wildest places

in no particular order (except my own...)

• underneath the lifeguard tower on Silver Strand Beach while the grunion were running

fifth floor balcony, student services building

car in mom's driveway (Wade and the gearshift)

car in mom's driveway (Brooke)

tent with First Love's mom knocking on the canvas

tent with four other people sleeping, unaware, no indication beforehand, no speaking, no further awknowledgement

in my bed but with the random poker guy who stopped by looking for "Bud"

men's bathroom at Twelve Oaks (with White Magic)

men's bathroom at The Deerhunter (with the gay bartender)

women's bathroom at The Pie (with that mohawk guy)

in the drug deal room (Black Magic)

balcony at Plastique

boat that we had broken into on the Great Salt Lake

apartment hallway because we were locked out

underneath upstairs pool table at The Zepher

driving and parked on 6th South and 3rd east (and in the Avenues)

on the picnic table outside the youth hostel

Mark's bathroom (John)

It'sComplicatedLoveYouInMyOwnWayRelationship's bathroom (with his best friend)

John's Dad's Bar's bathroom

Clete's car (but not Clete)

gravel at the desert show (Roger)

Dave V's car at the desert show

what-his-name's living room floor (did either of us even know who's house we were in?)

Tammy's back yard

Kurt's rec room floor

(bathrooms seem to be popular~don't they?)

and you have a right to tell me how to feel...exactly why?

Quite sometime ago i had jotted down my thoughts about The Girls Who Went Away and then posted them to my annotations/review on goodreads as well. Last year a perfect stranger with the user name Erin had then commented on my thoughts/feelings which boiled my blood a little every time i saw it but kept deciding there was no point to even trying a response.

I wasn't sure about your point of view until the very end of your review. Being pregnant and having a child changes people. There is no way to explain it, and no way to create that change but to have a child. You will never understand the desperate love until you have a child.

~Erin (whoever that is...)

Yesterday, for some reason, i finally decided i had to respond, for whatever it was worth:

• I'm sorry that you had to slog through my ENTIRE review to understand my feelings (you could have stopped reading--and there were three people who admitted to liking it!)
  
• I never claimed to be inside my mother's head and know what she felt or thought, but YOU were not inside her head either, and even though some feelings are SOMEWHAT universal that does not mean she was as connected or felt the same way you do.
  
• You have no idea where i am in terms of motherhood so you can't tell ME how to feel about it or what to understand (one of the reasons i can't relate to what my mother went through is because of some of those same feelings you describe...)
  
• She never has sought me out so it seems she might not have cared to.
  
• This is about MY feelings, my issues and thoughts about something i have had to deal with my whole life.
  
• It is also about my not caring about hers and you can't tell me that i must care!

in the er

There i was, sitting ever so calmly at the reference desk, horrible migraine had not yet kicked in when i started to get really dizzy (even though i was sitting still in my chair.) About 10 minutes later my vision started shaking (seeing double because everything was moving so fast, as i'm trying to convince myself that this is just a new migraine symptom that i will have to get used to), 10 minutes later i completely lost my sense of balance and was falling (making other people walk back to the computer room because i was unable to.) At this point my manager was wanting to call 911 but i didn't want to pay for an ambulance. Started shaking uncontrollable, had my mom come get me (my manager and a coworker were on either side of me, supporting me, escorting me to the car and i still fell). Had to be wheeled in on a gurney and they did a cat scan thinking i may have had a stroke.
My mom came into the ER with me, which i never let her do because i'm an adult and can handle myself (plus i don't always appreciate her interrupting to clarify or add to what i'm talking, but i wasn't feeling all that capable at the moment. Triage asks me the usual "What medications have you taken lately and i try to go through what my memory allows but words don't come easily to my tongue (and memory is a little difficult to master as well.)

Laying down doesn't help too much, world still spins. I tell the nurse i just want her to give me something to knock me out. She says "Oh no you don't want that, why would you want it."

"Because i just want to sleep/be unconscious than experience this." Plus i wasn't entirely serious.

Once i'm chatting with the ER doc i remembered that glass of wine i had the night before (heavy partier that i am) and mentioned it to her and she rolled her eyes (like stupid girl, that has no influence on anything,) then i told her that i had smoked a little marijuana for my migraine and nausea which made her decide i was some kind of druggie and that my current problems reaching for words were related to marijuana affecting memory (even though i smoke it only occasionally and never have memory problems at any other time~again she rolls her eyes and says it doesn't matter how much i smoke.) She started grilling me about where i got the weed because of problems with suppliers and i'm thinking "do you know every drug dealer in town and weather there products are pure (and wouldn't they usually not want to lace weed with anything since other drugs are usually more expensive)?"

Then she wanted to know what i'd done in the past even though it's been twenty years or so, i glance at my mom because i really didn't want to subject her to the entire list of my rather extensive recreational history. Doctor says "time for full disclosure."

I run through my list for her (probably missed a few--i think my list includes pretty much everything excluding heroin.) So then she told me i was just having flashbacks or that it was bad marijuana (which seems rather unlikely because i haven't ever had flashbacks and i had already smoked from that same bag.)

