It's been a long dry spell for insanely great books and I figured I should at least catalog the blobs of paper I've slogged through in the last 2 or three months... read on if you can't stop reading books (the first thing you have to do is admit you have a problem).
First a bright spot. I reread Vernor Vinge's "A Deepness in the Sky." He is good. It's basically the story of a civilization that lives life briskly while the sun shines and then hides deep underground and hibernates when the sun suddenly turns off (every 200 years). Its also about 2 warring space civilizations that decide to visit this odd star and exploit the poor natives. The best part about the whole book (and it is a really good book) is Vinge's take on how to build a galaxy spanning civilization (hint governments would fail or become degenerate but he's got an alternative that just might work).
Vernor Vinge's new book, "Rainbow's End" held such promise. First if you've never read his books, read them all. Find his short stories, essays, anything he's written is worth reading. He hasn't had a book out in a while so I bought this one with glee (yes actual glee... though it was sugar free). I'm not saying its bad, in fact the first chapter is worth buying the book for, but it just left me wanting (if you're a newbie to really good futuretelling you'll probably love it).
Set in the near future, it extrapolates in some not so obvious (well obvious once he does it) ways the tech trends of today into a believable world (his "True Names" is a classic in this sense). An old timer gets gene therapy and enters a second childhood. All the books of the world are being fed into shredders (to better scan them and put them online for those poor children who don't understand paper), people routinely shadow others via augmented reality and most social networks detect outbreaks and cures far sooner than the slow and structured government organizations that used to protect us (of course the converse is true as well... the world is full of asymetric threats). Trouble ensues and the old timer gets involved, maybe the world almost ends or becomes sentient... I won't say.
I get the sense that the book might have gone an entirely different way or that it was laying the groundwork for a sequel that would knock our socks off (and given his track record I'll give him the benefit of the doubt).
"Fluke" by Christopher Moore is a little gem. Never heard of this guy before but he writes a good book. Nothing groundbreaking just a little story about the real reason whales sing. Mildly sci-fi (and he knows his marine biology).
Fluffy mindless sci-fi body shifting detective fun. Richard Morgan's "Altered Carbon" is a pretty gripping run through the classic "who-done-it" (which in this case is complicated by the fact that the victim seems to have committed suicide, isn't actually dead due to spinal backup archives and is a rich bastard who can't imagine why he'd kill himself and so ends up being the person that hired the detective in the first place). A bit brutal, but fun.
"Broken Angels" is a sequel of sorts to "Altered Carbon" though not on earth and with a far different tone. This time the main character (a detective in the first one but now a mercenary fighting an unwinnable war... remember I said people can have themselves backed up... so he gets to die alot and come back...) has been contracted to track down an alien artifact. Another fun read with little substance.
"Market Forces" is one more by Richard Morgan (ok I was on a run). This time it is the near future and pimping and racing cars ala fast and furious has emerged as the best way to get ahead in the corporate world. Deathcarmatch meets mergers and acquisitions meets global corporations that run wars for despots. I didn't really get into this one but if you like dystopia.... well... uh...
"Black Swan Green" by David Mitchell (he wrote "Cloud Atlas" which was kinda trippy but a bit overwrought) is the best book he's done so far. It feels autobiographical or at least very lovingly detailed (maybe it's just that I remember the era that he writes about well). Each chapter is another month in the life of a 13 year old english kid in the 1980's. A compelling portrait of a painful age (thatcher is PM and the falklands are under siege... which I can't recall being a big deal here but it was clearly a blow to the empire over there).
"The Pleasure of My Company" by Steve Martin (the comedian) is a little book in the mode of "the curious incident of the dog in the night time." A man who's mentally challenged (augsbergers? autism? low IQ? OCD? or maybe some combination... you can't tell until the story gets rolling) tells of his adventures trying to cross the street, meet girls, stay out of a murder investigation, join Mensa, and learn about life and love. A sweet and amusing set piece.
Oh yeah, I read one more by Salman Rushdie called "The Ground Beneath Her Feet." Not a little book, nor the kind that you just slip through in a moment. If you like to read though it's a fun ride. He's got a way with words and ideas and legends and musical lyrics and slightly alternate worlds and tragedy and love and the brutality of life. It's the story of a girl (kinda like Madonna) who meets a boy (who's sorta like a cross between John Lennon and Elvis), they fall in love and become mega super rock stars. Rushdie sets it in many locales as the pop stars explode upon the world but the main characters grow up in Bombay (later Mumbai) in the 50s and 60s and Bombay alone is quite a story all by itself (and feels like a character in its own right). There are murders, families explode, Carly Simon and Genevere Garfunkel sing about a bridge over some water and there is a touch of sci-fi/magical realism throughout his words.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
backstory part 5: Mom's day
I thought mother's day would be a nice time to take a breath and capture a little bit of the eulogy I gave at my mom's passing.
