This afternoon I went to my local public library to return overdue books (bad borrower) and pick up some books that I had placed on reserve. I read a lot of book reviews and often reserve any that might interest me if my library has them. I have about 30 books on reserve right now and today I checked out 10 of them. I pulled them off the shelf and sat down at a table that was nearby and occupied by a man who looked to be in his late 60s. He made a comment about how I was going to read all those books in the three weeks that the library let me have them for. I said it was a problem that I really didn't have a solution for except that I would take them home and do my best.
Normally, I would have left the conversation there and tottered off to the check-out line. But I have decided that I am starting early with my 2012 New Years Resolution to engage more. This man had a kind face and was obviously up for a chat as he had started it so I looked at him openly. He said 'what are all these books?"
So I took them, one by one, from my pile and told him what they were. The first was a book called Maphead. This book was recommended by a book store in Seattle called Elliott Bay Book Company which is my favourite book store in the world. They have a book review section on their website which is written by the staff of the book store and this one was highly recommended, written by a Seattle Author who was a famous winner of Jeopardy - Ken Jennings. I love maps and will read any book about map making. The gentleman nodded his head and said he approved of this book.
I guess I should tell you that this man was from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. We talked a little about how it was hard to be away from our countries of birth but that both of us were more than happy to have that hardship. We talked about politics and he was very smart. He said something very interesting about Australian politics that I had never heard before - he said it doesn't matter one little bit who is our Prime Minister - that Australia is a rich country, a lucky country and whoever is running it will not screw that up too badly. He said that he thought Malcolm Turnbull would be a good PM but would not be liked because he was a millionaire and Australian's like a battler as their leader. Interesting.
Anyway, the next book off the pile was one about Annie Leibovitz. He shook his head and said she was not an important photographer, that she only got a name because she took photos of celebrities. I said I was interested in her life not her photography, so much. I said that Ansel Adams was my favourite photographer and a look came over his face as he nodded. "For art to be good it has to speak to you and Ansel Adams sings great arias", he said. I felt my throat close a little as he sighed and looked towards my pile.
The next was a book called Women of Letters curated (I love that) by Marieke Hardy and Michaela McGuire. He approved when I explained this was a book about writing letters to and about women. The next two books were knitting pattern books and they were passed over as little interest to him although I explained I was very excited to take them home and dream of things I could make. He smiled indulgently.
The next was a beginers Ukulele book. I just bought a good ukulele and need to learn some basic playing skills. I got a little nod for that one but clearly he didn't care. The next was the new book by Daniel Woodrell of Winter's Bone fame. I am really looking forward to that book.
Finally came The Best Australian Poems 2011. Well, he lit up like Christmas tree lights. "Poetry is the highest form of Art" he said. "You can learn almost all you need to know about how to be a good human being from poetry and history". I told him that I had just finished a university poetry class and I found out that I really enjoyed reading poetry and that earned a big smile.
We talked a little more about life and love. He told me about his life in Asia and about his studies as a young man in history and his many years of teaching history at university. He was a truly lovely man and I feel enriched and inspired by my half hour conversation.
So for 2012 (but starting now) my aim is to engage with people, art, music and poetry. I have a tendency to tuck myself up in my home and shut out the world. I go to work, classes, see friends occasionally and talk to family overseas weekly. But most of my time is spent in solitude and I have grown to like this. This won't change but when I do meet someone like this lovely man from Pakistan I will endevour to engage in conversation and learn.
I will post about all these books in the next few weeks. I am really looking forward to reading them all now that my studies have finished for the summer. I like to tell people how I find books that I have read but mostly people are not as interested as I am, but I can engage on this blog with anyone interested to read my thoughts. I love writing about books and life. And I am fortunate that I have an outlet to do it. Lucky me.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
The Scream
I finally 'get' The Scream - that silent painting by Munch. I have a secret I can't tell. It's a bad secret I wish I didn't know. I can't do a thing about it and it's making me hurt like I've only known a few times. I walk around my house saying things like 'I can't stand it anymore' and 'I don't know what to do'. The whole thing is far out of my hands but it is still hurting me deeply. And I am afraid. I am afraid that something worse will happen and I didn't tell. It is a bad position to be in.