Final diagnosis: vertigo. She gives me Valium and tells me to see my neurologist in the morning (and she mentioned how wonderful my neurologist was. The Valium just makes me sleepy (which, i suppose, is not bad, but it didn't help me with much else.

When i stumbled into my regular neurologist's office the next day she said she didn't think it was anything to do with drugs but wasn't too fond of the weed just because it's illegal and you don't know where it comes from and she doesn't want me getting arrested.

The Antivert she gave me was much more effective with the nausea and, somewhat with the dizziness than the Valium. I couldn't walk straight (and constantly fell down) for about three days, and the world didn't stop spinning (along with the accompanying nausea) for about a week and a half. Was bored as hell because i couldn't read and couldn't watch television too well.

Today is my first day back at work, still a little shaky and very little sense of balance, but i am doing much better.

what isn't now

History Mutates
and you effortlessly, indifferently glide over the gaps
i have left behind

you say:
this was the place
and this was the time
and these were the people

but I am not there
as if i never was

my existence disappears

from pictures
and from memory

pieces of who i was
lay

abandoned

as i was
Once

without thought

and i am left with Those pieces
just as i am left with the Absence of you

Forever became Finite

and i wonder
why, how, when

Who you were
made you who you are
and even if that once-was you
is passed
(and will never come back)
how can you forget it, erase it?
how do you change it to never-was?

i don't miss you
(much)
nor do i want you
again
But
Sometimes nostalgic, small thoughts
of who you were,
who i was

come unbidden

thoughts I cannot lose

hey... it's me...

did you notice my absence? have you missed me (if you have i'm about to make you regret it...)

i have been here and i always have good intentions to blog along but the intended never seems to actually happen...

WARNING:

DO NOT READ THIS UNLESS YOU FEEL LIKE LISTENING TO THE RAMBLINGS OF A SOMEWHAT DERANGED MIND

i am discombobulated

My current insomnia bout has escalated into mania and my mind is racing (my computer[S?!?] are not racing with me)

I was so happy when i got a wonderful new laptop for christmas because i had become so very weary with my large, heavy, slower laptop that would often overheat and shutdown without warning even though i had taken all the tedious precautions.

My new laptop had a few problems connecting to my wireless network in my bedroom (i would be connected and then suddenly it would go away if the computer happened to move--hello---laptop... ) this particular problem was one i never had with my toshiba but i attempted to deal (even though internet in my bedroom is extremely important--my need to watch television shows and movies in there without an actual television...)
then...

this weekend the power cord to my dell suddenly seemed to deliver no power to the computer (this in and of itself is peturbing enough but also rather disturbing because i am already on the third power cord for my toshiba because they also stopped working--apparently a flaw with the model i have but given the vague memory i have of the same thing happening to an even (more?) prior computer i begin to feel that i am electronically cursed (and having the experience that i do i am extra careful with power cords...)

Back in the day my walkman (what we used to use before iPods were invented), vacum cleaner, and VCR all went out at the same time--i also walked into my mother's den once and as soon as i entered the couch exploded because of the octipi of electrical chords underneath.)

Anyway, after rouble shooting with dell i sent the computer off to have the motherboard replaced and currently i am working on my old, cumbersome toshiba and a laptop i borrowed from my mother--both these computers seem to be so slow that i am finding myself doing one thing on the borrowed toshiba in the living room and doing another thing on my toshiba in the bedroom (my toshiba has to live on a chill hub to try and decrease the chances of the aforementioned overheating) i find myself running back and forth between the bedroom and the living room because i can do something on one computer, let that process while i complete some other task---not terribly efficient
I have tried installing a newer, faster version of my router but am unable to do that with the "help" of both Dell and my internet provider (often after receiving such help i have to resort to my own technical skills which usually work out better than theirs)

kind of crazy how lack of sleep (for days on end) can scramble your mind and body more than the hallucinogenic drugs you used in your twenties...

oh . . .

the memories . . . . . . .

campfire tales

i remember lying in that tent

on the hard ground
night silent
night dark
awake like always

Five other people

Asleep?

and the body next to mine

Static Electricity

Almost

slowly i moved

my smallest finger

closer

twitch

so the very tip

was touching

very tip

(that tip burning like the earlier campfire as the man stepped through it) then
twitch

so outside edge

of finger

touched outside edge of finger

time moved

so that seconds

ticked like minutes (longer even)

and minutes moved even slower and further apart

i could feel every tick

within my body

as each twitch

twitched

as i wondered

does he sleep?

am i alone in this full waking?

Then

the hands
touched

just barely

just the outside
edge of pinkie
stretching along each millimetre of skin of the edge of the hand

(is there another word for hand~for that bundle of nerves that feels every, each touch?)

every feeling cell of my body
was concentrated on that one small piece of my skin

(i could feel the enormity of that largest organ)

all consciousness, my brain, my whole being, only alive within my hand

my heart beating only there

As the time stretched endlessly by

(eternities passed, and were felt, electrically)

the skin stretched to arms

then, ever possible, if possible

skin stretched slowly along the side of torsos

sliding down

slipping to thighs

knocking to knees

feet brushing together

when did it change

to consciousness?

to lips on lips?

to body on body?

full on touch

full skin on skin

skin to skin (all skin, each skin)

those nerve endings awake

electric

on fire

like never before

When did it change to wordless knowledge?

