rhino face

the haps

2012-01-31T20:08:00.000-08:00

This is what's been going on around here lately, folks.

We might need to build an addition for the new library.

i have it all figured out

2012-01-20T16:56:00.001-08:00

job interviewer/anyone who ever asks: "where do you see yourself in 5 years?"

me: "as a back-up singer for steely dan."

yes, that's me.

two things

2012-01-18T19:58:00.000-08:00

I miss having (my) grandparents.
I really like cream top yogurt.

my grandma Fran, 1937

the view from here: 5

2011-12-30T14:44:00.000-08:00

Doesn't he look ~~stoned~~ relaxed?
Thanks, thundershirt!

yello

2011-12-29T14:56:00.000-08:00

Usually, when reading a book, I've got a highlighter handy to make sure I note the sections and sentences that stand out. The bits that ring true. Had I done so for Lori Moore's, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, I would have been underlining the whole goddamn thing.

I was first familiar with Moore's short stories. Have you read Real Estate? Jesus. What a story. It refuses to follow any formal or traditional rules of storytelling and doesn't completely piss me off for being unreadably experimental. It's just so natural.

During grad school, I read her most recent novel A Gate at the Stairs, which was such a letdown. First, I should let you all know (the five of you reading this) that any work of literature that in anyway, deliberate or not, associates or references a post 9/11 landscape or mood or mentality or what the fuck ever, I find annoying and unnecessary. So, I should have known better. Because that is what this novel was touted as being. And the protagonist was so naive and unfortunate, the analogies and metaphors so abundant, that I wanted to jump onto the page and shake that character (whatever her name was) and then drive up to Wisconsin and shake Moore herself for the various and multitudinous contrivances. Like, how could a reasonable intelligent young woman in college not ever bother to second guess that her new boyfriend, who she thinks is from Brazil or something, is really some radical extremist from some Middle Eastern country? Or, why this same young woman would not question the family for which she nannies who is so obviously full of secrets, smarmy ogling from the dad, and uncomfortable compliments about perfume from the mom? (Why did she steal the nanny's signature scent? Why?!) I don't know. It was exasperating.

Which is why, after reading Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, I cannot even conceive that Moore would not be capable of creating the most authentic portrait of that strange time during adolescence as well as the time that follows it. Of navigating the constant inconsistencies of being and becoming a young woman. When you think you know everything and nothing simultaneously. Like when you start skimming the money from the till at the local amusement park where you work to fund your BF's abortion and taxi rides to concerts. Who doesn't relate to that? (Or just doing morally questionable, undeniably reckless, totally stupid shit when you're a teenager.)

This novel is short. 148 pages. And I could have read at least triple that. The beliefs and ideals conceived during the formative teen years are hard to shake. As is the disillusionment of what typically follows. Moore works between these two spaces so deftly, that I was left to wonder, as always, which of the spaces I would like to occupy more. Knowing nothing at all but being in the middle of figuring it out. Or knowing so much that the weight of experience begins to become a burden made exponentially heavy with sad truths and aching joints. It also perfectly and precisely captures the nature and nuance of that one significant friendship established between a pair of teenaged girls. You know, the one that is invariably considered a bad influence and your mother hates. And the one that can never exist beyond that time.

Yet in the years following, for myself, I abandoned even believing in niceness or being nice. I could scarcely control myself wherever I was, from telling everyone, anyone, what I thought of them. It was an urge, a compulsion, my tongue bitten a futile blue. That's a ridiculous thing to say. You must have been spoiled as a child. I couldn't stop myself. You are ungenerous. You parcel yourself out like an expensive spice. You idealize things; you're a narcissist. You seek only to etch impressions of yourself on someone else's face. It's a form of cheapness. You're cheap. You're patronizing. You're a fascist. You're a bully. I've always hated bullies. You look awful in that color. It was as if I'd been hit on the head.

turn the phrase

2011-12-02T12:39:00.000-08:00

When it comes to music, I am one of those people that will listen to a record over and over until - well, until I just don't.
Right now, that record is METALS by Feist.

At first, I was like, "What the hell are you mumbling about, Feist?" I was somewhat unhappy that her new songs seemed so unhappy. I mean, her first couple of records were so whimsical and droll that I expected something similar from METALS.

But after a few listens, I was more like, "Oh, geez, how could I have been so short-sighted?"

She has been touring with Mountain Man as backing vocalists, who to me, are like the modern equivalent of The Roches - not that The Roches aren't still alive and kicking. The sound simply appealed to me in a similar way. All those crazy fucking harmonies that remind you the human voice is usually the most interesting instrument.

And that's the thing about METALS. It's the way in which it is layered and all of the various components come together - like a beautiful, disconsolate, sonic lasagna.

the view from here: 4

2011-11-27T17:18:00.000-08:00

a real reason to give thanks

2011-11-26T15:02:00.000-08:00

I don't quite know how, but I somehow managed to find some of the best and truest and smartest and funniest and most generous and most beautiful and most talented female friends a gal could want. Or, really, let's face it, need.