My father and brothers read from the bible.
The priest spoke of Jesus and his leadership by serving others. Simple things that echo through my mind at quiet moments. He noted that my mom had spent most of her life teaching an ecumenical worldview (I had to look that one up and it was a good word for the way she lived).
My sister and brothers did their part, suggesting bits of history and family lore, reminding me of moments in her life and then they wished me luck, too choked up to speak themselves, knowing that I was after all, the big mouth.
I compiled my list and entitled it: "The 10 secrets of being Mary"
I thought I'd make it just about up to the introduction and break down. I could feel my body rebelling against me, legs shaking, chest heaving for air as I walked to the front of the chapel. As I looked down on her casket, out on our family and friends (some I had not seen since childhood), up at the light streaming through the stained glass, over at her little brother. I knew I'd be fine. She deserved a good word in honor of her shining life and love.
I took a deep breath and told the world about growing up with Mary Margaret McManus as my mom.
The 10 secrets of being Mary
1 that light in her eyes.
She had a playful intelligence that couldn't be dimmed. She would laugh and smile and play word games and when we'd sit around the dinner table we'd always learn new words, my dad would write them down and puzzle over them (he acting the naive blue collar mechanic, she the patient teacher). She loved sharing her knowledge. Even when her body was more burden than fortress her mind was alight, her eyes would shine.
2 the scientific method (the family as experimental medium)
My mom was a scientist, a researcher and later a school teacher. We were her most ambitious experiment. We drank tang, mixed powdered milk, ate moon bars used by astronauts, invented meatzas. She was doing something right, each child grew to be bigger and more strapping than the last (oldest was 5'10", second was 5'11", third... well, fourth was 6'5" and fifth was 6'5" and some change). We were a red headed culture that grew far past our petri dish. We learned from her that science was power, that knowledge held the key, and that the world was open to us.
3 keys to the kingdom
It was a little thing, I didn't even remember it until my sister brought it up. My mom had the keys to everyone's house in the neighborhood and they hung on the wall in our kitchen. Even when the kid down the street that I was currently in a heated war with over some world shaking childhood slight, even when he would come to our door, locked out of his home, perfect moment for revenge... no words were said... I gave him the keys under the universal sign of neutrality and peace that was my mother's will. I learned that the community was just a bigger part of the family (I wish I could be just a bit more like my mom, I fear that I channel her mother more than her sometimes with a fiery glare and desire to spit steel bits of caustic humor when I should just chill... I'm working on it though).
4 mi casa es su casa or the six degrees of Mary McManus
We were wealthy beyond imagination because we had a place to call our own, a house, a home. She loved to meet new people, she invited them home and if they needed a place to stay for a night to lay there weary heads or a week or a year, they could stay. We didn't lock the doors until everyone was home and safe for the night. She opened her arms wide (and she had long arms, which you'd know if you ever cracked wise or punched your little brother in the back seat of the car when she was driving).
5 wealth without bounds
I thought the powdered milk was just a part of the experiment, the straining of clumps between our teeth a little game my mom would play on us to test our courage. I thought everyone walked the alleys to find furniture for the porch, parts for the cars. I just assumed we were rich without bounds. We had encyclopedias, books covered every open space on walls from floor to ceiling, we had tools and irons and garbage bags and things that could cut things and things that could put them back together in new and odd ways, and a basement full of wonders that brimmed with adventure (when it wasn't blazing from some mishap... firemen not far behind).
I think with the engine parts in the living room and the rocket powered skateboards and VWs with no bodies (or physical means of support for such things as steering wheels and seats) cruising the streets as we dreamed of sand dunes, we were actually more like the poor white trash black sheep of the neighborhood. We never knew it, we never doubted for a moment that this was what it was to be rich without bounds. (My dad approached me after my eulogy and said I had hit a bit close to home, shyly embarassed by my comments about our wealth or lack thereof, proud man, mechanic at heart. But he knew, as she did, that riches were measured in conversations, inventions and the playful interchange of the mind with friends and family. He just gave me a hug and whispered "just a bit close, mick.")