Silent, sweet intimacy with a stranger

Soundless

a tent with four other people sleeping soundly

on

That i will never forget

Will you?

probably already have. Probably did long ago (soon afterwards). Too much wine, too much cocaine. What an odd night. With the crazy drunken man. And the gunshots. And what came after, in the tent.

Is it okay to relish moments like these? To revel in their memory? Excusable to excesses of youth?

nothing is ever quite the same

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away, when i was but a young girl...

My mother was working for her Educational Psycology PhD advisor (for the dissertation that was forever in progress but never materialized because of the independent child she was raising all by herself~among other things) in a private consultation business. I would go to their testing center while she worked and play for hours among the educational toys/testing equpment or read the library books/assesment materials (it was all good entertainment in my eyes). There was one book i read over and over again (actually i'm sure there were many books i read over and over again.)

A while ago, on one of my library discussion lists someone had a patron query about a book concerning a dog who lied around all day and then became a star of a commercial. This struck a cord with me as one of those books i loved as a child. Many answers were given~none of them sounded right to me. I could picture all the illustrations (could even visualize the dog~but couldn't name the type~Bassett Hound). Finally someone came up with the right book: Something Queer is Going On (a Mystery) by Elizabeth Levy (sadly out of print now, i believe); and i rejoiced to have rediscovered my old friend. I looked it up in our system and we did indeed have a copy~it was apparently part of a series (of which we only had a few titles left) but i did pull in the book in question and Something Queer at the Library (a Mystery) (but of course).

Now that i have read these two titles i have reached a conclusion i have reached before and that is new to almost no adult: you really can't re-experience your childhood with the same wonder, and sometimes, even trying can taint some of your memories of that childhood.

Although i still recommend this series (and i'm still in love with Fletcher the Bassett Hound~and the fact that Jill, his owner, has a large mass of red curls atop her head...) Something Queer is Going On just isn't the same book i remember (and maybe it is the small paperback format~i remember reading a large hardcover in at least semi-color but who knows how accurate my memory is...) The paperbacks still contain the same, very charming, illustrations (including some very helpful annotation which is part of what i always enjoyed). I think that Something Queer is Going On, perhaps as the first of the series, is the better of the two i read (and doesn't seem to start somewhere in the middle.) Basically this is the story of a dog who goes missing (a dog "who never needs finding, because he never goes anywhere..."), his owner, Jill, and her friend, Gwen, who set off to find him.

Something Queer at the Library concerns some vandalized library books, and Gwen and Jill's attempt to uncover the culpret and motive (actually not a bad subject to cover~though i wonder how many young readers would recognize the library of the late seventies~no matter.) Jill wants to enter Fletcher in All-State Dog Show and since he has never competed before she goes to the library to do some research (now there's a novel idea.) The two girls find certain pictures cut out and set out to discover which pictures are missing and why.

Both the books make cute stories and i would love to find a copy of the hard cover (if i hadn't sworn off book collecting for lack of space... like that's a resolution i can keep...)

"Is it possible that every aspect of my life is in disarray?"

Here's an interesting idea (or horrifying, depending on who you are~like me, just as a for instance):

Let's just say you're a woman (with me so far?), haven't had sex for a few years, and suddenly find yourself pregnant. Impossible, you say. Not so, says Melissa Clark, or rather her novel Swimming Upstream, Slowly does. It’s a premise for much thought, to say the very least. The book itself is also quite entertaining, if light fare (and every now and then~even a bit more now than then, we need some light fare in our lives~but I can only speak for myself, of course.)

So, Sasha Salter, is the woman in question, the star and producer of a highly successful children’s educational television show (the upshot of her Master’s thesis in educational psychology no less) with a platonic male best friend (who isn’t gay {?!?}) and no boyfriend in sight. A routine ob/gyn visit reveals her with child state and the search for the would-be father ensues (apparently it’s not just the most recent culprit but her entire sexual history which is luckily not phone book length.)

Believe it or not, there are a few predictable plot points (but then again how many stories are there in the naked city REALLY~i REFUSE to believe it’s one million~okay so i may be feeling a little punchy here) but i did really like this book. Although i must take issue with the fact that Sasha saw Jeff Daniels in Los Angeles picking up his dry cleaning when anyone who is really in the know would know that he is running around the streets of Ann Arbor (as he lives in nearby Chelsea~even if he was in LA filming a movie, say, he would have “people” to pick up his dry-cleaning, right?) running into people on sidewalks (to the point of almost knocking them over) without even apologizing. I was a huge fan (almost to the point of infatuation~forget Almost~he was THE MAN for much of my early- to mid-twenties~Something Wild, anyone?) until I was nearly flat on my back, sans said apology and thinking "Hey, Jeff Daniels just ran into me!" (like, damn that Jeff Daniels he's always doing things like that...) Then i thought, "HEY, Jeff Daniels just ran into me! (like, damn, that Jeff Daniels...)