Which is why it really fucking sucks the most gigantic weenie that nary a one lives near to me anymore. What a rip.

Today, I got this in the post from the lovely E.D.B.:

Paint by number, y'all.

It made me laugh and smile and tear up a bit because I miss her so GD much.
There is truly sanity in the silly.
Love ya like a milkshake, girl. (And thanks for the intermediate vote of confidence!)

robots in disguise

2011-11-22T12:53:00.000-08:00

I think it is pretty amazing that this:

Can become this:

What will be even more amazing is if I am able to construct something useful from this inherited beauty that once served as my TV stand.
(Please don't hold your breath.)

we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be

2011-11-15T13:38:00.000-08:00

Jokes can be noble. Laughs are exactly as honorable as tears. Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion, to the futility of thinking and striving anymore. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward — and since I can start thinking and striving again that much sooner.

- Kurt Vonnegut

the view from there: 1

2011-11-06T19:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I cannot remember things I did yesterday. Or, let's face it, twenty minutes ago. But there are many moments from my childhood that are beyond vivid - like neon, technicolor against the gray matter. The time I have spent in Wisconsin, particularly at my grandparents' home makes up a large portion of those memories. Time does funny things to memory and though I always look forward to returning to the motherland, my more recent visits have worked to dull my fond feelings and associations. I am happy to say, however, that I only become more appreciative each time I get to be in the place that holds my dear, extended family (and Friday night fish fries and cheese curds and The House on the Rock).

the view from here: 3

2011-11-03T18:02:00.000-07:00

click on the image to experience the full magnitude of cute

wrappenin' is what's happenin'

2011-11-02T21:34:00.000-07:00

Hey! It's legitimately cold in Kansas on this second day of November. So cold, we might get snow overnight. When the winter (really, winter already?!) starts to set in and getting up to move from the sofa to the kitchen seems like an effort due to the bitter cold, this Origins wrap thing provides a little piece of solace and remembrance that there is life yet to be lived.

I got mine as a gift something like five years ago and it has held up like a champ. I have given it as a gift to many fortunate folks. And have used it for a variety of ailments. From back aches to sprained ankles to cramps. Or just to achieve some warmth. I really, truly love this thing. You stick it in the microwave for 3-4 minutes and voila! Magic. It smells good, too. I happen to have the lavender one but there are a few different flavors from which to choose. Oh, and the cover is washable - which is nice for the times when the microwave tray was covered in spaghetti sauce or you've had a cold and drooled contagion all over it.

you will be wondering about that sugar bowl

2011-10-27T10:58:00.000-07:00

Halloween is almost here. When I used to enjoy holidays, I'd say Halloween was my favorite. I still love scary movies, though. And scary books, too - but I can't remember many spooky stories save Poe. And, of course, Shirley Jackson. A few years ago I was assigned her book, We Have Always Lived in the Castle in a fiction workshop during grad school. This man is responsible for the assignment and am forever grateful for it.

First of all, if you don't know Shirley Jackson you best wise up and read The Lottery right now. Really, follow that link and read it. I can wait. You can come back when you're finished. Ok, now that we're on the same page, get a copy of We Have Lived in the Castle.

This story will surprise you - if not because of the plot and the way in which it unfolds than by the way in which Jackson creates her narrator, Mary Katherine Blackwood.

Talk about a voice.

My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am 18 years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead.

Shirley Jackson slays me. She is like Flannery O'Connor (perhaps my all time, most influential, favorite to read, impressing me every time inspiration) in that she integrates the eerily dark, often macabre into the everyday, domestic realm. It is social critique. It is psychological. It was written by a grouchy, old woman who was all about witchcraft/Catholicism. And there is almost always an unexpected twist.

where's papa going with that axe?

2011-10-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

I don't think I know anyone who enjoys killing spiders or insects or rodents or any other critters that most consider creepy. I will do it, if need be - but spiders in particular are the worst, in my way of thinking. I know they do good (except for those brown recluse assholes) and Charlotte's Web leaves an indelible impression on impressionable young minds - like mine. So, if I can, I try to usher back outside the insects and arachnids with a cup or scrap of paper. Of course, sometimes the killing cannot be avoided.

All that said, I got to see my Korean aunt this last week and after the unceremonious murder of a silver fish, she reminded me that in Korean culture, when we kill these supposed pests, we must wish them a transition into a better lot in the next life and to not return in droves to the one we are living now.