6 a glass of water and a little reverse psychology
When I was about four I threw a temper tantrum and would not, could not, stop. My mom grabbed a big glass of water and said "stop now or you will be very wet my friend," and I kicked and screamed and cried and she threw that water in my face and I stopped. She had a way of raising children that said everything was alright. You could do no wrong, but if you stepped over the line you would get wet. I laughed a bit when my son was three and a half years old and throwing a tantrum and without thinking I grabbed a giant glass of water and said "Stop now or you will be very wet my friend." I have now proven that it works in two successive experiments in which the subjects have never exhibited tantrums of that sort again. If you're tracking this of course it is all part of number 2, the scientific method.
7 fire and brimstone and indestructable women
Raising a child is pretty complicated stuff. My mom was raised by someone who really knew how to light up the fire and brimstone. My grandmother was a piece of work. I mean that in a wonderfully Irish way. She raised an amazing woman and all her children were wonders to behold from scientists to engineers to captains of industry. My grandmother set the tone and was the template for spit and vinegar, carried a pearl handled .22 and ran a business as a single mom in the male/mob dominated stockyards of chicago in the 30s. I said before I think I channel my grandmother more than my mom sometimes when dealing with my own child (minus the .22).
I often try to think of how my mom would deal with things. In the same situation that I might just rail at the moon with much gnashing of teeth, she would come up close and say "well friend, what are we going to do about this one," as if she were a co-conspirator. But she was an indestructible woman and I don't think she passed away at all as long as we channel her occasionally as our better nature.
8 unconditional love
I saw for forty seven odd years how my mom and dad lived together and there was never a question that they were in love, that we were loved. I never heard an argument, never stumbled upon a fight simmering below the surface. It was us against the world and the world wasn't such a bad place.
I remember saying to my mom at 18 that "I don't think I want to go to college, I'm going to Atlanta become a roadey for the Police, become a film maker for those newfangled things on that channel called Mtv that had just been born" and I remember sitting on the porch swing telling her this, knowing that in our family of course you went to college, got a Masters or PhD you must become a scientist and she said "ok, we'll be here, the house will be here. Good luck."
That was how she raised us, she gave us a little room to grow (and knew all about how to exercise catholic guilt). Sure enough 6 months later I was back, hungry for school, not quite ready to face the music of real life, ready to fail at anything in college rather than have to live the life I had just left in Georgia. Unconditional love was just a part of being Mary, she would always hold you, no matter what crazy scheme you got up to. A hug would pull you back.
9 the grand adventure and that light in her eyes
Everything was a grand adventure to my mom. When my new wife and my son and I were embarking on a trip to Arizona (from Chicago) and only made it to Springfield, Illinois before the oil rushed out of the engine in a glorious midnight burst of black smoke. I called my mom and dad and 12 hours later there was another car sitting in Springfield (they enlisted my brother and his wife to drive the spare car and of course never left home without a VW towbar kit in the trunk) and they would go see a movie and maybe catch a bite to eat, tow the VW back and we would continued on our way. No big deal. Just another weekend adventure.
About a year or two ago I had a chance to spend another adventure with her. We spent some time in a road trip across the country. We had to spring her from some evil doctors in a SWAT operation to save her from a slow decline towards death at the hands of a well meaning but decidedly barbaric hospital establishment on the shores of the atlantic sea. We carried her across the country. She couldn't walk or even sit up in the car, I had to carry her like a child from car to wheelchair to hotel bedroom and back. It was just another grand adventure that she cracked wise about and we had a wonderful time. I struggled with embarrassment and guilt and shame at not coming sooner, not doing more, not beating the doctors to within an inch of their lives for such a sham bit of witch doctoring and I finally got to show her that I was big enough to hold her up for once. That I wasn't at all embarrassed to carry her and make up for all the times that she had carried me.
10 shut up and hold tight (squeeze til they squeak)
Now I should just shut up and hold someone, because that was her most basic and profound answer. Just hold them as tight as you can, until they squeak. That's what she would do (did I mention that she was a big woman and had long, strong arms?)
I think she held the world, her family, her friends together in her arms more times than I could ever have imagined.
After the burial my mom's little brother (only child left now) came up to me and gave me a hug and thanked me for my words, for the small glimpse into what it was like to be raised by Mary. For sharing what he was too choked up to put into words.
I came back home adrift. Who would I impress now? What did it matter? I was loose in the world as if the last ropes that had moored me to the surface had been cut free. It would have been easy to just lose it at that point. To walk away from the buzzing noise of a long lifetime stretching out ahead of me with no anchor. I couldn't work up the energy to care about much of anything for months.