Anyway…

Didn’t really detract from the novel, though…

"Running fast needs my crying breath."

and everyone always dies

I don’t know whether it was the title or the name Ursula Hegi that reminded me there was some book she wrote that i always thought i should read (tho i couldn’t remember which one) that made me want to read The Worst Thing I’ve Done but something did. And i’m glad i did. It is a story of childhood best friends who become lovers, spouses, adulterers, and betrayers. Daughters who are also sisters and mothers. It is the story of the enmeshed families we create (but aren’t all true families entangled and enmeshed?) I found myself inhabiting this book in a way that i live so few, i found my mind wandering sometimes and that i would have to go back to read pages again, flip back to the beginning; not for lack of interest but because the novel would recall so many things in my own life (or at least make me think of them~because i’ve never lived a life like this).

• Things like:when my best friend attempted suicide in high school and i was so angry at her

• didn't remind me of, but made me think of, again, how and why, i don't seem to keep any of my friends from childhood, or highschool, only my best friend from college, and only a few from previous jobs. Do we just drift apart? Am i so unlikable? So unimportant? Or are friendships not that important to me?

• the two times in my life when men have stood in front of me and forced me to choose, then and there, between them and someone else. Both times it seemed so surreal (one time i was on ecstasy, one time i was on mushrooms~that might have made a difference…) The first time i was twenty-one and i choose my boyfriend over my friends simply because i knew they would forgive me and he never would (which was proven to be true.) The second time was out in the desert where a bunch of bands were playing and my some guy from my past (the guy who had given me the mushrooms which i had decided to take when i was to drunk to make such a decision) had a brother from out of state who had a grudge with the first-date i was with (how they knew each other~i have no idea). GuyFromPast made me decide between him and FirstDate to drive me home and it all reminded me of the first time.

• It reminded me of digging for clams on the beaches of Alaska (and having~and eat~clam chowder later)

• of the pain, the realness, the seriousness, the trauma, and the life of childhood. People always talk about the carefreeness and innocence of childhood but those people must forget what childhood really is.

• of the Take Back the Night rallies i would go to in Ann Arbor when i would feel such a feeling of power and solidarity

• or peace rallies i would attend at the beginning of the war when we all felt so alone in our cause

• or of the times i say (usually in my head~but sometimes not, when i’m drunk~”hey listen, chickie”

• and all the warring voices i hear in my head (just kidding on that one~sort of…)

Not that any of that matters or makes any sense to you but this is for me, right (and no, as semi-anonymous as this may be, i'm not yet ready to share the worst thing i've done~or even figure out what that is)? I want to remember what i thought of the book when I write about it here. But isn’t that what books are supposed to do~draw you in so completely you forget where they end and you begin. At least certain books?

Annie listens to two talk radio psychologists with conflicting views on life and relationships even when the radio is off (and talks back to them, saying “hey listen, chickie…”) She and her husband Mason constantly bet on everything as well as one up each other on the worst thing they’ve done for the day, or the week. They are raising Opal, the daughter of Annie’s parents who were killed on their wedding day in a car accident in which Opal was born by caesarian section, as their own. The novel is told in the different voices of Annie; Mason; Opal; Jake, their best friend from childhood; and Stormy, a friend Annie’s mother called sister when they immigrated from Germany (the narrative switches often between first person and omniscient.) The book is also interwoven with what amounts to what would be a long suicide note from Mason who has hung himself shortly before the novel begins (though the action switches back and forth between past and present.)

All the voices of this novel ring so true. I love when an author is able to write the feel child’s thoughts feelings and without falling prey to writing in a childish voice. I think Hegi is able to get into the mind of each character without being overly sensitive or cold to any (except maybe Mason but perhaps that is appropriate with his death…) I felt a great understanding of relationships here.

Perhaps somewhat depressing to some, but well worth it. Maybe i'll have to go check out some more Hegi novels now. Just ever increasing my pile...

you may think you know how it ends...

Ophelia never was one of my favorite Shakespearean heroines (perhaps because my acting teachers were often suggesting i play her~and i was always a little partial to Juliet~ever since we first read the play in ninth grade English). I always saw Ophelia as a bit weak and victim-like~i suppose i'm not the only one~and named a cat i got after my other "tough" cat Tiny disappeared when a roommate let her out into a strange neighborhood (i saw the cat as somewhat weak~that cat later became my baby who no other cat~at first~would ever match and i never knew if i came to see the character of Ophelia differently because of the cat or because of a re-reading of Hamlet...)

