliffs and jump.

  • “We have gone looking for it everywhere:/in Bibles and bandwith, blooming/like a wound from the ocean floor.” – It & Co.
  • “When our laughter skids across the floor/like beads yanked from some girl’s throat,/what waits where the laughter gathers?”
  • “Tina say what if dark matter is like the space between people when what holds them together isn’t exactly love, and I think that sounds right” (37).

Read “Interrogative” Here.

I happened on this wordpress review/conversation and it matches my sentiment exactly.  Thank you, Nancy.

My Instagram of Embroideries.

7. Embroideries – Maryjane Satrapi 

Reading this book was like going to a tupperware party with your grandmother and her Bunko group.  Believe me, you’ll never guess what embroideries stands for and you’ll probably never want to experience that meaning without pain medication.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – Carson McCullers

8. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – Carson McCullers

Jinger, I’m sorry I have to do this to my dear penpal.  I HATED THIS BOOK.   THIS IS A SPOILER SENTENCE: You want me to spend a whole book with a mute who loses his odd other half, helps a bunch of people experience a journey that moves them almost nowhere, but through a life that none of them really want, and then kills himself at the end.  You have to be kidding me.  Was there anything to like about this book ever? …Maybe I liked the way Mick was described as the neighborhood tomboy in her rolled up jean shorts and her secret cigarette purchases. MAYBE.

That’s it. I never want to see this book ever again.


Newsday Tuesday

Favorite Tweets:

(GASP.  Did Judy Blume cheer for the King)

Favorite Search Terms:

  • forgiveness lives far but bitterness and art are close: I really don’t know what to say for this.  Do I agree? I’m not sure.  Is there a land of forgiveness that grows green between our plush organs, somewhere between the bone trees of our ribs.  And why are art and bitterness close, why are they such good friends.  Can’t we all get along.
  • erase panic today ept: I think I said this on the last blog, but for a whole day…I really thought EPT stood for this.  That’s how far away from children I am.  FAR FAR AWAY.  You thought forgiveness was far….
  • cows in caravan: I met a few cows on a caravan trip in Australia.  I named them after dairy products: Daisy, Cottage, Muenster, and Swiss.
  • ncaa bracket save the date wedding: Is my ex-boyfriend getting married?

Book News:


Project 365 | Week 25

Can you believe it’s already summer solstice this month?  And that 4th of July is sprouting these white tents filled with explosives for thirteen year old boys to use in their neighbors driveways.  Ahhh the terror, must make more lists.

Day 170:

Construction

Sometimes even the ugly things about cities can be beautiful.  PS.  See that blue and yellow umbrella through the crack of metal, I crave those hotdogs in my sleep.

Day 171:

Red Hair, Don’t Care

Mom took a box to my hair earlier this week for extra highlights.  She’s a natural red head, and due to my weird brownish blondish hair with red highlights sometimes I need a quick spruce up.  I think of it like I’m a flower who needs to be watered.  Corny?

Day 172:

No big deal, just licking museum tools that other kids touch all day.

“Oh, you don’t want me to lick this giant magnifying glass at the end of a museum day that other people have to use, and believe me, have used, all day. Oops,” – my nephew.

Day 173:

Chivalry

I’ve always been that girl who says “I don’t want flowers because they just die.”  Why was I that girl again?  Flowers die in the prettiest ways because they bloom and thrive first.  These roses are “Mount Everest” roses and they die looking like paper with black creases in the petals.  My boy knows that even my flowers need to be bookish (Hah).

Day 174:

Escazu Homemade Chocolate Popsicles

So, Raleigh has this chocolate shop.  And that’s the end of that story.

Day 175:

Scrabble Earrings

I made new earrings last week for my future English Teacher status.  If you would like a pair, I can definitely make some – I have a few extra scrabble beads and would be happy to send them out.  Just email me if interested.

