"Matter" by Ian M Banks is a return to his culture universe (a place reminiscent of the UK but after a trillion years of evolution... witty, dry, casually superior to the savages, cultured). I read all of his books the moment they come out. He's created a complete, self-consistent, and at times brutal setting for his characters. Things you can do in the culture? Think about it and start your body shifting from man to woman, lose a leg and regrow it, work because you feel like it, live mostly forever, sublime when you get bored. Things you can do if you're part of special circumstances (understated way to say that you're a part of the culture that is sorta the MI5 or CIA, Peace Corp, Warrior Class)? Shoot laser beams from your fingers, move fast enough to ignite the atmosphere, take over most machines and environments by thinking about it, and generally being a pretty bad a... It is escapism, but hey, once in a while that's what we need, no?
"The Assault On Reason" by Al Gore is a serious indictment of the political system and in some ways the citizenry of America. His claims are brutal and well documented and highlight a decline that has been slowly reducing our ability to talk, think, or act reasonably as a country. Much of it can be attributed to corporations now being treated as citizens (thanks to a supreme court decision from earlier in the century corporations now have freedom of speech and I guess to bear arms too...), the rise of one way communications (TV) focused more on entertaining than enlightening, the move towards constant campaigning instead of governing (instigated by the previous two developments) and the shift from being interested in the best interests of our country to being driven by party ideologies by some less than forthcoming leaders. Is there hope? He thinks so, though we have to hold people accountable, stop focusing more attention on the sensational story du jour (read Anna Nicole Smith, OJ, and the other media created hype machines) than on the fate of our world, and start using two-way methods more deliberately (read internet, public forums, and generally getting off our bums). Depressing, good.
"Brave Story" by Miyuki Miyabe was a long "wizard of oz-style" road movie kinda book, probably aimed at young adults rather than not as young ones. Coming of age fantasy set partly in Japan and partly in an otherworldly place that echoes the best and worst within us.
Other stuff?
Wyclef Jean's new album... Carnival II, is solid, "Once" inspires, Daniel Day Lewis is mesmerizing, and "Be Kind, Rewind" makes me want to go out tomorrow and swede life again. Nuff Said.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Books 'n' Stuff January 08
A few of the books and such that I've finished up recently...
"Halting States" by Charles Stross was a great little mini-thriller/detective story/day after tomorrow future/geek/gaming fun house. Basic premise? a bunch of orcs break into an online world and rob the vault, but in reality they maybe are chinese hackers trying to take down the economy in the real world (or substantial parts of it). Not as unlikely as it sounds. Team up a reclusive geek and a sword wielding analyst and add some random english wit and you've got another diverting ride from Mr. Stross. I recommend just about anything he's ever written.
"Nova Swing" by M. John Harrison was a book. Meh. Not bad, I liked some of his other work but this one seemed like just too much for me to get my head into. I finally did and it wasn't bad, but not worth spending money on. Set in a world where some alien artifact, manifested as a sort of dimensional tear in the fabric of things, makes predicting what will happen if you walk down a street hard to do. People (or something like them) start coming out of the tear and others are adventurers who want to go in. Whatever.
"Beautiful Children" by Charles Bock is a richly detailed journey into the seedier side of Las Vegas, adolescence, wasted youth, run away children, lost dreams and crushing helplessness. Well done. Bleak. Kinda reminded me in some parts of Chuck Palahniuk's work (though without the evil giggle burbling out of the edges of the page).
"Firstborn" is another time odyssey book by Arthur C. Clark and Stephen Baxter. Fluffy sorta hard sci-fi. Nothing really to see but distracting if you need that sorta thing.
"Proust was a Neuroscientist" by Jonah Lehrer is an interesting attempt to meld science and art. The author is the editor of Seed magazine which is a pretty nicely crafted art/science journal in itself. In this book he takes a number of artists (Proust, Cezanne, Walt Whitman, Auguste Escoffier, etc.) and explores how their art predated, predicted, explored current advances in science decades ahead of time. I enjoyed some aspects of the book and found others a bit of a stretch. Jonah is a really smart guy and I'll keep an eye out for more from him.
"Einstein: His Life and Universe" by Walter Isaacson was a great exploration of Einstein's life and theories. Written to be accessible to a broader audience, Isaacson tries hard to explain some pretty heavy stuff. The biography is based on some recently released personal papers and as such is probably the most complete history of Einstein's life. Great nuggets? He graduated from school and spent 2 years or more trying to get a job and couldn't get anyone to give him the time of day (probably in part because he was jewish and in part because he sorta alienated a few of his professors). Worth reading.