Of course if I told my mom about such small self-centered and pitiable thoughts she'd have just smiled and given me a hug. She'd say "well friend..."
My father and brothers read from the bible.
The priest spoke of Jesus and his leadership by serving others. Simple things that echo through my mind at quiet moments. He noted that my mom had spent most of her life teaching an ecumenical worldview (I had to look that one up and it was a good word for the way she lived).
My sister and brothers did their part, suggesting bits of history and family lore, reminding me of moments in her life and then they wished me luck, too choked up to speak themselves, knowing that I was after all, the big mouth.
I compiled my list and entitled it: "The 10 secrets of being Mary"
I thought I'd make it just about up to the introduction and break down. I could feel my body rebelling against me, legs shaking, chest heaving for air as I walked to the front of the chapel. As I looked down on her casket, out on our family and friends (some I had not seen since childhood), up at the light streaming through the stained glass, over at her little brother. I knew I'd be fine. She deserved a good word in honor of her shining life and love.
I took a deep breath and told the world about growing up with Mary Margaret McManus as my mom.
The 10 secrets of being Mary
1 that light in her eyes.
She had a playful intelligence that couldn't be dimmed. She would laugh and smile and play word games and when we'd sit around the dinner table we'd always learn new words, my dad would write them down and puzzle over them (he acting the naive blue collar mechanic, she the patient teacher). She loved sharing her knowledge. Even when her body was more burden than fortress her mind was alight, her eyes would shine.
2 the scientific method (the family as experimental medium)
My mom was a scientist, a researcher and later a school teacher. We were her most ambitious experiment. We drank tang, mixed powdered milk, ate moon bars used by astronauts, invented meatzas. She was doing something right, each child grew to be bigger and more strapping than the last (oldest was 5'10", second was 5'11", third... well, fourth was 6'5" and fifth was 6'5" and some change). We were a red headed culture that grew far past our petri dish. We learned from her that science was power, that knowledge held the key, and that the world was open to us.
3 keys to the kingdom
It was a little thing, I didn't even remember it until my sister brought it up. My mom had the keys to everyone's house in the neighborhood and they hung on the wall in our kitchen. Even when the kid down the street that I was currently in a heated war with over some world shaking childhood slight, even when he would come to our door, locked out of his home, perfect moment for revenge... no words were said... I gave him the keys under the universal sign of neutrality and peace that was my mother's will. I learned that the community was just a bigger part of the family (I wish I could be just a bit more like my mom, I fear that I channel her mother more than her sometimes with a fiery glare and desire to spit steel bits of caustic humor when I should just chill... I'm working on it though).
4 mi casa es su casa or the six degrees of Mary McManus
We were wealthy beyond imagination because we had a place to call our own, a house, a home. She loved to meet new people, she invited them home and if they needed a place to stay for a night to lay there weary heads or a week or a year, they could stay. We didn't lock the doors until everyone was home and safe for the night. She opened her arms wide (and she had long arms, which you'd know if you ever cracked wise or punched your little brother in the back seat of the car when she was driving).
5 wealth without bounds
I thought the powdered milk was just a part of the experiment, the straining of clumps between our teeth a little game my mom would play on us to test our courage. I thought everyone walked the alleys to find furniture for the porch, parts for the cars. I just assumed we were rich without bounds. We had encyclopedias, books covered every open space on walls from floor to ceiling, we had tools and irons and garbage bags and things that could cut things and things that could put them back together in new and odd ways, and a basement full of wonders that brimmed with adventure (when it wasn't blazing from some mishap... firemen not far behind).
I think with the engine parts in the living room and the rocket powered skateboards and VWs with no bodies (or physical means of support for such things as steering wheels and seats) cruising the streets as we dreamed of sand dunes, we were actually more like the poor white trash black sheep of the neighborhood. We never knew it, we never doubted for a moment that this was what it was to be rich without bounds. (My dad approached me after my eulogy and said I had hit a bit close to home, shyly embarassed by my comments about our wealth or lack thereof, proud man, mechanic at heart. But he knew, as she did, that riches were measured in conversations, inventions and the playful interchange of the mind with friends and family. He just gave me a hug and whispered "just a bit close, mick.")