Plus, here’s a poem:

Hymn to the Neck

by Amy Gerstler
Tamed by starched collars or looped by the noose,
all hail the stem that holds up the frail cranial buttercup.
The neck throbs with dread of the guillotine's kiss, while
the silly, bracelet-craving wrists chafe in their handcuffs.
Your one and only neck, home to glottis, tonsils,
and many other highly specialized pieces of meat, 
is covered with stubble. Three mornings ago, undeserving
sinner though she is, yours truly got to watch you shave
in the bath. Sap matted your chest hair. A clouded 
hand mirror reflected a piece of your cheek. Vapor
rose all around like spirit-infested mist in some fabled
rainforest. The throat is the road. Speech is its pilgrim. 
Something pulses visibly in your neck as the words
hand me a towel flower from your mouth.

Day 176:

Bugs are totally stepping up their fashion game.

This moth has it goin’ on, sister.


I Never Talk Children.

Ah, the luxury of being under three feet, unable to ride roller-coasters, and reach the shelves where the chocolate is hidden.  There are great things about being a child like sitting in a tent in your front yard all day, or playing in the sprinkler naked on your house sidewalk, but mostly bedtime stories.

My Nephew, Jackson Wolf.

My nephew has a gazillion books.  He’s only four; you have to give him up to Lego’s and light sabers, but books are something that can keep him sitting quietly in my lap.  We can sit in the dark space of the reclining chair, listen to his alarm clock’s ocean sounds, and read books.  Sometimes I’m forced to read miniature Lego books or even Lego ads, but occasionally I get to pick the books myself.  Today was one of those lucky days where I could pick through the pile by the chair, on the shelf, or thrown across the room.

There was the book about the monster who loved to do jigs (I like this one because my nephew does a jig at the end when I ask) and Attic of the Wind.  Don’t worry, he also got Calling All Cars, one of his old Lego books.

Attic of the Wind by Doris Herold Lund is one of the most beautiful, poetic, and satisfying children’s books I’ve read in a while.  It took all that I had not to run home with it and paste it to a wall.  I’m severely afraid of ripping pages from books, but the illustrations were so wonderful that you wanted to have a wall full of framed Attic of the Wind pages.  Really though, I’m the girl that scrunches up her shoulders and squints her eyes when she turns a page too hard and the edge rips just a smidgen.  It’s hard when you view books as tiny capsules of history that should only in the right hands be stained, dirtied, stunk-up, or ripped.

I do agree with burying them in the ground for the next world though.  Alexandria burned down and we have nothing of Alexander the Great’s famous library, so maybe one of those people on that end of the world show (History Channel) should bury all the literary wonders of these past few centuries for historians to find.  Bury a twitter machine too while you’re at it.

Illustration by Ati Forberg

When last week I listened to an interview about Maurice Sendak’s house the interviewee said Sendak’s house had all kinds of illustrations everywhere that he never used in books.  There was a special hallway of art dedicated to the children’s books he hadn’t yet written.  I love the idea that Sendak drew pictures before he wrote words.  I wonder if Pulitzer Prize winners see their characters in their heads before they write them down on the page.

I often hear of writers who say that the character talked to them.  I’ve only had that happen to me a few times (it makes us all look like insane freaks) but occasionally characters just won’t leave you alone, especially young ones.  Sometimes just before bed when you’re in that state of sleep that’s still part of the living, and you’re hazing over between memory and dream, a character will come, some voice from the blue and you’ll lean over to the pen and pencil that you inevitably keep next to the bed and you scribble down that voice, that image, those pigtails, and untied shoes, or that apron with the blueberry stains, the mason jar wrapped in warm hands.

Characters come at the oddest of times, when they want you to listen to just their sound, just their delicate stain on the world; their story.   I imagine my wall of Attic of the Wind would be some sort of dedication to Maurice Sendak, and that particular gray of story writing time.

What happens to things that blow away,
Like bubbles you blew one sunny day?
Where did they all go anyway?
To the Attic of the Wind.
It’s not an Attic you reach by stair–
It’s past the clouds 
and the stars somewhere!
And what will we find if we play up there
In the Attic of the Wind?

Illustration by Ati Forberg

I think my favorite part of the story is when you find out how kites are stuck in the attic.  In Australia, I spent a summer on Cronulla Beach flying kites.  I had forgotten how mesmerizing flying a kite can be.  You want to look at the sky and find your small obtuse triangle floating yellow against the blue and the too-burning sun.  Kite flying is on the same plane as dreaming somehow, it’s like the two mingled at a picnic and decided to help people everywhere imagine.  I’m in dream mode right now it seems as I right this.  There’s something about a children’s book that lets you imagine more than an adult book.

