Maphead by Ken Jennings

I get recommendations for books to read from the Elliott Bay Book Company, which is a fabulous book store in Seattle. It has been my favourite book store for years. I have blogged about it many times and have sent lots of blog friends there. It has moved from its original location in Seattle's Pioneer Square to Capital Hill but it still has its original charm (good lesson for people who want to move their business and still keep their original customers - keep the ambiance the same!). Anyway, the shop recommended a book called Maphead: Charting the Wide, Weird World of Geography Wonks by a Seattle author named Ken Jennings.

Ken Jennings is a famous Jeopardy champion. He was on for a long time and won a lot of money (over 2 mil). My mom can remember watching him and she said that he annoyed her quite a lot. But he has written an anything-but annoying book. Maphead is gorgeous. Maphead is funny and full of trivia-type facts. Maphead is indulgent and clever. Maphead is for map lovers. Duh!

Do you love perusing maps and dreaming of far off places? Does your atlas have pride of place in your book case or on your table? Do you look up every place you have ever heard of on Google Maps? Do you have maps hanging on your walls (ours are on the walls of the loo)? Are you a maphead? Well, even if you are not you will like this book. It is a comprehensive and easy to read book about maps and geography.

In this book Jennings talks about geography illiteracy in the US - school students don't know where their own states are on a map and don't know that France is a country. He talks about the cool maps that are kept in the Library of Congress that no one knows about. He talks about how maps shape governments, cultures and social systems. He talks about map collecting and geography bees (like spelling bees only held by the National Geographic Society), he talks about people who draw fantasy maps and Geocaching and many more interesting aspects of map love. It is kindof nerdy but so clever and funny. It's personable and written with a subdued enthusiasm. Jennings is obviously obsessed but he reins it in for the writing of this book - I bet he doesn't in real life. I bet he goes on and on and there is a lot of eye rolling and searching for ways to get away from the crazy map man!!

I loved it and have sent it to my brother and a couple of friends. As it says on the inside blurb in the book "If you're an inveterate map lover yourself - or even if you're among the cartographically clueless who can get lost in a supermarket (I am both of those things - are they exclusive?) - let Ken Jennings be your guide to the strange world of mapheads". Do yourself the favour of reading this book. You will laugh and I bet it won't take long till you are either telling someone else they should read it or telling someone some map trivia you learned from Ken Jennings.

The Fifth Day of Christmas

I'm sitting here alone, in my living room, Christmas tree lights blinking and stormy clouds outside my window. I miss my family, some of whom are in the states right now. I look forward to having Christmas with them in the coming years here, where it's warm and lovely on the day. My son, right now, is wrapped up in a winter coat and hat when all he wants is to grab his surfboard and head out for some waves after present opening on Christmas Day. My grandson knows who Santa Claus is for the first time and doesn't especially like him. He has a 'Gaga' (that's his name for me and now it's stuck) who lives in the computer. I long to give him a cuddle and hold him on my lap while I read the Night Before Christmas to him.

I don't really care about Christmas. I like it enough but it's awfully forced for too much liking. To me it is a day to spend with my sons - only one this year but he'll do - and eat good food, special food, that we wouldn't have the rest of the year. It is a time to talk to family and old friends. It is some time away from work and school to reflect on life and get some of those 'Isn't it a Shame' (I didn't have more time) things done. It's my time to go to galleries and exhibitions, movies and out for lunches.

I am sentimental over old Christmas years. I miss my Dad and other good friends and family memebers who have passed away - Dad loved Christmas for the same reasons as I like it - food and family. But as lonely as I feel, as sad as I am that I only get to Skype with my family, I also feel incredibly lucky in my life. I have health, safety, love, freedom, hot water and a toilet, hope, money, food, my eyes, the internet, quiet, independence, books, a creative mind, music, and an open mind. Lucky. I will not take any of these things for granted in the future. I will revel in the fact that I can have a shower every day, go for a walk with no fear, drink clean water, read Salmon Rushdie and speak my mind. I will pay attention and be merry. I will drink a glass of eggnog and toast my good fortune.

Places to Read Of Human Bondage

W Somerset Maugham. That is a great name. I would like to be named Somerset. It instantly recalls summer afternoons lazing on the lawns of some great old mansion, drinking Gin with ice cubes clinking against glasses, and a lazy game of badminton or lawn tennis happening vaguely over there (dimissive languid wave of my hand in a far off direction). Of Human Bondage has none of that scene in it. It's a classic so I'm sure most people have read it or at least heard of it. I read it when I was quite young - the title was enticing. But I didn't remember any of it, really. It came on my Kobo as a free download so I read it again. It took me months to finish it - not because it isn't great - it is - but because other 'things' kept popping up like university classes, work, and other books. Finally, it is done. And now I miss it.

Of Human Bondage has been discussed enough times that I don't need to critique it in any way. It is the story of Philip Carey - a man with a whopper of a tale of woe. As he limps his way through life he paints in Paris, he attends medical school in London, he falls obsessively in love with Mildred (a thoroughly despicable character) and also falls in and out of all kinds of fortune. It is a completely readable novel written in 1915 and I would recommend it to anyone who is interested in reading classics. Maugham's language is impeccable and his descriptions of landscape and personality is divine.