"The Age of Turbulence" by Alan Greenspan was both a memoir (he dated Barbara Walters, was dragged to celebrity parties, and declined Nixon's offer of a job in the white house after seeing Nixon lose it during a high pressure meeting for instance) and economic treatise (his basic theory is that market economies supported by an evenly applied rule of law and strong property rights have done more to raise the standard of living throughout the world than any other form of government AND that they are incredibly resilient to the ebb and flow of the human psyche). If you're interested in the economic implications of the current and future world (on its current trajectory), read it.
"The World To Come" by Dara Horn was a nice surprise. I picked it up on the road without really knowing what to expect and really enjoyed it. The story revolves around a child prodigy, artists from Russia (Chagall figures prominently), generational love stories and the plight of Russian Jews. In a sense its a book of stories about the world to come, many resurrected from lost Russian writers. Lyrical, imaginative, poignant, and captivating.
Other things...
Yeah Juno is actually really well done, and the sound track crackles, Charlie Wilson's War is pitch perfect, funny and deeply sad and I really did not like Sweeney Todd (I really can't stand musicals and almost walked out a few times even though I wanted so much to like it).
"Halting States" by Charles Stross was a great little mini-thriller/detective story/day after tomorrow future/geek/gaming fun house. Basic premise? a bunch of orcs break into an online world and rob the vault, but in reality they maybe are chinese hackers trying to take down the economy in the real world (or substantial parts of it). Not as unlikely as it sounds. Team up a reclusive geek and a sword wielding analyst and add some random english wit and you've got another diverting ride from Mr. Stross. I recommend just about anything he's ever written.
"Nova Swing" by M. John Harrison was a book. Meh. Not bad, I liked some of his other work but this one seemed like just too much for me to get my head into. I finally did and it wasn't bad, but not worth spending money on. Set in a world where some alien artifact, manifested as a sort of dimensional tear in the fabric of things, makes predicting what will happen if you walk down a street hard to do. People (or something like them) start coming out of the tear and others are adventurers who want to go in. Whatever.
"Beautiful Children" by Charles Bock is a richly detailed journey into the seedier side of Las Vegas, adolescence, wasted youth, run away children, lost dreams and crushing helplessness. Well done. Bleak. Kinda reminded me in some parts of Chuck Palahniuk's work (though without the evil giggle burbling out of the edges of the page).
"Firstborn" is another time odyssey book by Arthur C. Clark and Stephen Baxter. Fluffy sorta hard sci-fi. Nothing really to see but distracting if you need that sorta thing.
"Proust was a Neuroscientist" by Jonah Lehrer is an interesting attempt to meld science and art. The author is the editor of Seed magazine which is a pretty nicely crafted art/science journal in itself. In this book he takes a number of artists (Proust, Cezanne, Walt Whitman, Auguste Escoffier, etc.) and explores how their art predated, predicted, explored current advances in science decades ahead of time. I enjoyed some aspects of the book and found others a bit of a stretch. Jonah is a really smart guy and I'll keep an eye out for more from him.
"Einstein: His Life and Universe" by Walter Isaacson was a great exploration of Einstein's life and theories. Written to be accessible to a broader audience, Isaacson tries hard to explain some pretty heavy stuff. The biography is based on some recently released personal papers and as such is probably the most complete history of Einstein's life. Great nuggets? He graduated from school and spent 2 years or more trying to get a job and couldn't get anyone to give him the time of day (probably in part because he was jewish and in part because he sorta alienated a few of his professors). Worth reading.
"The Age of Turbulence" by Alan Greenspan was both a memoir (he dated Barbara Walters, was dragged to celebrity parties, and declined Nixon's offer of a job in the white house after seeing Nixon lose it during a high pressure meeting for instance) and economic treatise (his basic theory is that market economies supported by an evenly applied rule of law and strong property rights have done more to raise the standard of living throughout the world than any other form of government AND that they are incredibly resilient to the ebb and flow of the human psyche). If you're interested in the economic implications of the current and future world (on its current trajectory), read it.
"The World To Come" by Dara Horn was a nice surprise. I picked it up on the road without really knowing what to expect and really enjoyed it. The story revolves around a child prodigy, artists from Russia (Chagall figures prominently), generational love stories and the plight of Russian Jews. In a sense its a book of stories about the world to come, many resurrected from lost Russian writers. Lyrical, imaginative, poignant, and captivating.
Other things...
Yeah Juno is actually really well done, and the sound track crackles, Charlie Wilson's War is pitch perfect, funny and deeply sad and I really did not like Sweeney Todd (I really can't stand musicals and almost walked out a few times even though I wanted so much to like it).
Monday, December 24, 2007
Books 'n' Stuff December 07
I'm about at the point where I need a really good book to read. I don't seem to be able get through Al Gores newish one or Steven Pinker's either (though I'll keep working on them over grape nuts and the morning sun). So I'm just going to capture some of the things I have managed to read/see/etc in the last few weeks.