My Dandelion Pose (Taken by Sars)

My Dandelion Blowing Pose (Taken by Sars)

I know the pictures in children’s books are already laid out for you (making imagination a bit hard), but tell me you don’t spark a memory with the pages below.  Tell me you aren’t imagining the puffed out cheeks, red-faced summer cheeks, when breath hints through the perfect hole of your lips to make a dandelion take flight.  I remember cupping the weed stem between my thumb and first finger against my lips.  Maybe I whispered something to the plant, asked it to fly today, just once let me blow out every little wisp.  Maybe I just took that moment to breathe in deep enough to give them all flutter.  All I know now is that when I see children blowing dandelions I think how many more will sprout up in the yard because of those tiny little propellers set off into the wind.  I have forgotten half of the word is lion; strong, maned, unruly, alive and the other half dandy; happy, skippy, wonderful.  I think like an adult now and not like a child wanting to hold something precious in my hands and give it wings.

Illustration by Ati Forberg

Yes, the Attic of the Wind can store
All the world’s lost treasure, and even more…
The handkerchief you forgot to hold,
The spelling paper with the star of gold,
The picture you drew for Mother’s Day,
All the things you somehow let drift away
Aren’t exactly lost. So before you cry-
Why not look in the Attic in the sky?


Newsday Tuesday

Favorite Tweets:

Favorite Search Terms:

  • ulysses moore book map: Earlier this week I read an awesome blog about introductions.  The way that Hazel introduces herself by saying, “I don’t read books with maps.” One: I totally want to be her friend and two: I don’t read books with family trees in the beginning.  Oh, how I wish that were true.  I tend to loathe books with family tree lines, but I still pick them up and hope for the best.  Why do we torture ourselves so? And do you have an absolute NO for certain things in books?  Awkward font.  Bad script.  No author bio at the end that talks about their inevitable two kids.  What’s your anti-obsession.
  • yard ornaments to make: I recommend papier-mache flamingos and play-doh gnome couples or just search pinterest because I guarentee three-hundred and seven other women have wondered this same thing.
  • one gleaming image to tell the truth of what is hunting us: I decided against googling this because I didn’t want to find out it was a chunk of a quote, or part of a poem because that would ruin the beauty of this line.
  • harry potter wedding invitations: SEND EVERYONE WANDS BY OWL.
  • beauty and the beast library:
  • pregnancy blog week 22: You know that commercial for EPT where the woman says, “I want to be a mother, just not yet,” and EPT comes up and it says “erase panic today.”  I thought that’s actually what EPT stood for, for a whole day.  If that shows you anything about how close this blog is to a pregnancy blog, there you go.

Book News:


Project 365 | Week 24

Day 162:

This is his good morning side giggle.

First thing in the morning we cuddle, then we check email and look cute with our side ponytail and folded paws.

Then we have staring contests.

Really what’s happening here is being filmed by National Geographic for their “Who’s the Biggest Man?” episode airing after the World Ends in December.

Day 163:

A teaser for Why We Broke Up

This was one of my favorite pages from Why We Broke Up.  What I wanted to write here but what isn’t actually true:  in college my neighbors decided they were going to steal shakers from every restaurant we ever ate at. It turned into this vast collection of 2 am IHOP salt shakers.  Write a story using that premise.  Dress your characters in black.

Day 164: Secret Garden

New York Fashion Week Slug

Who knew slugs looked so stylish in Cheetah Print?

Funk Flowers

Some things just need to be captured.  I wish smell could be captured…well, sometimes.

Lemon Cake

If flowers had a taste – this one would be lemon cake and ginger spice.

Day 165:

Skyline

Everyone takes these photos – we all live on beautiful exotic islands that are somehow surrounded by land, sand, and automobiles.

Day 166:

My life in a photo.