Of course any re-writing of the master (and Hamlet always has been one of my favorite plays~i actually always wanted to play Hamlet) is going to leave a few detractors and there were definitely aspects of Lisa Fiedler's Dating Hamlet: Ophelia's Story that left me none too happy (i.e. certain changes to Polonius and the gravedigger~but what can you do really?) Ophelia isn't quite the strong, feminist character you might hope for (she was still quite head over heels for Hamlet~but she is a teenager after all~also living in eleventh century Denmark) but she can definitely hold her own (and even has some career aspirations~maybe she is a bit of a feminist after all...~i mean she does act for herself, what more is there?). She does manage quite a few of the behind-the-scenes plot machinations for herself and you can also see why there might be a bit of a real romance for her and the Danish prince (he's not quite as wishy-washy as some have played him, either.) Some stuff that i was thinking sounded a bit like another Shakespeare plot was explained slightly (if a bit too cutely, pertly, patly, etc) at the end.

All in all, a quick (and isn't that what most of us want from a young adult novel, anyway?) breezy, enjoyable read (especially if you're a fan of the bard).

dream a little dream of me

I have a cold (i get many, many colds, in case you haven't noticed~compromised-immune-systems-are-us.) So i haven't been doing much reading, i've been watching movies, mostly. I discovered a wonderful new television series (well i shouldn't call it new since it was canceled before a full season, but thank god for the whole DVD trend...), so if you get a chance you really should check out WonderFalls. Of course i'm keeping up with Weeds (though it's gotten a bit dark and frightening this season it is still such a wonderful show...) I've also watched Ossessione (i'm trying to work my way through 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die ~though i wasn’t entirely impressed by this one~a 1943 Italian flick which was alright, i.e., not a waste of my viewing time, it felt a touch predictable and derivative~but i suppose i’m looking at it through 20^th/21^st century eyes…), Henry & June (not as great as the build-up i had given it), Accepted (yeah, a silly, stupid little comedy but it WAS entertaining right up to the obligatory motivational speech at the end~and we can all use a little entertainment now and then, right?), Guinevere (a movie i just stumbled upon and really liked), The Opposite of Sex (loved it!), and Pan’s Labyrinth (brilliant, beautiful, y muy triste~i can't recommend it highly enough.)

I’ve also been doing a great deal of sleeping (guess it goes along with the whole cold thing) so i thought i might share a few tidbits of my non-waking life. Yesterday afternoon i dreamt i was in my childhood home again with my mother and sister and my sister was much younger than she is now (as she often is in my dreams). She started out about nine or ten or so and was in our backyard with a few of her little friends. More and more of her friends started joining the group as my sister slowly morphed into a teenager (isn’t it interesting how these types of changes can happen in dreams and they seem completely normal?). As my mom and i were viewing the civilities through the window i was eventually instructed to go break up the party and send everyone home (something i did not feel inclined to do.) So my mother reluctantly goes marching out there but as i continue to observe through the window things develop into a full-fledged bacchanalia which is completely out of control. I go out to try and restore order only to find my mother chopping wood for a bonfire… I’m shouting for everyone to go home and threatening to call the police which is having absolutely no effect. I finally give up and decide to go back into my house (which has actually morphed into My current house in that endearing dreamlike way) and as i’m rounding the corner i see a paddy wagon pull up with some big dude bursting out the back (the personification of the bulldog in those old Looney Tunes cartoons) looking for the party (because apparently in this particular universe paddy wagons drop people off at the nearest party immediately upon their release from prison, which reminds me of the time I was at some theatre AfterShow party in college and a paddy wagon pulled up and one of the party goers {an extremely well-dressed young man with a champagne glass in his hand and an extremely well-coiffed companion on his arm~don’t know where they had come from} asked, ever so politely, of the approaching officer, “Oh, is this the shuttle to the next party?” It is an image i will always hold dear, right next to the one of the high school dance exodus i was at when everyone descended upon the Seven-Eleven and one guy shouted to his pal {as said pal was being led away in handcuffs}, “So I guess this means you won’t be giving us a ride home…” No, indeed.)

Sorry for the digression, back to the dream: the large, threatening ex-con who seems to communicate in grunts and roars sees me round the house and walk up onto the porch and starts to follow, looking for the bash of the century. I dash in the door, triple lock it, call weakly for the cats but leave them to fend for themselves as i feebly search for the little poor-man’s panic cubby hole which is newly-installed (as of this dreaming in fact) in my bedroom closet. And then i wake up. Meaning in this? I have no idea. But to truly appreciate the absurdity of this dream you would have to really know my family~just suffice it to say that i am the black sheep of the family and my sister and mother have fleece as white as snow (to coin a phrase).

So my second dream involved me moving back on to my grad school campus (i never did live exactly on campus~and why i would move back is unclear) with my college (now-married) friend, and on the first day there i was making as many enemies as possible without being able to stop myself. Whilst demonstrating to some of my new-found enemies what i call my patented bouncing-off-the-walls dance technique which actually involves climbing and bouncing off the walls in true dream-like fashion, knocking about as much newly arranged furniture in said enemies rooms as possible, bounced down the hall collecting more and more enemies as i went until i was finally bouncing for my very life.