Here's what you say three times, in order to keep the balance:

Na Mu Bul Bal Bo Ri Sim

I hope it works. Especially since I have had to kill three spiders in the past two days.

late december is what i'm feeling

2011-10-22T20:52:00.000-07:00

inside this tree

there is one endless sky

like a drape of crystal smell

thirty years are gone

they all end in this house

where the senses love to drown

late december is what i'm feeling

and it's still alive

with its old lights and voices i breathe

so many lives

some go away

some will always stay

thirty years are gone

they all end in this house

where the senses' spirits drown

weather the weather: 2

2011-10-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

This happened earlier this week, early one morning:

Here's to hoping the fog will lift soon. Sending love to Charlie and the fam.

gather ye kindling while ye may

2011-10-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

Oh, boy. It's happened again. I feel like the luckiest lady here in LFK because a very, very, very short story I wrote is now in the very, very, very (physically) small journal, Gather Kindling. I got this sweet package in the mail a few days ago.

The concept of the journal is to keep the work contained to the 4x6 inch space. So, again - it is very, very, very short. (I feel weird posting the story here because if you want to read it, you really should subscribe and contribute to the journal. But, man, do I want you all to read it. Maybe I can figure something out.)

the view from here: 2

2011-10-08T12:49:00.000-07:00

the center cannot hold

2011-09-30T14:31:00.000-07:00

I would bet there are lots of ladies (and guys) who (would) dig Joan Didion. There is an appeal in her writing that bridges time and age and location. No fuss. Honest observation. Full of self-awareness and deeply personal yet undeniably universal sadness.

I have been re-reading bits of Slouching Towards Bethlehem. And while I very much appreciate her finely captured moments of the 1960s culture of condemnation and transformation, it is the personal essays that most interest me.

Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted at birth with some presentiment of loss.

-from On Keeping a Notebook (which you can read in its entirety here)

Such is the kind of real savvy that compels me to read nonfiction. The intimacy of the exchange between author and reader that speaks so truthfully the two become kindred. I am like her. She is like me. And in the space of a sentence, we are not alone. It gets me every time.

Too much? I can't help it. But I should also note how unlike Didion I am as well. Not everything she writes or writes about appeals to me - much of it comes from such a remote, insular, privileged place that she might as well be from a mansion on the moon.

what's yr poison?

2011-09-29T14:24:00.000-07:00

I can't get enough coconut. Coconut oil has become somewhat of a staple in my diet as of late because it is really good for you (as far as oils go) and makes pancakes and baked goods a million times better. (It also works really well as an eye makeup remover. Truth.)

This summer, I discovered La Croix has this super-tasty coconut sparkling water that is the bee knees. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

the view from here: 1

2011-09-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

why the long face?

2011-09-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, I didn't (and still don't) know much about Patti Smith. Or Robert Mapplethorpe. But the reviews of her memoir about their relationship, Just Kids, got such great reviews and word of mouth that I gave it a whirl. I mean, I like good writing no matter what form it takes and as a result of my stint in grad school, I developed a real interest in nonfiction and memoir. So yeah, just recently I finished reading Just Kids.

Where does it all lead? What will become of us?
These were our young questions, and young answers revealed.
It leads to each other. We become ourselves.

Now, typically I am not shy of expressing my opinion, which is generally more salt than sugar, BUT these days I am trying to be a nicer person.

That said, this one wasn't for me. And I am going to attempt to be critical while reserving judgment- which may or may not work. Bear with me.

I understand that some people take themselves very seriously and it seems to me that if you call yourself an Artist it pretty much ensures that this is the case. I have known and still know many people like this. And at one point or another, somebody has probably called this person a genius or brilliant or something equally as undeserved - further fueling the Artist's perception of what it is that they do, amplifying their own importance.

I suppose that is how I felt about reading Just Kids. Initially I was off-put by the writing itself - because I like to feel grounded when reading and not as though someone is simply polishing what are essentially the turds of every day life and growing up with language and imagery and obvious devices. Then, I got so tired of the constant references to other artists and musicians - those that Smith knew (Sam Shepard), encountered (Andy Warhol), and revered (Rimbaud) - that I start to dismiss the constant naming of names - and, consequentlly, the author. I tried to remember an instance of reading memoir with famous names and characters and why this one in particular bothered me so and decided it all really boils down to one thing: relevance. While it is good and fine to be located in a specific context as a reader through the author mentioning influences and contemporaries, what real purpose do the inclusions of these people serve? In this book, they only served to piss me off. I wanted to understand why Smith was writing this story and never came even remotely close - except towards the end, when she mentions that Mapplethorpe made her promise she would.

In addition to all that, and perhaps my biggest annoyance with any Art out there in the big, wide world and Just Kids in particular is that it was completely, utterly, and categorically humorless. That is, without humor. You know, the stuff that makes a story (and life, for that matter) interesting and engaging and worthy of slogging through. There wasn't even any irony - the Serious Artist's standby. And I really don't want to have anything to do with any of that.

Eh, so much for being nonjudgmental.

this is how you eat it

2011-09-09T11:21:00.000-07:00

I am enamored with kefir. (If you don't know or haven't had kefir, here is some info.) And I discovered today that there is a delicious frozen kefir. Though it is lactose (and gluten) free, I have a difficult time distancing kefir from dairy products because it is so similar to yogurt. Which would further explain my love - since Wisconsin, THE DAIRY STATE, is the land of my people. Either way, kefir is great for you. And eating it frozen is almost (but not really) as good as ice cream.

weather the weather

2011-09-05T09:43:00.000-07:00

One of the perks of waking early is getting to see stuff like this:

And then, going back to bed.