I’m currently worried about my hold book expiring tomorrow.  Does expire mean at eight am, or two pm, or when the library closes?  I’m nervous I won’t get there in time and I won’t be able to return the popular books I have out before the next person on the list gets anxious.  Should I leave a momento between the pages.  Did I forget to remove that ten dollars I used as a bookmark.  If I slide the books through cover down will they land easier than if the pages face the drop.  (I am a crazy person).

Day 167:

What Dinner Means to my Nephew.

Sometimes I wish he was a girl, but then I realize how many lucky charms he can eat and I smash that dream.

Day 168:

This is Why People Have Children.

This will also keep teen girls from getting pregnant.

Montage

I wish I could say he was my mini-me, but he’s definitely my brother’s mini-me; all the way down to the boogers in that second picture from the top left.

Day 169:

Furniture Shopping All Day

Pretty sure my grandma was obsessed with this exact chair and now it sits in my aunt’s hallway.  I was tired after a long day, pooped even, and this regal thang was shining from the thrift store window.


Why We Broke Up

We broke up because he left the inner layer of his camouflage coat in my hall closet and I don’t shoot animals, or hook them. 

Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler (art by Maira Kalman) is one of my new favorite young adult books.  I’m really picky when it comes to young adult books, probably much more picky than I am with adult books which means on a scale from one to ten – I am a giant horned cactus of picky.

Note by Maira Kalman

Anyway, Why We Broke Up is the perfect, perfect, perfect young adult relationship book.  Did I say perfect?  It’s unbelievable.  I felt like I was in high school all over again and nearly fainting when a guy wrote on a piece of notebook paper “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Granted, I never used my locker so there wasn’t any ruled paper notes slotted into the blue metal carriage, but I was passed hallway notes and had a fine time using gel pens to decorate the top of my hand with “I love Johnny” or “I love Justin.”

Unfortunately, all the guys I dated in high school had simple names like John, Justin, Jonathan, Brandon.  And usually these names also have some sort of biblical reference because I’m from the Carolina’s where everyone “honks ’cause they love Jesus.” Keep in mind, this comes from the girl who wants to name her first child Lion.

Min has the most spot-on teenage girl voice.   She slices through friendships to be with Ed Slaterton (the boy with the popular jock name) and refuses to listen to any of her friends when Ed makes obvious errors in judgment.  He’s the quintessential high school sweet talker, the boy who’s hair actually waves in the hallway (and you thought only girls had hair flips).  In my high school, all these boys had superhero names like Starbuck, and Donnellen.  Honestly, my tenth grade year, on AOL instant messenger, I tried to get Starbuck to like me by making him guess who I was and telling him my hair was green.  I was a swimmer so I thought I was being really witty about it all, “yea, you know, green hair, stained by chlorine, I’m such a dark horse.”   Drama class with him fourth period was never the same.  Needless to say I’m awkward and never had a break-up story in that one because I never had a start-up story.

Sigh. Why was I born such a word dork.

I loved this story because it had everything girls do in high school to keep boys.  Let’s make a list, shall we?

  1. Girls share their fondest obsessions.  For me, listening to Brandy every day while staring at the disco light on my ceiling and splaying my hair out on the floor like a mermaid.  For Min, old movies and adventures following possible old movie stars.
  2. Girls give up their friends that are clearly hopelessly in love with them.  For me, Edge who took me to every dance after the boy I was dating got his truck stuck in the mud….again.  For Min, it’s Al who is clearly her perfect counterpart, but stands by with “no opinion” while she swoons over the basketball captain.
  3. Girls start to do things they normally wouldn’t. For Min, sit after school at basketball practice and, start drinking beer because “she’ll want to be drunk for this.”  For me, driving to Greensboro frequently in hopes my mom wouldn’t find out even though she looked at my cell phone log and discovered I was calling from random area codes.
  4. Girls give themselves up.  (We unhinge).

I could think of way more, but a list only works for so long.  In high school, I was exactly what my nephew calls me, a hot mess.  I wore 80s outfits every other day, spotted high heels, neon colors, refused to let my hair curl and made my mother straighten it every morning while I sat on the toilet watching it burn in the mirror.  I wanted one boy who was far away and gave me promise rings, and I wanted the five others who waited in line because I was “interesting.”  That’s certainly a compliment, I think.  I always wanted to be the interesting one, the unattainable, so I always dated boys far away who were practically useless and used me just like I used them, fillers.