I finally escaped into some noxious-chemical-dispensing room where i sprayed noxious-chemicals at my approaching enemies and it was at this point where one of my ex-boyfriends (or actually not an ex-boyfriend, shall we call him an ex-unrequited-crush who i haven't thought of in years), who in some dream-within-a-dream or shall we call it awake-within-awake was somehow standing by (standing by with other actual ex-boyfriends, i might add) to change the dream if things started to go awry (?) by some prearranged signal (??) so by whatever this prearranged signal is he signals me that he has a surprise waiting for me in the next room... So i venture into the next room where some kind of dinner party is taking place with all sorts of famous people in attendance (being no name-dropper all i won't mention any names~just no they are big names...) Unfortunately the noxious fumes people were hot on my tail so i had to run on through the dinner party and quickly awaken.

If that's not convoluted enough for you, can you please tell me what it means?

striking a blow for feminists everywhere

too bad i can't remember it.

Neither can i remember why i was reminded of it to retell it this particular morning but it does go to show you why you should not mess with this rampaging librarian (or perhaps not get her to rampaging in the first place...)

Back upon my early college years. I'm attending an opening night party for one of the acting showcase shows. I'm extremely drunk. I feel compelled to approach the lead actor and tell him just how excellent i believed his performance to be that particular evening. So i go up to him, shake his hand, and as i remember it, we were chatting quite pleasantly. I vaguely remember the conversation somehow evolving into something having to do with women in pornography films but i don't remember taking any particular offence to any such conversation.

The next thing i do remember is Mr. LeadActor swaying in front of me, splattering blood all over my shirt, then passing out, while multiple people are pulling me back and telling me to calm down. I have never remembered delivering the knockout punch it was reported that i did. I remember wanting to go talk to Mr. LeadActor, who was lying down in the next room, and everyone telling me it wasn't a good idea. I remember everyone telling me how great i was for standing up for women's rights. I remember having no clue what was going on. And i remember the one guy who seemed to have any sensitivity for the loss and confusion i was going through who took me in the bathroom to help me wash the blood out of my shirt.

I realize now he probably just wanted me to take my shirt off.

Flash forward a couple of years, when drunk again, i again knock out a guy with one punch. Again i don't remember the punch. At least this time i remember the offense. Not taking no for an answer.

Interestingly enough, Mr. LeadActor always saw me as someone he wanted to date after i punched him out. I guess i was his kind of woman. Colour me Shy.

"We can stand at the edge of the river and watch the sun tumbling down."

This is Just to Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

~WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

I remember when i first encountered this poem~ninth grade Honors English (my all time favorite teacher~most inspirational~props again Mr. Mathis...) I seem to remember one of those painful sessions of analyzation~searching for meaning, symbolism, wondering if there were any right or wrong answers (which brings back nightmares of yet another teacher~this time college and sixteenth century poetry~everything i said and wrote~was WRONG, WRONG, WRONG and somehow i could do better~it was the first time that i really understood what it felt like to be the "picked-upon-'dumb'-student"~absolutely hated it [this same teacher was also my English minor advisor and in advising sessions he was perfectly pleasant~nice even...) Anyway, couldn't this famous poem (and i do love the poem~perhaps just for its lovely simplicity) just be a note left on the kitchen table or the refrigerator door?

Alice Kuipers' first novel, life on the refrigerator door is just that~notes between a mother and daughter left on the refrigerator door (a somewhat refreshing form of communication in this day of cell phones, email, and im-ing). This is a wonderful book; its 220 pages can be easily read in less than a few hours, but the emotions will linger long after the last page is finished.

It is as touching (if not more so) for what is left unsaid as what is said. I have an advanced reader's edition which i picked up because it was there and it looked undaunting. Today while i was cataloging (ever the librarian, i) newly acquired books (unfortunately a few still accumulate though i have tried to curb certain impulses...) i picked it up, started reading and couldn't stop.

I never felt like Kuipers was constrained by her form and what went untold could be sensed through what was told. You know from the blurbs that all will not go well with these characters but it is still a most compelling read: short, sweet, and entirely moving...

I will leave you with one of Claire's notes to her mother:

When I look at you

I see the woman I want to be

Strong and brave

Beautiful and free

Claire

P.S. I love you

up in the night

I remember way back in the dark ages (like 1993 or thereabouts) of the internet i would sometimes get caught up, wrapped up, taken away, whatever, by the many possibilities~the many linkages, for lack of better words (here and above)~but it was oh-so-different then. My computer was a monochromatic laptop (well, i did have a colour monitor i could hook it up to but it would have just been a blue screen full of text then...)

Anyway, back then linking was a much different thing than it is today~you could click on links, but they were all text based (not that there was much visual stuff going on yet anyway~except for some early experimentation with Mosaic) and once you clicked it was rather difficult (at least for me) to find your way back. I often found myself heading down "alleys" and winding up lost on some "dead end"~it wasn't the best distraction for insomnia/migraines (though the migraines didn't need quite as much distraction back then).

I didn't seem to waste as much time on the internet in the middle of the night then as i do now (or at least not following links). In some ways the ease of internet research and hyperlinking is a librarian's nightmare come true. All that research at the literal tip of your fingers. And it truly is endless.