Why do we tell deep and dark secrets to others? It makes us feel better to share. If a situation is out of control and we keep it inside it is sure to explode and spread our dirty little secret like body parts blown up by a hand grenade. So when we share the pressure valve releases. But the person who is now our secret keeper is in a dire place. They are a passive holder of information over which they have no power. They are the carer of information that can no longer fit in any container. They have to carry it around draped on their own back like a shawl made from iron chains.
I feel heavy and scared. I am trying to cope with a knowing that, now, I cannot share. I am screaming at the top of my lungs with no air to push it out. Secret Keeper is not romantic as in the fairytales of old. It is a lonely place, a dark cave, a frustration, a shame. It is a Silent Scream.
Why do we tell deep and dark secrets to others? It makes us feel better to share. If a situation is out of control and we keep it inside it is sure to explode and spread our dirty little secret like body parts blown up by a hand grenade. So when we share the pressure valve releases. But the person who is now our secret keeper is in a dire place. They are a passive holder of information over which they have no power. They are the carer of information that can no longer fit in any container. They have to carry it around draped on their own back like a shawl made from iron chains.
I feel heavy and scared. I am trying to cope with a knowing that, now, I cannot share. I am screaming at the top of my lungs with no air to push it out. Secret Keeper is not romantic as in the fairytales of old. It is a lonely place, a dark cave, a frustration, a shame. It is a Silent Scream.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Cookies and Rolls
My kitchen smells like chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon rolls.
Yesterday was hot. It was 30 degrees centigrade so I made yeast rolls. They rise so beautifully in the heat that it is worth turning on the oven for a while to bake them. I use an ancient recipe for these rolls and though my mother tells me that a bit of custard powder in the cinnamon mixture is really good I won't change my ways. I have been making these rolls for years. I mix hot milk, butter and eggs with flour, sugar and yeast and magic happens. After rising I punch the dough down and spread it out to receive the cinnamon, butter and sugar before rolling. But here is where I change things up if I feel like it. Yesterday I cut up some fresh pecan nuts and dusted them with a wee bit of chilli. They were rolled into the dough with the cinnamon mixture and the surprise was waiting to be sprung. I drizzled them with powdered sugar and milk when they were still hot. Sometimes it is a bad idea to wait until things cool down to put on the icing. Like love and heat - they mix so well together sometimes to make indescribable pleasure. Just like my rolls. I shared them and they were oohed and aahed and yummed over. My pleasure in sharing was immense. They linger in smell and memory.
Tonight was cold. Chocolate chip cookies felt right tonight. I put on my oldest, fondest apron over my pajamas and stirred the mixture with my 40 year old wooden spoon. I try new recipes for chocolate chip cookies all the time. I know the right proportions of butter and sugar and flour for these cookies so I know I will not fail. When a recipe says to use less butter than I know is right I do not try it. But the addition of a different sort of chocolate or something like peanut butter is worth a try. Some have worked well and will be baked again and some not as good - all have been eaten. I adore the feeling of rolling the cookies in my hands, patting them down a little with my fingers and using my granny's hand crochet pot holders to slip the cookie tray into the oven. The smell of cooking cookies is divine. The chocolate and vanilla combine to make me weak at the knees. When I was a girl I used to put a little pure vanilla extract behind my ear before I went to school and I was often followed around by boys, smelling the scent of the comfort of their own mother's kitchens, or imagining me as a wife who would bake them wonderful deserts after they married me. I was told this exact thing several times so I am not imagining it.
Now as I lay myself down to sleep, only a few meters from my kitchen, I can still smell the lingering wonderfulness and I am sure it will offer up sweet dreams in my sleep tonight. Tomorrow I will delight my friends with tasty bits of love. I may need to bake a cheesecake soon. Or make a chocolate torte. No special occasion better than the fact that it will be Thursday.