There are good ones though, my senior year I dated a boy who brought me flowers on mornings for no occasion, wrote me notes and signed them “superman” and paid for everything.  There are winners, they are few and far between though.  Thus why more girls should watch teen mom and not hook into this.  I’m sure I’ll tell my daughter a thousand times not to date forever in high school and she’ll be committed by the second week of ninth grade.  Dear lord.

Art by Maira Kalman

Anyway, enough of my story.  Why We Broke Up is the story of why Min and Ed break-up.  My favorite part is that every image in the book is a piece of the break-up box.  Now boys, I know this is new to you, but I dare you – please take a peak through a closet you don’t usually use in the house you share with your wife or girlfriend and you might find their break-up box.  A break-up box is all the mementos, photos, movie tickets, prom corsages, scrawled notes, and letter jackets that were ever given.  If your girlfriend/wife is smart she would have burned that box in a trash can fire a long time ago while she got heated and bitter over what an a-hole that last guy was.  If she decided she wanted to show her daughters these photos later, then she’s more like me, and we’re sad together over all those nights we listened to Brandy and cried.  Don’t worry, “No Scrubs” came soon after and we reminded ourselves what suckers we had dated.

Art by Maira Kalman

The break-up box is a classic tool and Min decides to give it back to Ed with all of their love tokens.  Now that I think about it, it actually makes her look even more sad because she saved all the tissues he blew his nose in, and a piece of pepperoni from their shared pizza that dribbled from his lip and fell on the floor (no, not really, I made that all up, but she saved some odd little trinkets of their romance).

I guess I just loved this book because I saw myself in it – like all good books.  I was waiting for the clutch moment at the end that I knew was coming, I was suspicious the whole time, but refused to believe Ed would do such a despicable thing.  Even though, I was in love with Ed too, he really seemed to want to give Min everything and fix everything and make her whole.  It’s always the ones that want, want, want to and don’t need to, that are the culprits.

Read this book.  I’m telling you right now, I’ve told you this whole blog . Read this book, go into your closet and crack the plastic lid of your break-up box.  Pull out those glued together pictures from the plastic sleeve of your binder and the quotes about love that you wrote under each one.  Look him up on facebook, see his new baby’s Charlie Brown head.  Laugh at the headband they chose to make it look smaller.  Listen to some Taylor Swift.  Take a permanent marker to one of his eyes, make him a pirate.  Get all young adult on everyone’s butt.  Open the box, Pandora, Open the book.

Warning: Min talks in only run-on sentences and Ed talks in only fragments.  If you read this blog, and find it coherent, you probably don’t mind either of those things.

Here are some Break-Up Stories from The Why We Broke Up Project.

Here’s the quote I scribbled in my journal:

“In the bathroom mirror there was even a smudge of dirt on my neck, and I wiped it off in a hurried flush.  The cheap paper towel so rough against my skin that I looked for a scrape in my reflection and then, meeting my own eyes, stood for a sec and tried to figure, like all girls in all mirrors everywhere, the difference between lover and slut” (Handler, 162).


Newsday Tuesday

I’m exhausted today, please excuse spelling errors.

Favorite Tweets:

Favorite Search Terms:

  • we cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over our heads but we can refuse…to let them build nests…in our hair: This search term actually made me google this exact thing and the image to your right is what I found. AWESOME.
  • books that goes with metaphors: I would hope all books go with metaphors, but unfortunately that’s just not the case.
  • cassie’s bridal shower gift bingo cards: I would be the chick who played bingo at her bridal shower, and I’d invite all the oldies to come too.  Not only bingo, but bunko, penuckle, the list goes on…
  • captain planet pumping iron: He sure does have some big muscles (I wrote knuckles here originally…I’m so tired.  Men do have hairy knuckles though) but I think Pop-eye could take him after a serious can of spinach.

Books News:

Natasha Tretheway Reading, “Beyond Katrina”


“Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair…” ― Susan Polis Schutz

Let me preface this review with this: some of the writing was beautiful in Wild and I do adore Cheryl Strayed on The Rumpus as “Dear Sugar.”  I will continue reading that column forever and you should too.  Here is a link after you read my ranting (and literally raving) review.