When i was a kid (even further back in the prehistoric past) i used to love looking things up in the encyclopedia set we kept in the living room, one reference would send me to the next reference (or two, or three,) and so on, and so on... At some point i would tire of pulling books and flipping pages, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Things are so much, ahem, easier, in the computer age.

And it just plays right into the hands and heads (or is it the other way around?) of we insomniacs who can't quench the knowledge thirst. Tonight i was doing just a quick survey of "What's New?" over at Snopes and somehow here i am, about four hours later, with multiple tabs open, full of knowledge about the history of the AIDS epidemic (as well as a number of other pandemics~and when something is determined to be a pandemic) the difference in meaning between zoophillia, bestiality, and zoosexuality; what methemoglobinemia is; as well as many other incredibly useful tidbits (and who knew that there was such a thing as a cuddly little Ebola toy you could have for your very own? I certainly didn't, until now that is.) Now, you may ask, what the relationship is between these things. Perhaps there isn't a visibly direct link, but somehow or else each one of them led to the next (or quite a few others i've left out for the sake of some brevity.)

Sometimes i long for those dead ends.

weeding in an inhospitable climate

Every once in a while weeding can begin to feel like the chore that it is. Like when it's extremely hot. And when you have inherited the collection of an old-fashioned, Luddite librarian who believed that your small library branch should serve the function of an archival branch (or maybe she didn't really believe that but she Did Not believe in weeding, this i know.)

(once when i was out bar-hopping with roommates and one of them was wondering what librarians did (with all their copious free time) and i mentioned weeding she thought i said reading and she was shocked that i would have to spend time at work reading and my other roommate corrected her~i mean can you imagine a librarian...Reading? and she actually was shocked, and a little horrified as well, i believe...)

We are part of a large library system. We are a small branch. There is only so much room. Books can easily be brought in from other branches. Even out of print books can be brought in from Somewhere through ILL (yes, i am one of THOSE librarians~if only i could weed my personal book collection as easily...) But i really don't like old ugly, dirty, used, soppy books~and yes there does seem to be a question begging here, but not by me (unless of course it is one of my favorites, one of those books i think Everyone should read~but of course Those books aren't ugly~Or i'll invest in a pretty edition.)

I remember when i was a teenager i discovered one of my absolutely favorite books at my local library, First Person, Singular by Vida Demas. And i had to keep going back to check to make sure it was still on the shelf, because somehow, i intuitively knew those books would sometimes suffer some mysterious demise (which it eventually did.) With the advent of the internet used book search, i eventually, years later acquired my own copy, but was so sad to see the library's copy go...

So i've been weeding lately, all those books on computers from the early 1990s and the like (and i'm also having nightmares about the old library manager coming into the library and demanding to know where all Her books have gone~actually i think it's a sign i might have gone a bit overboard~the shelves are looking a little more empty and i'm feeling a little insecure) I also discovered Will Manley's Unsolicited Advice published in 1992. For those who may not know Will Manley (pictured above~a picture i've always found just a bit...interesting, by the by), he is a rather ubiquitous presence in library land and i have always found his columns rather humorous so i thought i might check out his book and at least give it a circ stat before deciding what to do with it (though some may call this inflating statistics, i can't very well take it home without checking it out now can i?)

Anyway, i didn't find the book quite as insightful or as entertaining as his columns. I have to wonder if it's twenty-first century sensibilities imposing themselves on the rather stuffy-seeming sensibilities of the turn of the century or its just me (i can be a bit radical...although i am very much in support of a graduate degree for professional librarians~and not just because of the debt i incurred obtaining mine {i also think we should be state certified and there should be testing standards...gasp} i did not know what Festschriften was until Manley defined it~must have been daydreaming in library school that day~tho i never did that~so maybe my, very excellent, library school neglected that subject {more gasping}...) I also found myself wondering if his letters were really sent to him or created by him so he could compose his own witty answers. Or perhaps i'm just cranky...

can you hear me now, sisbaby?

Digging in my heels and dragging my feet (now, there's a mix of cliches) we Taureans can be a wee bit obstinate and loud about things we are not so thrilled with doing (and construct our sentences poorly, as well, apparently.) Mississippi Trial, 1955 by Chris Crowe is not a bad book, really. Actually, it's quite good.

It was a book i had to read because i'm on a committee considering it as part of a program that my library system is doing. I don't really consider it appropriate for the program and feel resentful of reading the book in the first place (there were a few other things i was annoyed with but they're really not relevant, so they will remain unmentioned...) It is a young adult novel. It's written as a young adult novel, and it reads like a young adult novel. It's also a message novel, with a lesson to teach, Crowe says that:

"the idea of writing Mississippi Trial, 1955 originally came to me because, I was concerned that despite its significance as one of the triggers of the Civil Rights movement, the Emmett Till case is still essentially overlooked in history books and classes. It's been a difficult story to study and retell, but it's a story that must be known by all Americans young and old."