Yesterday was hot. It was 30 degrees centigrade so I made yeast rolls. They rise so beautifully in the heat that it is worth turning on the oven for a while to bake them. I use an ancient recipe for these rolls and though my mother tells me that a bit of custard powder in the cinnamon mixture is really good I won't change my ways. I have been making these rolls for years. I mix hot milk, butter and eggs with flour, sugar and yeast and magic happens. After rising I punch the dough down and spread it out to receive the cinnamon, butter and sugar before rolling. But here is where I change things up if I feel like it. Yesterday I cut up some fresh pecan nuts and dusted them with a wee bit of chilli. They were rolled into the dough with the cinnamon mixture and the surprise was waiting to be sprung. I drizzled them with powdered sugar and milk when they were still hot. Sometimes it is a bad idea to wait until things cool down to put on the icing. Like love and heat - they mix so well together sometimes to make indescribable pleasure. Just like my rolls. I shared them and they were oohed and aahed and yummed over. My pleasure in sharing was immense. They linger in smell and memory.
Tonight was cold. Chocolate chip cookies felt right tonight. I put on my oldest, fondest apron over my pajamas and stirred the mixture with my 40 year old wooden spoon. I try new recipes for chocolate chip cookies all the time. I know the right proportions of butter and sugar and flour for these cookies so I know I will not fail. When a recipe says to use less butter than I know is right I do not try it. But the addition of a different sort of chocolate or something like peanut butter is worth a try. Some have worked well and will be baked again and some not as good - all have been eaten. I adore the feeling of rolling the cookies in my hands, patting them down a little with my fingers and using my granny's hand crochet pot holders to slip the cookie tray into the oven. The smell of cooking cookies is divine. The chocolate and vanilla combine to make me weak at the knees. When I was a girl I used to put a little pure vanilla extract behind my ear before I went to school and I was often followed around by boys, smelling the scent of the comfort of their own mother's kitchens, or imagining me as a wife who would bake them wonderful deserts after they married me. I was told this exact thing several times so I am not imagining it.
Now as I lay myself down to sleep, only a few meters from my kitchen, I can still smell the lingering wonderfulness and I am sure it will offer up sweet dreams in my sleep tonight. Tomorrow I will delight my friends with tasty bits of love. I may need to bake a cheesecake soon. Or make a chocolate torte. No special occasion better than the fact that it will be Thursday.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Light
Even the smallest light can be seen in the darkness.
The sky leans on me and it is heavy. I long for the night so I can spread the mass of dark across my prone body. I lie down and sleep under my weighty blanket – my light covered and snuffed.
I’m happy to be alive but the burden of carrying the air, moving the air, supporting the clouds is a severe responsibility. I am serious about it and never think about other things like fun and laughter, both of which jiggle and whorl my world and tilt it sideways.
Eyes down. Feet firm for balance. No spilling allowed. Cry over spilt atmosphere. The sky can’t go back into the cup once out.
The night’s receiving blanket torn to shreds with the dawn. No longer able to hold the baby of innocence.
The sky leans on me and it is heavy. I long for the night so I can spread the mass of dark across my prone body. I lie down and sleep under my weighty blanket – my light covered and snuffed.
I’m happy to be alive but the burden of carrying the air, moving the air, supporting the clouds is a severe responsibility. I am serious about it and never think about other things like fun and laughter, both of which jiggle and whorl my world and tilt it sideways.
Eyes down. Feet firm for balance. No spilling allowed. Cry over spilt atmosphere. The sky can’t go back into the cup once out.
The night’s receiving blanket torn to shreds with the dawn. No longer able to hold the baby of innocence.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Poetry and a left-over story
I've been reading poetry. I'm taking a poetry class at uni this term and I've been reading mostly Australian poets and some English. At first I was flummoxed. Poetry is too hard and I didn't really care. But as I've progressed I've learned the posture of reading it. It is almost physical - well, not even almost - it is physical.
To read poetry:
You have to sit down. There is no lying in bed for reading poetry or lying on the beach. You must sit in a straight-backed comfortable chair.
You must have good lighting and your reading glasses. I don't know about you but if I don't have my reading glasses on I tend to rely on recognition of words rather than reading the words. Poetry is not natural writing. The word that follows this one is not often the word you think it is going to be. That sentence will make sense to some people. I can see some of you nodding your head.
You must be prepared to move your lips while reading - or read out loud. There is a rhythm to reading poetry that is almost impossible to duplicate in your head alone. There is a theatrical quality that needs an audience - even if it is just the dogs or the dust balls under the couch. Your mouth needs to read it along with your eyes.