I’m sure Cheryl Strayed had a reason for waiting twenty years to write this journey.  Or maybe she didn’t try at all until now.  She may have nursed her life back together with tips on coffee and breakfast specials at the diner she inevitably worked at after the trail.   I don’t know what happened in twenty years to make her “write down the bones” but it came out in Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail after two babies and a marriage to the one man we don’t find in the book.  (That wasn’t a sentence filled with judgment, by the way).

Appalachian Trail, Summer 2009

While I don’t normally read Oprah books (ever), and I waited for this on the library loan list for over two months before it finally sat on a shelf with my full name stuffed into the open side, I decided to read it because I’ve hiked a trail before.  Gasp, you thought I sat behind this computer all day and didn’t explore my world.  It’s true, I don’t even own hiking boots anymore (I do own some strappy unwashed mountain girl Chaco’s though) but hiking is at the center of what I dream for myself.

When I imagine myself – by myself – I imagine this rugged, unshaved, heels one day, boots the next kind of gal who goes off exploring territories filled with pine sap, wild horses and nylon tents.  I see myself with one long braid laying against my spine, and mud on my shoulders from where I scratched a mosquito bite too hard.   If there’s anything I like more than writing and reading, it’s being among the trees.

All our wisdom is stored in the trees - Santosh Kalwar

Wild by Cheryl Strayed

I believe everything happened in Wild except the conversations.  There’s no way a person remembers conversations word for word after twenty years.  She definitely used some liberty with these direct quotes.  I tend to believe the “wow” words when she met the man she fell in bed with because we always remember those conversations with wild crushes that we never see again. (Usually those conversations don’t quite go our way). They’re welded into our bones or something, repeated day after day, remember that time….

I also tend to believe her conversations with her dying mother because no one can seem to lose those.  I wish I could forget the sound of my grandmother’s “do, do, do” from her new stroke dialect, but I want to forever remember it as one of the only sounds I have from her that still works and beats.

Most of the time during Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, I wanted to shake Cheryl Strayed.

Honestly, I’m pissed at her idea of redemption.

Horn Reviews @ Tumblr – Thanks THERUMPUS.NET as well.

She didn’t open up her wound to the world or fill it back with the wild of nature – she was still Cheryl Strayed who relied heavily on her sexual desire to point her in a direction.  I feel wrong for saying all this like I’ve somehow gone against the entire gender of women.  For some reason, it was in that moment that I felt like Strayed didn’t learn a thing while she was on the trail – she was still impulsive, unreasonable, and couldn’t actually stay alone and fix herself without the touch of a man.

I think part of my big issue is that I’ve trusted Cheryl Strayed in her “Dear Sugar” columns for as long as she’s been writing them.  On the other hand, I’ve watched one of my closest friends sleep with random men until she felt like she was almost whole again only to go into another despairing month, another down spot, another sleep all day, tissues crumpled all over the bed, never shower kind of month.  I watched her give herself away because it’s not true that you can just have sex with someone and not mean it in some deep way (or maybe that’s just my sentimental way of looking at it).  I believe in my little heart, bigger than grinch size, that anytime bodies intwine there is a give and a take.  You are giving something of yourself to the other person (and it’s more than just heat).  Both of these things made it hard for me to read that Cheryl Strayed, in a way, strayed back into her former self.  We’ve all abused something, I sound like such a judging-jerk right now, but I so badly wanted her to just take that time to herself; cherish her body for still walking after her feet were blistered beyond quick repair, cherish herself for being able to do this without someone touching those intimate parts of her. She made a point several times to tell readers that he didn’t even ask her a question about herself.  That upsets me and clearly it upset her too or she wouldn’t have repeated it several times.

————————————————————————

The moments of her mother were the hardest for me.  Lady’s (mother’s horse) death made me want to come home again for the moment when my parents put down the cat I had for 15 years, Puss.  She’s buried, like my grandfather always wanted to be, under the magnolia in our backyard.  Lady’s death was the most profound moment of this entire book for me.  I can imagine myself hiding behind a tree, staring at the shot gun, feeling like the boy in Old Yeller just before he put his eye to the scope and measured the exact line to Yeller’s head, Lady’s white star forehead.  I could cry now just thinking about that yellow dog, and chestnut horse.