I feel like i got the message. Loud and Clear, thank you very much. Reading this reminded me of all those things i had to read in Junior High (and then be tested on, or report on, or write on~hmmm...) I hate feeling like i have to do something.

The book focuses on the true story of the abduction and murder of Emmett (BoBo) Till, a fourteen-year-old black boy from Chicago in 1955 Mississippi and the subsequent trial of his accused murderers. It is told from the perspective of Hirum Hillburn, a fictional sixteen-year-old white boy who is visiting his grandfather in Greenwood, Mississippi, the town where he'd been raised but had left to move to Tempe, Arizona seven years earlier. Hirum has retained an idealized picture of his hometown and hadn't recognized the southern currents of racial hostility as a younger child.

When the abduction takes place Hirum has reason to believe his childhood friend R.C. is involved, and is subpoenaed to testify at the trial. The narrative seems just a little forced, and the plot seems to take a while to get started; but the short book does become more of a page-turner as it goes on. Hirum seems more naive than necessary and slow to catch on to some of the more predictable details (especially the biggest one, which i felt could have gone unstated and still remained clear...) But this novel does an excellent job of portraying a place, time, and pervasive environment that is perhaps difficult for some of us to understand today. It is an important story to be told.

Perhaps the fact that i was unable to sleep and had a terrible stomach flu at the time i was reading it affected my judgement slightly. Perhaps i didn't give it such a fair shake~like i said, though~it was a good young adult novel~worth reading on that level. Would make a great requirement for Junior High School (not for a public library program...~and notice how i make sure what comes around goes around?)

*and all the descriptions of Hirum's gramma's and Ruthanne's cooking made me crave my own gramma's, oh so wonderful, cooking (though she wasn't southern, she was an incredible cook~mashed potatoes and fried chicken especially...) Why must i always be nauseated and hungry at the same time? Terrible, terrible combination. And why do these books on such serious subjects always make me hungry? (perhaps to remind ourselves that we are still alive and well?)

"No matter how dark the tapestry

God weaves for us, there's always a thread of grace"

~Hebrew saying

“In Germany they first came for the Communists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me—and by that time no one was left to speak up.”

~Pastor Martin Niemoller

Although sometimes more good can be done by staying quiet. Not staying quiet in complicity; but remaining silent in defiance and working behind the scenes to help hide those who are in danger in the tradition of the, by now, well known Oskar Schindler, or an almost entire nation of good-hearted and brave Italians who sheltered almost fifty thousand Jews.

I remember hearing Mary Doria Russell come to speak about A Thread of Grace before i had ever read the novel. I had loved her previous works The Sparrow and Children of God and when i met her i was actually fawning all over her (something rather atypical of me~i was more than a little embarrassed~but she is an alumna of one of my schools, AND she says librarians are some of her favorite people...), but i had her sign a copy of the book and was quite excited to read it, after hearing Russell talking about it, though i never got around to it until now.

This is an incredible novel. It tells the story of a number of very human, very fallible characters involved in the Nazi occupation of Italy (much of the action is set in Liguria~if you are ever making pesto you must, must, must use Ligurian olive oil {i recommend the Roi brand} in my ever so humble opinion but also in the more expert opinion of Ari Weinzweig of Zingerman's~and if you think olive oils are all the same you have never tasted real quality olive oil~believe me it's worth the price) in the later stages of World War II. It will break your heart (and for the youth of today who think they're living in the worst of times~i even heard America referred to as a third world country the other day~go live in a third world country for a while, then say that...~here's a taste of some other times but it will also restore your faith in humanity. It brought back memories of my first stepmother's mother. An Italian Mama from the old world, she had a huge old house and farm in Modesto, California. I remember going to visit hear there and being served wonderful, huge meals (she would always want me to eat "more, more, more" because i was such "an ittie, bit of a thing".) She insisted i call her "Nonna" (and she was my Nonna~my only one, even though i had two other grandmothers) and would pull me into her lap, and put her arms around me and i would feel so much love from her. Her house and yard would always be full of people and there would always be room for more. I miss her, i will always remember her.

Thanks to her, i understand Italian hospitality and that's what this book is full of. If it seems a bit too idealistic, there is documented history to back it up (and soon, documents will be all we have to go by, as we loose more and more survivors each day...) It is a beautiful narrative that lingers in the mind, in the heart, in the soul; like a song whose coda keeps repeating and will not, cannot, let that final note rest.

When racial hatred raged in Europe,

Jewish refugees, uncertain of their fate,

coming from distant countries

--Austria, Belgium, Germany, Poland--

found hospitality and safety in these valleys.

Hidden in isolated cottages,

protected by the population,

they waited with trust and hope,

through two interminable winters,

for the return of liberty.

In homage to and in memory of those who helped them,

those refugees and their descendants

embrace the noble inhabitants of these valleys

in brotherhood.

~inscription chiseled in marble memorial stela erected in Borgo San Dalmazzo, 1998 by the Jews of Saint-Martin-Vesubie in honor of the people of Valle Stura and Valle Gesso.