6 a glass of water and a little reverse psychology
When I was about four I threw a temper tantrum and would not, could not, stop. My mom grabbed a big glass of water and said "stop now or you will be very wet my friend," and I kicked and screamed and cried and she threw that water in my face and I stopped. She had a way of raising children that said everything was alright. You could do no wrong, but if you stepped over the line you would get wet. I laughed a bit when my son was three and a half years old and throwing a tantrum and without thinking I grabbed a giant glass of water and said "Stop now or you will be very wet my friend." I have now proven that it works in two successive experiments in which the subjects have never exhibited tantrums of that sort again. If you're tracking this of course it is all part of number 2, the scientific method.
7 fire and brimstone and indestructable women
Raising a child is pretty complicated stuff. My mom was raised by someone who really knew how to light up the fire and brimstone. My grandmother was a piece of work. I mean that in a wonderfully Irish way. She raised an amazing woman and all her children were wonders to behold from scientists to engineers to captains of industry. My grandmother set the tone and was the template for spit and vinegar, carried a pearl handled .22 and ran a business as a single mom in the male/mob dominated stockyards of chicago in the 30s. I said before I think I channel my grandmother more than my mom sometimes when dealing with my own child (minus the .22).
I often try to think of how my mom would deal with things. In the same situation that I might just rail at the moon with much gnashing of teeth, she would come up close and say "well friend, what are we going to do about this one," as if she were a co-conspirator. But she was an indestructible woman and I don't think she passed away at all as long as we channel her occasionally as our better nature.
8 unconditional love
I saw for forty seven odd years how my mom and dad lived together and there was never a question that they were in love, that we were loved. I never heard an argument, never stumbled upon a fight simmering below the surface. It was us against the world and the world wasn't such a bad place.
I remember saying to my mom at 18 that "I don't think I want to go to college, I'm going to Atlanta become a roadey for the Police, become a film maker for those newfangled things on that channel called Mtv that had just been born" and I remember sitting on the porch swing telling her this, knowing that in our family of course you went to college, got a Masters or PhD you must become a scientist and she said "ok, we'll be here, the house will be here. Good luck."
That was how she raised us, she gave us a little room to grow (and knew all about how to exercise catholic guilt). Sure enough 6 months later I was back, hungry for school, not quite ready to face the music of real life, ready to fail at anything in college rather than have to live the life I had just left in Georgia. Unconditional love was just a part of being Mary, she would always hold you, no matter what crazy scheme you got up to. A hug would pull you back.
9 the grand adventure and that light in her eyes
Everything was a grand adventure to my mom. When my new wife and my son and I were embarking on a trip to Arizona (from Chicago) and only made it to Springfield, Illinois before the oil rushed out of the engine in a glorious midnight burst of black smoke. I called my mom and dad and 12 hours later there was another car sitting in Springfield (they enlisted my brother and his wife to drive the spare car and of course never left home without a VW towbar kit in the trunk) and they would go see a movie and maybe catch a bite to eat, tow the VW back and we would continued on our way. No big deal. Just another weekend adventure.
About a year or two ago I had a chance to spend another adventure with her. We spent some time in a road trip across the country. We had to spring her from some evil doctors in a SWAT operation to save her from a slow decline towards death at the hands of a well meaning but decidedly barbaric hospital establishment on the shores of the atlantic sea. We carried her across the country. She couldn't walk or even sit up in the car, I had to carry her like a child from car to wheelchair to hotel bedroom and back. It was just another grand adventure that she cracked wise about and we had a wonderful time. I struggled with embarrassment and guilt and shame at not coming sooner, not doing more, not beating the doctors to within an inch of their lives for such a sham bit of witch doctoring and I finally got to show her that I was big enough to hold her up for once. That I wasn't at all embarrassed to carry her and make up for all the times that she had carried me.
10 shut up and hold tight (squeeze til they squeak)
Now I should just shut up and hold someone, because that was her most basic and profound answer. Just hold them as tight as you can, until they squeak. That's what she would do (did I mention that she was a big woman and had long, strong arms?)
I think she held the world, her family, her friends together in her arms more times than I could ever have imagined.
After the burial my mom's little brother (only child left now) came up to me and gave me a hug and thanked me for my words, for the small glimpse into what it was like to be raised by Mary. For sharing what he was too choked up to put into words.
I came back home adrift. Who would I impress now? What did it matter? I was loose in the world as if the last ropes that had moored me to the surface had been cut free. It would have been easy to just lose it at that point. To walk away from the buzzing noise of a long lifetime stretching out ahead of me with no anchor. I couldn't work up the energy to care about much of anything for months.
Of course if I told my mom about such small self-centered and pitiable thoughts she'd have just smiled and given me a hug. She'd say "well friend..."
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