You must give yourself time to read slowly and carefully. There is great pleasure in slowing down long enough to let good poetry sink in and mean something to you.
And I also think it is important to dress for poetry. I think winter is the time to read most poetry. Something warm on your feet, a big sweater or blanket around your shoulders, a hot cup of tea on the table next to you. But this is just me!
I've been reading Peter Reading and Frances Webb. Auden and Les Murray. I have also been reading Immanuel Kant and Edward Said for the same class. Deep stuff.
And the light bulb moment has finally happened. I get it. Well, I get it a little. There are still poets that I think are pretentious and snobby. But there are some, now, that I admire greatly. I will, from now on be a bit of a poetry reader. It feels like an indulgence that I will partake in when the mood hits me. I hope it hits me often.
I have also been writing a little - not poetry - stories. I am enjoying it more than I can put into words right now. What I would like to share on this blog is my left-over stories. These are little 'things' that I write around my bigger stories. When I sit down to fix a story I need to get into the mood so I start writting just anything to get the juices flowing - like warm ups. These are just little thoughts and silly things but I am going to leave some of them here, with you - but only the ones I really like.
The first one comes from some valuable feedback I got recently, that there was an abundance of the word 'she' in one of my stories. She did this and then she did that - that sort of thing. Before I went in to see if I could re-word these lines I wrote this:
She
I wonder where to put the 'she'? There are too many of them and every time I take one out I don't know where to put her. I have taken to writing 'she'on post-it notes and sticking them on the wall next to my desk, but I don't think it does her justice. She is a complex character, full of life and vitality, wierdness and wonder. A post-it note will not do for a grave marker, especially a yellow one! So, I'm think of ways to express my gratitude for this little bit of her life which I have created on paper. I don't know if she existed before I wrote her down but I suppose, if I'm going to get all psyco-analytic, that she is part of me. If someone, a doctor, took part of me out, I would put it in a glass jar of formaldahyde. I wouldn't do the same for a part of my best friend though, so I don't think it is appropriate for her either. I could write all the 'she' lines in my journal to memorialize them. I could just let the 'shes' float off into the ether with no recognition. But, after careful thought, I'm going to write each 'she' I remove from my story on a purple post-it and at the end of my piece, when I feel safe that it is finished, I will cremate the 'shes' and scatter the ashes under the Chinese Elm. She will be a little bit of fertilizer for the elegant tree once I water her in.
To read poetry:
You have to sit down. There is no lying in bed for reading poetry or lying on the beach. You must sit in a straight-backed comfortable chair.
You must have good lighting and your reading glasses. I don't know about you but if I don't have my reading glasses on I tend to rely on recognition of words rather than reading the words. Poetry is not natural writing. The word that follows this one is not often the word you think it is going to be. That sentence will make sense to some people. I can see some of you nodding your head.
You must be prepared to move your lips while reading - or read out loud. There is a rhythm to reading poetry that is almost impossible to duplicate in your head alone. There is a theatrical quality that needs an audience - even if it is just the dogs or the dust balls under the couch. Your mouth needs to read it along with your eyes.
You must give yourself time to read slowly and carefully. There is great pleasure in slowing down long enough to let good poetry sink in and mean something to you.
And I also think it is important to dress for poetry. I think winter is the time to read most poetry. Something warm on your feet, a big sweater or blanket around your shoulders, a hot cup of tea on the table next to you. But this is just me!
I've been reading Peter Reading and Frances Webb. Auden and Les Murray. I have also been reading Immanuel Kant and Edward Said for the same class. Deep stuff.
And the light bulb moment has finally happened. I get it. Well, I get it a little. There are still poets that I think are pretentious and snobby. But there are some, now, that I admire greatly. I will, from now on be a bit of a poetry reader. It feels like an indulgence that I will partake in when the mood hits me. I hope it hits me often.
I have also been writing a little - not poetry - stories. I am enjoying it more than I can put into words right now. What I would like to share on this blog is my left-over stories. These are little 'things' that I write around my bigger stories. When I sit down to fix a story I need to get into the mood so I start writting just anything to get the juices flowing - like warm ups. These are just little thoughts and silly things but I am going to leave some of them here, with you - but only the ones I really like.