If this guy will let you:

green guts

2011-08-31T09:03:00.000-07:00

As a result of the PVT or DBBCD (Dead Bowel Blood Clot Debacle), I take blood thinners. Actually, to be more accurate, I take anticoagulants. They don't really thin the blood per se, but keep it from clotting - which is really fun when I get a paper cut. The drugs are a bummer to take and maintaining a constant, healthy INR is tricky business, influenced primarily by factors out of my control, save my diet.

What this means is that healthy stuffs, primarily green foods, can change my INR levels somewhat drastically. Leafy greens in particular are natural blood thinners containing high amounts of Vitamin K and I have been advised to monitor my intake of these foods.

I don't want to have to take these drugs but they are a safety net, hopefully ensuring that I will not develop another blood clot. In my mind, I will be off of them soonish. But that does not mean that I am not pursuing alternatives. To me, it would seem that if leafy greens do naturally what the drugs do artificially, why not supplement my prescription with these green foods? So, I am kind of sort of experimenting - as I feel more confident in understanding what is going on in my body, though only to a certain extent.

Because I care more than ever about my health and want to avoid shoving more chemicals into my system, I have begun taking chlorophyll and we are growing wheatgrass. Call me a delusional hippie but I think it is helping. And there has been a really interesting, surprisingly pleasant side effect. I can only describe this side effect as leaving the most wonderful taste in my mouth. No, I am not being hyperbolic. I mean it. My mouth tastes terrific - all of the time.

Just one on the list of many reasons to get some chlorophyll, folks! Check it out.

1. Chlorophyll is the best aid in gastrointestinal problems.
Refined, low fiber and and animal fats contribute to major diseases start in the colon. Gastrointestinal problems can be best treated by improving the digestion and assimilation. Among those natural nutrients that heal the intestinal track, green vegetables high in chlorophyll content aid in loosening and cleansing the colon.
2. Chlorophyll Promote formation of hemoglobin and red blood cells.
Hemoglobin is the iron-containing substance that provides red blood cells their red pigment and transports oxygen to the body tissues. In fact, we may not realize that our blood is composed of 75% of hemoglobin. If the central atom of blood is iron, how chlorophyll helps in the formation of red blood cells? As we digested green food, the magnesium helps in rebuilding and replenishing the red blood cells which is responsible for boosting our energy.
3. Chlorophyll treats bad breath.
Bad breath is caused by oral bacteria that reside in a person’s mouth and it excretes odiferous waste products. The sulfur compounds of waste products usually lie at the root of breath odor problems. With the double action of chlorophyll, it acts as deodorizer that eliminates bad odor and reduces the stringent smell of urine, infected wounds and feces.
4. Detoxify toxins that cause cancer.
Researches found that the damaged genes caused by carcinogen substances can be prevented by chlorophyllin, a derivative of chlorophyll wherein the magnesium is removed and replaced with copper. It reduces the binding of carcinogen from foods like cooked meat products that damage the DNA and other organs of the body particularly the liver.
5. Beneficial in assimilating calcium and other heavy minerals.
Chlorophyll is very easy to absorb and assimilate. It is so amazing how it gets into the bloodstream so fast with the least amount of digestion that saves more vital energy. Not only that, cataract cases which is same as an arthritic formation, the hard calcium has come out of solution and becomes milky so that patients cannot see clearly with their cataract condition. Again, chlorophyll can assimilate calcium and balance other trace minerals to rebuild, replace, and exchange with the new tissue.
6. Chlorophyll fights infections.
It is the antioxidant and anti-inflammatory compounds contain Vitamin A, C and E that are responsible to reduce inflammation. In connection to this, the healing aspects of chlorophyll were reported in 1940 by Dr. Benjamin Gruskin. With this vitro experiments, it showed that chlorophyll possess bacteriostic property that kill harmful bacteria.Moreover, the antiseptic properties of chlorophyll have the ability to kill germs by strengthening the tissues.
Recommended daily intake of chlorophyll
Chlorophyll is available in forms of tablets, fluid and powder extracts, infusions and tinctures. Some nutrition practitioners are recommending 100 mg of chlorophyll that should be taken at least 2-3 times daily. This is to clarify that chlorophyll is not considered as essential nutrient. Nevertheless, people are lacking of green foods in their daily diet are lacking of enough chlorophyll, and therefore advised to add chlorophyll in their diet.

*I got this info here.

And this is the stuff I've been taking:

where my dawgs at?

2011-08-27T12:38:00.000-07:00

We have had Rufus for 4 years now. He is an amazing dog. I think his vocabulary (the words he understands, not speaks - duh) is larger than most humans. He has many weird quirks and has, over time, become more confident after enduring an unpleasant past prior to us. He is a rescue dog but, of course, we consider ourselves to have been rescued by him.