"Born Standing Up" by Steve Martin is a memoir about growing up as a magician, banjo-player, comic. He's a good writer and this is a solid bit of flashback that captures the hard lessons of fame and practice and inventiveness and humor. He was an overnight success that of course took years of people thinking he was just weird before the actual night came. Nicely done, short, sweet.
"I Am Legend" by Richard Matheson has been re-released with the release of a new movie remake ("The Omega Man" was an example of a sorta previous retelling of the story). It was released along with a collection of his other stories, all written mid-century. It's a good capsule reminder of the mores of the time as well as a perfect, tight little gem of a story that turns the vampire myth on its head. Worth reading if you like horror or classic pulp fiction.
"Samedi the Deafness" by Jesse Ball is trying so hard to be good but it falls down in many ways. I had to start 3 times before I could care enough to get through his format. In the end it was an OK bit of fiction. An evil genius is plotting to commit some horrendous act on the country and our protagonist stumbles upon (or is meant to stumble upon?) the machinations. Some have said the book was like Lewis Carroll meets Kafka. Meh. It is a first novel so I'll suspend judgment.
I saved the best for last...
"No Ordinary Time" by Doris Kearns Goodwin (she wrote "Team of Rivals" which was easily the best book I've read in a long while) is a perfect glimpse into life in America in the late 30's and 40's during the run up to and culmination of the war and in particular how the Roosevelts (Eleanor, Franklin, and their extended clan) managed to guide the country out of the depression and into its adolescence. It came out a few years ago but I was hungry for something more by this author so I searched it out. It is perfect. Franklin was masterful and his wife was clearly the wife of the country. I didn't know much about Eleanor (or Franklin) beyond the broad strokes of their story. As with "Team" Doris does a deep dive into actual letters, notes, newspaper articles, and interviews with family members to give the reader a deep sense of the time and the minds behind the people. It is a testament to another incredible pair of people who helped America come of age. Read it.
Not books...
"No Country for Old Men" by the brothers Coen was really a compact little movie about the senselessness of evil and the ultimate randomness of life.
"The Fountain" was a movie not many people saw (now on DVD) that integrated the story of genesis, the story of Spain's search for the fountain of youth (and plundering of the Americas), and the MAYAn history of the beginning of the universe, in the form of a love story (possibly) across time. Wonderfully brooding soundtrack (Kronos Quartet), perfect special effects that seem effortless (and apparently were mostly microphotographic films of liquids and bacteria), nicely drawn story. By the director that brought us the painful and powerful "Requiem for a Dream."
"I'm Not There" is a movie about Bob Dylan in the form of a collection of stories about fictional characters that shared many of Bob's life experiences. The film is more collage than straightforward biopic. I enjoyed it, although it may be seen as flawed in any number of ways, mostly because it stretched the boundaries of storytelling in new ways. Great soundtrack, Antony and the Johnsons brings a seriously heavy rotationwise cover of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" to the mix and Jim James and Colexico shake it up with "Going to Acapulco."
"The Knee Plays" was a tight little series of abstract plays performed in the eighties back when we lived in Chicago. It was a collaboration between Robert Wilson and David Byrne (with the Dirty Dozen Brass Band providing backup). I bought the cassette tape that night and played it until it was in tatters. David just re-issued it as a CD, I've been waiting for years. Classic fun with words and music. My favorite song is called "In the Future" and is just a running list of conflicting predictions of the future (like "we will all have our own unique style" and "people with boring jobs will take pills to relieve the boredom").
"Born Standing Up" by Steve Martin is a memoir about growing up as a magician, banjo-player, comic. He's a good writer and this is a solid bit of flashback that captures the hard lessons of fame and practice and inventiveness and humor. He was an overnight success that of course took years of people thinking he was just weird before the actual night came. Nicely done, short, sweet.
"I Am Legend" by Richard Matheson has been re-released with the release of a new movie remake ("The Omega Man" was an example of a sorta previous retelling of the story). It was released along with a collection of his other stories, all written mid-century. It's a good capsule reminder of the mores of the time as well as a perfect, tight little gem of a story that turns the vampire myth on its head. Worth reading if you like horror or classic pulp fiction.
"Samedi the Deafness" by Jesse Ball is trying so hard to be good but it falls down in many ways. I had to start 3 times before I could care enough to get through his format. In the end it was an OK bit of fiction. An evil genius is plotting to commit some horrendous act on the country and our protagonist stumbles upon (or is meant to stumble upon?) the machinations. Some have said the book was like Lewis Carroll meets Kafka. Meh. It is a first novel so I'll suspend judgment.
I saved the best for last...