The first one comes from some valuable feedback I got recently, that there was an abundance of the word 'she' in one of my stories. She did this and then she did that - that sort of thing. Before I went in to see if I could re-word these lines I wrote this:
She
I wonder where to put the 'she'? There are too many of them and every time I take one out I don't know where to put her. I have taken to writing 'she'on post-it notes and sticking them on the wall next to my desk, but I don't think it does her justice. She is a complex character, full of life and vitality, wierdness and wonder. A post-it note will not do for a grave marker, especially a yellow one! So, I'm think of ways to express my gratitude for this little bit of her life which I have created on paper. I don't know if she existed before I wrote her down but I suppose, if I'm going to get all psyco-analytic, that she is part of me. If someone, a doctor, took part of me out, I would put it in a glass jar of formaldahyde. I wouldn't do the same for a part of my best friend though, so I don't think it is appropriate for her either. I could write all the 'she' lines in my journal to memorialize them. I could just let the 'shes' float off into the ether with no recognition. But, after careful thought, I'm going to write each 'she' I remove from my story on a purple post-it and at the end of my piece, when I feel safe that it is finished, I will cremate the 'shes' and scatter the ashes under the Chinese Elm. She will be a little bit of fertilizer for the elegant tree once I water her in.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt
The Sisters Brothers. If the Coen Brothers don't make a movie out of this they are crazy. I know they love westerns - kooky western that is. And I have a cast - well, most of the cast, already picked out from their past films and favourite actors.
Hermann Kermit Warm, a gold prospector in California, is being sought by a couple of assasins - the Sisters Brothers - because he has made a discovery that could change the face of gold panning in the 1850s - William H. Macy. It's a really good scientific discovery and you will love it.
Charlie Sisters - Ryan Robbins (Henry on Sanctuary) loves to drink and loves to kill. He is a psychopath who wants to be in charge of his life, his brother's life, and every life that he is hired to kill and every one who gets in his way. He is hyperactive and unpredictable.
Eli Sisters - Josh Brolin - is the big, lumpy, softhearted, but still a killer, younger brother who is having an identity crisis and really just wants to lose weight and settle down with a woman.
There are a bunch of other memorable characters - least of whom would be Frances McDormand as the fatal mother.
Did I say this is a western? Who writes westerns? deWitt is a Canadian and kind of geeky looking. And boy can he write. Call this Cowboy noir, or true west tour de force, or just call it good, dirty fun. It's violent in a surreal sort of way. It's one of those that you cheer for the bad guy and don't really care when the good guys go down in a swamp of purple poison. Put this on your Christmas reading list only if you love Coen films - and if you do you are in for a good, ass-kicking, LMAS fun time.
This is Patrick deWitt's picture on his website bio!!
Hmm - maybe Quentin Taratino would be better at making this film? At any rate - someone will, I hope.
Hermann Kermit Warm, a gold prospector in California, is being sought by a couple of assasins - the Sisters Brothers - because he has made a discovery that could change the face of gold panning in the 1850s - William H. Macy. It's a really good scientific discovery and you will love it.
Charlie Sisters - Ryan Robbins (Henry on Sanctuary) loves to drink and loves to kill. He is a psychopath who wants to be in charge of his life, his brother's life, and every life that he is hired to kill and every one who gets in his way. He is hyperactive and unpredictable.
Eli Sisters - Josh Brolin - is the big, lumpy, softhearted, but still a killer, younger brother who is having an identity crisis and really just wants to lose weight and settle down with a woman.
There are a bunch of other memorable characters - least of whom would be Frances McDormand as the fatal mother.
Did I say this is a western? Who writes westerns? deWitt is a Canadian and kind of geeky looking. And boy can he write. Call this Cowboy noir, or true west tour de force, or just call it good, dirty fun. It's violent in a surreal sort of way. It's one of those that you cheer for the bad guy and don't really care when the good guys go down in a swamp of purple poison. Put this on your Christmas reading list only if you love Coen films - and if you do you are in for a good, ass-kicking, LMAS fun time.
This is Patrick deWitt's picture on his website bio!!
Hmm - maybe Quentin Taratino would be better at making this film? At any rate - someone will, I hope.
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