Since we found Rufus, we have discussed his need for a mate. Someone to keep him company and keep him in check - to improve the length and quality of his life. (We really love that little dude, if you can't tell.) I read recently that dogs are a 99.9% genetic match to wolves, who are pack animals. And who doesn't need a pack?

In July, we adopted Wally. He was at the Lawrence Humane Society and had been for 2 months until we decided to take him home. Wally is trouble - but in the best possible way. As a puppy, he is bold in a way we never experienced with Rufus. Though, to be honest, I doubt Rufus was ever anything other than accomodating. Together, they are bringing out the best in each other.

And, the love was pretty instantaneous.

wish i had a river

2011-08-22T14:02:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I heard the Patty Loveless song, Blame It on Your Heart on my favorite classic country station out of Topeka and instantly I thought of The Thing Called Love, a movie about trying to make it in Nashville as a songwriter, starring my first bonafide crush: River Phoenix. (My best friend in the 7th grade was hot for Kirk Cameron, so I feel justifiably superior.)

I suppose we were first introduced in Explorers, also featuring a super young Ethan Hawke, which I recently revisited and it does not hold up, so don't bother. But the real daydreaming about River and me - where he showed up at my school to take me to Northrock Lanes (the local bowling alley) began when I saw Stand By Me. From about 11 to 13, I was all about Stephen King and had read the novella, The Body, on which the film was based. As a 12 year old, the combination of Stephen King and River Phoenix was totally fish and chips.

Then, there was The Mosquito Coast, which was further affirmation of my good taste in future husbands. The one with him and Martha Plimpton where his parents were on the run from the FBI, Running on Empty is decent, mostly because of Martha Plimpton, who makes me happy for many reasons. And his cameo in the third Indiana Jones movie always makes me think of what could have been. I don't really know what to say about My Own Private Idaho. It just makes me sad even though I know it's supposed to be cool for that very reason.

These days, if I am apt to watch one of River's films, more than likely it will be Dogfight. If you're hankering for a subtle, sweet, and sincere payoff for the awkward, earnest nerd girl (who loves Dylan & Baez) - give it a(nother) try.

if it's not one thing

2011-08-18T14:55:00.000-07:00

There is a special sort of hell that exists in Austin, Texas known as Cedar Fever. Imagine an elephant doing pirouettes on your head and that's about what it feels like . Stupid Cedar trees.

Fortunately, it has been a few years since I have experienced the wrath of the Cedar but now, some new variety of allergen hell has taken hold here in Kansas. I think it is Hay Fever but who knows. It is nothing new but until it rears its ugly, sniffly, sneezy, headachey, foggy head - you forget it exists.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to express my complete devotion to and appreciation for my Neti Pot.
Here is some info if you have never happened upon or used a Neti Pot. They are all sorts of good for you.

rhino face's suggestions for success with Mr. Neti:

Do it in the shower! The steam helps and you don't make a mess.
Use sea salt but NOT table salt. It helps to loosen stuff up.
Focus on one nostril per use.
You know you've done well when water moves through with ease.

mid tempo

2011-08-12T09:02:00.000-07:00

If you grow up in the middle of the midwest, the very center of the US, there is a certain understanding of it's terrain. Shit can be pretty bleak. Just ask anyone who has ever driven through western Kansas - they will not say complimentary things. They will remember the vastness and the flatness. And they will hope never to repeat the experience.

But not all of Kansas is prairie. Even for the out-of-towners, there are some areas of the state that are undeniably pretty. Here in Lawrence, we've got lush green, rolling hills and if you keep heading east, the plains disappear altogether and you're in a Mark Twain novel.

Or, even better, you're in the middle of Jetta Carlton's novel, The Moonflower Vine.
Yeah, I said it. Even better. Than Twain. Deal with that. No schticky witicisms. No damsels in distress. No moralistic prattle. And the descriptions and depictions of this certain part of the country are so quietly captivating, it is like another character in this unexpected story.

Considered a neglected or long-forgotten text, The Moonflower Vine was written in 1962 and recently re-published or re-released in 2009. It fortuitously fell into my hands while temping here in town, given to me by a lovely woman to whom I have still not returned her copy of the book (though I fully intend to, S!).

The book centers on the Soames family, living on a farm in Missouri during the early part of the twentieth century. Each member of the Soames family, the parents and the four daughters, provide a singular, distinct voice and POV for each section of the book - but together, the effect of the collective narrative produces a sort of enchanting harmony. I really don't think that I can do this subtle, sweeping, unassuming, unconventional story justice. So, I'll just let the first paragraph do the work for me.

My father had a farm on the western side of Missouri, below the river, where the Ozark Plateau levels to join the plains. This is a region cut by creeks, where high pastures rise out of the wooded valleys to catch the sunlight and fall away over limestone bluffs. It is a pretty country. It does not demand your admiration, as some regions do, but seems glad for it all the same. It repays you with serenity, corn, and persimmons, blackberries, black walnuts, bluegrass and wild roses. A provident land, in its modest way.