It was the trail that ruffled me as well.  I wanted a book that was the diary of her journey.  How does it feel to walk alone in the woods for weeks at a time searching out the sounds of water pouring over smoothed rocks.  How did people smell when you hugged them.  After a walk, my mother always smells like freshly mowed grass.   What did the paper of the letter’s she sent look like, what was on the front of the cards from friends all over the country.  I think a lot of Wild is sensual, and what the eyes can see, but where’s the heart.  Why did a bear only alert a whistle and then we moved on.  FACK, a bear, I would have written nine paragraphs on how scared I was and probably peed down my leg, leaving my mark on the trail.  Wild is certainly a story of the beauty of hiking, but it isn’t a story about the conscience of hiking.  Not once could I picture the image of a mountain range in front of me through Strayed’s writing and believe me I really wanted to see the Three Sisters because that’s the name of one of my favorite bookshops.

Illustration by Daniel Horowitz @ The NY Times

I have one memory from the Appalachian Trail that I will never forget.   I climbed the highest point of a rock face with three of my girl campers.  We were burned, sweating, my hair was matted to my forehead and in a wicked braid where it had stayed for more than four days.  I would undo that hair-tie in two more days with kinks where each strand of hairs folded into the other.  I showered last at the end of the week so I got to look at myself in the mirror; count my extra freckles, the kinks, how I compared to myself before this hike.

We were warriors on that rock face, staring at the sun.  I held my pocket camera snapping photos of them; muddy and gorgeous.  We were laughing so much even though we had only eaten granola for the entire day.  I had pieces stuck deep in the valleys of my teeth and no brush to push them out.

And my blondest girl said, “let’s pretend we’re on America’s Next Top Model and pose up here.”

She was right. We were nothing but beautiful on those mountain ridges.  Maybe nature isn’t about finding what was lost, but about finding the best version of who we are.


Project 365 | Week 23

This week was probably my least inspired week while participating in Project 365.  My mother had to literally carry my family outside and make me take self-timer photos of us in the front yard.  Last night, the deer ate all my mother’s impatiens leaving the sad little stems withering at the edge of our garden plot.  Funny thing is, just yesterday I learned that deer are the only animals around (squirrels and bunnies) that eat flowers right off the stems.  I wonder what a flower tastes like, I only ate mud pies as a child.

Day 155: 

“She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald

All the men in my life have green thumbs so they’ve taken to sharing flowers.  It adds new meaning to the idea of bringing flowers to a date.  These are the gerber daisies from the boy’s front yard to the pot on the side of our house.

Day 156:

The fun Jas and I have with photo booth. Thanks Steve Jobs. Love, Cat Lady’s everywhere.

There are girls in bedrooms that are hyped from the gym and craving eggs, but all they have is cats.

Day 157:

Sunday Church

My mom is a photo-pusher.  She’s an enabler of photo albums, cluttering a house with pictures of people you love, and making my dad and I pose near blue hydrangeas and in our “Sunday best.”

Day 158:

Cupcake Shoppe

Cupcake Shoppe Register

My dear friend Catie and I walked all the way up the giant Glenwood hill for these delectable treats.  I just love the smell of bakeries, and this particular Cupcake Shoppe has my favorite bronze old-time register.  I had a salad for lunch so I decided to just go ahead and coat my nose in buttercream.  My mom sighed and said, “Oh my God, did you eat that this week?” when she saw this photo.  I’m still a rebel at twenty-four.

Day 159:

Jinger’s stampage

Australia: Society of Stamp Counters

“Here’s the mail, it never fails.  It makes me want to wag my tail.  When it comes I want to yell – MAIL!” – Blue’s Clues

Day 160:

Hope.

Read small printed caption for details.  All this industry and roots still grow.

Day 161:

Laundry Day

Not only does he enjoy climbing into the dryer, but he also likes the feel of warm jeans.  Don’t we all?


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