This novel took me quite a while to read (and I want to make this clear again - it was great and would be easy to read in a couple of sittings if life hadn't made me get up so often) and also, as I said, it is on my e-book reader which I tend to take with me when I am off on an adventure instead of carrying a big book, (long sentence - take a breath now) I read it in several places. I read it in bed, in my garden on the porch swing which isn't on the porch, at the kitchen table and in the living room. I read it at the bus stop, in coffee shops, in the movie theatre lounge, in the library and a little bit at work (only in my breaks, ahem!). I read it in Hyde Park in Sydney, at the Circular Quay, in the Botanical Gardens and at the NSW Art Gallery. I read it at the YWCA and at a posh hotel in the Southern Highlands.
There wasn't one place where this novel wasn't suitable for a little read. I think because the novel itself is set in so many interesting places it lends itself to be read in so many interesting places. And, yes, even I can make romance out of sitting on a wooden bus stop bench.

I love all kinds of books but classics make me feel connected. I love the fact that thousands of people, in many countries, in almost a hundred years have read this books. I love that we are all connected by a common experience and that I would have something to talk about with every one of them. I could go back to 1920 and have a lively discussion with someone about Maugham's style. And I hope that in 50 years I could sit down in my old porch swing and have that same lively debate.

Profundity

If you tick the box that says 'reading' when you fill out a survey about your pastimes then you probably love characters - fictional or historical. I love a good character. I love to fall in love with, hate, or mistrust a cleverly designed protagonist.

Some readers love certain characters so much that they re-read books to re-live their lives with them. Many can't wait for Elizabeth Bennet to say to Darcy 'From the first moment I met you, your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others made me realize that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry' over and over again.

I love to follow the adventures of certain characters - one of whom is Stephanie Plum. I just read Smokin' Seventeen. I started reading these Janet Evanovich books with One for the Money in 1994 - so that's what - 15 years ago. These are fast paced, sexy, hilarious books - light but great fun. I've just seen that someone is finally making these into a movie - I'll wait and see.

I have also just finished another book called Women of Letters. This is a nice book. It would be a great present. These are short, little letters. These are clever letters. These are silly letters. These are indulgent letters. This is a nice book.

Last week I read Outlaw Album by Daniel Woodrell. I really loved loved loved Winter's Bone. Outlaw Album is a book of short stories. They are dark and bleak stories. Woodrell seems to tap into the lower socio-economical culture and find little nuggets of treasures there. The stories are not all easy to read - a couple of them are quite hard to understand. The one that stands out most for me is about a woman who works in Rehab at a prison who visits the parents of one of her clients who is in prison for murder (I think). He has written a book of poetry about his criminal life which is very good and selling well. The prison board will let him out if his parents will take him back into their house but they refuse. I can't quote this book because I don't have it anymore but his father says something like 'tell him he has got all the poetry off of us that he is going to get' as he closes the door against the counselor. Woodrell is very good at spinning a tale and his economy of words is wonderful. There is nothing in these stories that doesn't absolutely need to be there. But they are depressing and sad.

So I am ready for something profound now. Something with great thought, deep, and full of insight. I am ready for another novel that takes concentration and commitment. I have time over the Christmas break to sink my literary teeth into a meaty book that I can consume and will sustain me. I need to find this novel so if anyone has any suggestions let me know. I have a couple of books sitting on my night stand that have no profundity but will keep my mind occupied until the great novel of my Christmas reading presents itself to me.

Something strange happened

I have had a really hard three weeks. Some terrible things happened and amidst it all I had to write a critique paper for my poetry class. I didn't do very well. I got some nice comments from my very academic professor but the substance just wasn't there. Needless to say my head wasn't in the game and my batting average took a dive. I got a Credit for the class - my first one! Up till now I have been getting Ds and HDs. Don't get me wrong - I deserved a C (well, he gave me a C+ but the plus sign falls off on my transcript). And to tell you the truth, I'm happy with the C (+) for the paper I wrote.

The problem is - I now really love poetry. Cripes! I'm one of those people now. I picked up the Nobel Prize for Literature 2011 book just now - The Deleted World by Tomas Transtromer (by the way there should be a .. above the 'o' in Transtromer but I don't know how to do that on my computer (and it's fun to say his name with a Swedish accent!)). Tomas is an highly acclaimed Swedish poet who looks like a poet. He's oldish, craggy, serious and grey haired. He looks like the kind of man who would reluctantly invite you in for a cup of tea that his wife would make and sit and stare at you for the minutes until the tea was served. He would sip his tea while you and his wife made small talk about how beautiful their house was until he stopped you mid sentence to ask you what you wanted. When you told him you admired him and wanted to talk about his poetry he would shake his head and retreat into it. But finally once he learned you were a budding poet and serious about it he would say he had nothing to teach you that life couldn't do a better job of and just to write for 7 hours a day. I can just hear him - "poetry is hard work, it's a struggle, it has to be done with discipline and concentration."

And Heart! His poetry speaks of deep feelings in few words. His poetry is grey and cold on the outside and fiery and direct under all the coverings. His poetry catches your breath like a blast of artic wind. His poetry is written on the snow only to be read when the spring thaws arrive.

Through those dismal months my life was only sparked alight
when I made love to you.
As the firefly ignites and fades, ignites and fades, we follow the flashes
of its flight in the dark among the olive trees.

Throughout those dismal months, my soul sat slumped and lifeless
but my body walked to yours.
The night sky was lowing.
We milked the cosmos secretly, and survived.

Is it possible that 8 lines can take a person from the most depressed state to one of love and survival? Simple words. Words we all understand. Words that paint a picture without oils or pastels. Words that sculpt a story without bronze or marble. Words that, even in translation, will last in my English thinking mind for a very long time. Is poetry the highest form of art? I don't think there are platforms that artists sit on when being judged - like at the Olympics - the Bronze medal goes to Sculpture, the Silver to Painting and the Gold to Poetry!

Transtromer weaves magic into his words. He writes words that get in at a cellular level. And now I am one of those people who walk around with poetry in my cells, and I feel better for it.

Engage

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.

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.