The student in me wants to delve deeper into all of the aspects of this story and synopsize and analyze - but I just really want to provide a little introduction and hope that I can return the favor done for me and let you know about this truly wonderful book.

dial-up dreams

2011-08-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

Do you ever sit at a computer so long your ass starts to hurt?

Do you remember a time before sitting at a computer wasn't even a reality?

My relationship with the internet is definitely love/hate. Most of the time I cannot believe this blog exists and that I am "maintaining" it. The content, thusfar, is pretty benign - which is why I say "maintaining."

I've been avoiding being attached to my Mac as much as possible, slightly concerned that my next occupation will require incessant devotion to the glowing screen 8 hours a day.

Today, my not-really-miserable misery is self-inflicted. I have been submitting stories. And applying for jobs. And enjoying some much needed rain.

Gillian Welch has been keeping me company.

the heat is on

2011-08-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

Kansas has been sweltering. Weeks of the temperature reaching well over 100 degrees.
But, that doesn't mean summer doesn't still have it's songs.
This one really reminds of the first year I spent in Lawrence.
Maybe it will help cool it down, if only for a few minutes.

The rest of the album is pretty terrific, too.

maybe you're tired and broken

2011-07-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

In an effort to quiet my mind and relax and all that kind of shit, I decided I need to learn to meditate.

But being exceptionally lazy and averse to researching anything, I am designing my own method.

Today, meditation consisted of lying on Back Magic

and listening to Box of Rain.

The results, as of now, are inconclusive.

the soul of wit

2011-06-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

I am big on brevity. So, in my review of things - books, music, articles, movies, and all that - I aim to keep it short and sweet. This review might be a bit of an exception. Or the exception is the rule. Who knows.

I can tell Roseanne is getting old. But, her newest book, Roseannarchy is more than merely evidence of, it is a testament to her age. Although she retold so many of the same anecdotes and kept reitterating her status as an old Jewish woman born and raised in Mormon Utah that I felt like I was part of the later-stages of life's great cosmic joke about aging (forgetting and retelling), she goes to places most older people don't (relevance and remembering ). She also griped about not having an ass - particularly important as she equates an ample rump with femininity. I found this small inclusion of information interesting only insomuch as most ladies are trying to get what she got rid of: tits. She mentioned not having an ass A LOT and I am, accordingly, following suit. Roseanne also spends at least one entire chapter devoted to revealing Tom Arnold as Satan, which was a both amusing and annoying. As was the initial schtick in which she describes selling her soul to Beelzebub so she can be rich and famous. But Roseanne has softened since her days of dealing with the devil. Really!

I think we need to live and let live...Why can't we love and cherish what we can see now? Can't we just start with the basics - appreciating life and helping to make it better for everybody - without insisting on the existence of some elusive deeper meaning?

This fresh outlook is part of my brilliant, new program of trying to lead what great spiritual masters and adepts from all disciplines and sects call a less-dumb-ass life.

I mean, that's pretty nice, ain't it? A bit of a departure from what you might expect from the woman vilified for her performance of the Start Splangled Banner (which really was, if you think about it, a performance). She has softened - but Roseanne has certainly not gotten soft.

Truthfully, being happy may qualify as a sign of mental illness, I've decided. I mean, if you're spending lots of time skipping around, clicking your heels, and smiling till your face hurts (or thinking you should be), you're not paying attention to the real world. I'm not suggesting you should be bummed out constantly, but get real.

I enjoyed the little misanthropic, contradictory bits like this. In thinking about Roseannarchy, perhaps it would have been more humorous on audio book. I could definitely hear Roseanne, but I would much rather hear Roseanne, if you catch my drift.

But, I won't complain. Hell, I could watch nothing but old re-runs of Roseanne the TV show for days and days. And I'll keep watching it, I am sure, for the rest of my life. It's just so fucking honest and full of humor. And talk about subversive. You don't even know what she's doing, she's doing it so well. Race, class, gender, politics, so tightly and authentically interwoven and portrayed. So full to the brim with real life. Genius.

Growing up and watching her show, I always identified with Darlene and her acerbic, deadpan humor. And that dark and moody, depressed period she goes through in high school was so me. Now, though I am without the children, I understand Roseanne more as a character. And perhaps, when I am even older, I'll be (if I'm lucky) like Nana Mary.

I suppose in reading Roseanne, I had hoped to see some more of that honesty rooted deeply in the feminine experience and the unapologetic social commentary she serves so cooly. But, upon completing Roseannarchy the first thing I thought was, Jesus, she really needs an editor. I am quite certain she has something substantial doing work beneath the clumsy, albeit entertaining, machinery trying to distract your attention on the surface. And so, I am taking this opportunity to offer my services. Because with a little focus, I think Roseanne could totally take over again. And I really wish she would.

*Since writing this little review, it seems that Roseanne is, indeed on her way to taking over - what with her new show, Roseanne's Nuts and her bid for the presidency. But my offer still stands!

the sweet stuff

2011-05-13T16:40:00.000-07:00

As a child, my mother would sometimes bribe me with sticks of gum or Lifesavers to shut the hell up. I always had a lot to say. These days, I am much more reserved and folks wish I would speak up more often. But I still love the sweet stuff.

The wonderful, wood-planked liquor store (Wiggy's) down the street from my apartment in Austin sold these at the counter and I would grab a pack while paying for my Tito's.

These amazing violet candies really do taste like flowers. Slightly perfume-y. But unexpected to the palate. And, in my opinion, delicious. If you're into eating flowers.

In addition to the Choward's, Wiggy's also had my favorite old-timey gum, which I have long loved: Black Jack.

Lucky for me, I discovered that a little ol' retail chain here in LFK sells both. Thanks, World Market.

constructive criticism?

2011-05-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

I can be kind of a snob when it comes to books. Try as I might I cannot get past my ENFJ tendencies.

So, when I read about recent Pulitzer winner Jennifer Egan calling out chick lit and sending out the call to lady writers to up their respective games (not to be confused with these games), I understood why she was a little salty. To be clear, chick lit is not a personal preference of mine. You can go ahead and read what you want but it ain't for me.
Neat how that works, huh?
Then, I read this little article about how in using the platform of the Pulitzer to talk trash on other ladies, Egan was committing serious girl-on-girl crime and I felt like a traitor to my sistas.
But, the feeling didn't last.
I immediately thought,"what's so terrible about wanting for women to garner more respect in an arena where they have been traditionally overlooked?" And then I thought, "but why should women have to pander to bullshit patriarchy and its many institutions?" Then, I thought that maybe the two don't really have anything to do with one another. It's apples and oranges, right?
I don't really know.
And, as a huge proponent of all things woman, not knowing bugs the shit out of me. Girl-on-girl crimes seem to be among the very worst offenses women can commit. (But isn't describing such conflict as "girl-on-girl" a little problematic as well given the obvious connotations/associations?) We expect to get shit from men and the systems constructed by men and the society governed by men but we do not expect to be on the receiving end from other women.
Or, maybe we do.
And that's the point.
Maybe that's why Egan is getting a bunch of shit from writers of chick lit. Or women writers in general.
But, it doesn't seem that simple. That 'always' and 'never' kind of binary seems rife with pitfalls.
Should we then just lower our expectations of women? Is that why Egen is getting so much flack? Because she wants women to be taken seriously? Or, to be taken seriously for creating serious work? Consider the ways in which men behave and are treated. It's not like anybody expects all that much of them. Consider Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal. Talk about trivial, catty, overdramatized bullshit. Talk about a bunch of bitches.
I realize I am probably opening a big ol' rusty can of worms. And I have probably contradicted the hell out of myself. But, something about all the hullabaloo touched a nerve.
And there you have it.

write on

2011-04-25T15:14:00.000-07:00

These days I have a lot of time on my hands. Other than the all-consuming focus of the Dead Bowel Blood Clot Debacle (which I have yet to address here for fear of boring myself as much as anyone), I am trying to write as much as I can muster. The habit of writing regularly proves tricky for most and I am no exception. That said, sometimes it is nice to know you are not alone.

Enter thedaysofyore.com - a site devoted to interviews with writers before they made it big. Now, making it big is not a priority for me (sorry, Mom). Writing continues to be one of the constants in my life and I rely on in to make me feel like myself. In the past, I thought it was enough to simply write but I am coming to understand that there is something to be said for sharing some of it with others. Hence, this amazing blog that you are reading right now.

that'll never be me

2011-04-21T21:21:00.000-07:00

Or maybe it will.

These days, I am trying to consider the possibility that maybe my inner rhino face can learn to smile. Does Dorothy Dix know how to make it happen?

You tell me...

Dorothy Dix's Dictates for a Happy Life

First. Make up your mind to be happy. Happiness is largely a matter of self-hypnotism. You can think yourself happy or you can think yourself miserable. It is up to you. Learn to find pleasure in simple things. If you can’t go to the opera, you can turn on the radio. Nail on your face the smile that won’t come off, and after a bit you will find that it comes naturally.

Second. Make the best of your lot. Of course, you’re not everything you want and things are not just right. Nobody is that lucky. Even the most fortunate have a lot of crumpled rose leaves under their forty mattresses of ease. There isn’t a single human being who hasn’t plenty to cry over, and the trick is to make the laughs outweigh the tears.

Third. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Don’t think that everything that happens to you is of world-shaking importance and that somehow you should have been protected from the misfortunes that befall other people. When death robs you of one you love, or you lose your job, don’t demand to know of high heaven why this should happen to you and grow rebellious and morbid over your sorrow. We are never happy until we learn to laugh at ourselves.

Fourth. Don’t take other people too seriously. They are not so much, anyway. Don’t let their criticisms worry you. You can’t please everybody, so please yourself. Don’t let your neighbors set your standards for you. Don’t run into debt trying to keep up with the Joneses, or bore yourself to death trying to be as intelligent as the Highbrows. Be yourself and do the things you enjoy doing if you want to be comfortable and happy.

Fifth. Don’t borrow trouble. You have to pay compound interest on that and it will bankrupt you in the end. It is a queer thing, but imaginary troubles are harder to bear than actual ones. There are none of us who have not lain awake at night petrified with dread of some calamity that we feared might befall us and that we felt would shatter our lives if it should occur. Generally it never happened, but if it did, it was not so bad after all and we survived it without serious injury. Enjoy today and let tomorrow take care of itself. There is no sounder adage than that which bids us not to trouble trouble until trouble troubles us. The only good that worrying ever did anyone was make him thin. It is grand for the figure but hard on the disposition.

Sixth. Don’t cherish enmities and grudges. Don’t keep up old quarrels. Don’t remember all the mean things people have done to you. Forget them. Hate is a dreadful chemical that we distill in our own hearts, that poisons our own souls. It takes all the joy out of life and hurts us far worse than it does anyone else. There is nothing so depressing as having a grudge against someone. Nothing makes a home so miserable as for the family not to be on good terms. Meeting someone you don’t speak to will spoil any party. So if you have an enemy, forgive him and kiss on both cheeks, not for his sake but simply because it is to making you unhappy and uncomfortable to be stirred up in wrath against him.

Seventh. Keep in circulation. Go around and meet people. Belong to clubs. Travel as much as you can. Have as many interests as possible. Have hosts of friends. That is the way to keep yourself cheerful and jolly and thinking that this is the best of all possible worlds.

Eighth. Don’t hold post-mortems. Don’t spend your life brooding over the mistakes you have made or the sorrows that have befallen on you. What is done is done and cannot be changed, but you can have your whole future life in which to make good. Not all the tears can bring back those we have lost, but we can make life miserable for ourselves and those about us by our unavailing weeping. Quit beating upon your breast because you haven’t as much money as you used to have. Don’t be one of those who never get over things. Have the courage to take misfortune on the chin and come up smiling.

Ninth. Do something for somebody less fortunate than yourself. Minister to other people’s trouble and you will forget your own. Happiness is a coin that we keep only when we give it away.

Tenth. Keep busy. That is the sovereign remedy for unhappiness. Hard work is a panacea for trouble. You never saw a very busy person who was unhappy.

prototypical

2011-04-18T17:34:00.000-07:00

I am no good at drawing. But my penmanship is top-notch. Once, when I was eleven, I got paid to transcribe a set of class rules to poster board by a second grade teacher. That's right, paid. Three dollars, if memory serves.

About a year or two ago, I began doing the labels and designs on some musical effects pedals made by my pal, T. Putting the skills back to good use, I suppose.

You can find the pedals at straightlineaudio.com

Take a peek at some of the new guys I'm working on...

all up in it

2011-04-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

My pal, Uncle D, gave me a book of Mary Robison's short stories. Our mutual buddy, Destiny (not really real name, but kinda sorta), is perhaps more responsible for the intro - but that is neither here nor there.

To write successful short stories, in my humble opinion, you can't fuck around. And Robison gets to it. She's regarded as a "minimalist" but that qualification seems to -- wait for it -- minimize her work. I liken her short stories to the TV show Quantum Leap, albeit on a smaller, more refined, less ridiculous scale. Like Scott Bakula, you fall smack dab in the middle of someone else's mess. For a short time, you are in it - living it, watching characters eke and squirm and clash through small moments. But those moments and the ways in which Robison's characters react let you know all that you need to get a sense of what might be going on. And you don't need an small, Italian sidekick guy helping you out. Robison gives you enough guidance in her depiction of the complicated and familiar nuances of all sorts of relationships. Complete understanding, of course, cannot be realized. But unlike Scott Bakula, it's not happening to you and you don't have solve any problems. So, there's that.

Now you should get to it and read her stuff. (Even if the pop cultural reference was completely lost on you.)

This is the book I read.

in this together

2011-04-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

on april 6, a very very cool online journal called metazen posted a very, very, short story i wrote. check it out here.

a necklace from noa

2011-04-10T17:37:00.000-07:00

some time ago, i worked at the public library in downtown austin, texas.
one of my co-workers was a super cool girl named noa who was the super coolest.
we now live something like 1,000 miles apart.
but, sometimes we send one another stuff in the mail.
she gets lame postcards.
and i get this.

you can find her stuffs here!

blast off!

2011-04-10T17:24:00.001-07:00

a brand new blog. never before experienced by you or me.

patience, please - as i test my limits regarding virtual exposure.

i'll start simple.

and show you some stuff i like.