"No Ordinary Time" by Doris Kearns Goodwin (she wrote "Team of Rivals" which was easily the best book I've read in a long while) is a perfect glimpse into life in America in the late 30's and 40's during the run up to and culmination of the war and in particular how the Roosevelts (Eleanor, Franklin, and their extended clan) managed to guide the country out of the depression and into its adolescence. It came out a few years ago but I was hungry for something more by this author so I searched it out. It is perfect. Franklin was masterful and his wife was clearly the wife of the country. I didn't know much about Eleanor (or Franklin) beyond the broad strokes of their story. As with "Team" Doris does a deep dive into actual letters, notes, newspaper articles, and interviews with family members to give the reader a deep sense of the time and the minds behind the people. It is a testament to another incredible pair of people who helped America come of age. Read it.
Not books...
"No Country for Old Men" by the brothers Coen was really a compact little movie about the senselessness of evil and the ultimate randomness of life.
"The Fountain" was a movie not many people saw (now on DVD) that integrated the story of genesis, the story of Spain's search for the fountain of youth (and plundering of the Americas), and the MAYAn history of the beginning of the universe, in the form of a love story (possibly) across time. Wonderfully brooding soundtrack (Kronos Quartet), perfect special effects that seem effortless (and apparently were mostly microphotographic films of liquids and bacteria), nicely drawn story. By the director that brought us the painful and powerful "Requiem for a Dream."
"I'm Not There" is a movie about Bob Dylan in the form of a collection of stories about fictional characters that shared many of Bob's life experiences. The film is more collage than straightforward biopic. I enjoyed it, although it may be seen as flawed in any number of ways, mostly because it stretched the boundaries of storytelling in new ways. Great soundtrack, Antony and the Johnsons brings a seriously heavy rotationwise cover of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" to the mix and Jim James and Colexico shake it up with "Going to Acapulco."
"The Knee Plays" was a tight little series of abstract plays performed in the eighties back when we lived in Chicago. It was a collaboration between Robert Wilson and David Byrne (with the Dirty Dozen Brass Band providing backup). I bought the cassette tape that night and played it until it was in tatters. David just re-issued it as a CD, I've been waiting for years. Classic fun with words and music. My favorite song is called "In the Future" and is just a running list of conflicting predictions of the future (like "we will all have our own unique style" and "people with boring jobs will take pills to relieve the boredom").
Sunday, November 18, 2007
A book we don't need to read...
A story about invention and death and fiasco and false starts and foolish dreams and childish wonder and acoustic guitars and fluttering heartbeats and cold chills on the back of your neck and jesus and love and songs of abandon and cheap wine.
A note about smiles that smile until they hurt and the hard lump that forms in your throat when you know it is over it is done it won't cause you the pain of love or the taste of death or the knowledge that you are not even close to enough.
A film about a little boy who thought he was made of wood and strings and cigar boxes and superglue and scraps of memories and glimmers of light and chilled ice cubes making your mouth become numb.
A book about nothing and everything and something less than that and something more and this and that and sudden movements and cold dead bodies that look somehow so wrong in death so fake and made up and plastic and not people you love and not people that you remember you won't mind when they're gone you don't remember them they are gone and dust and you are left to carry on and act like life matters when you know it doesn't when you know that you live only to carry over carry through Cary Grant Hawkeye pierced and waiting for the day you can sleep.
A chapter about origins and endings and falls from grace and the day they caught you and the day you knew the truth and the day after that when you still went on and you wondered why how why you wondered when it would happen and the waiting was a dream and a nightmare and a sweet penance and a dread relief and a seductive drift into oblivion.
An index of things that made noise and things that made light and things that made light of noise and things that made noise of light and things that went bump and things that taste like chicken and things that don't.
A footnote from the beyond about never having enough time to stop and breath to stop and think to stop and say thanks for a thankless task to stop and stop and to count the seconds to let time slip by without filling every moment with something to stop waiting for the time of our lives to realize that it is here now while we yearn for it it is all around us while we angst and wonder and wait and then it is gone all too soon all too swiftly but can you replace it you wonder can you find it again or is this good enough what is good enough when everything is pale and grey and full of that tension that pulls your shoulder blades together that feeling in the pit of your stomach that tells you that you should run (our brains taking clues as to how we should feel from our bodies in such things as these).
An aside (like this? (not like that (or this one where we talk about the obvious run on sentences that fill this missive (no. (how about me I'm speaking in the first person because I can and I have plenty to whisper (not even close. (damn.)cry baby.) damn.) oh well thems is the breaks.) damn.) leave it be.) crap.) yup.) about the futility of plans and the celebration of things left to chance, planned to be left to chance, plotted and outlined and diagrammed and practiced and left to chance.
What would this book be titled?
10:37 the time of our lives, no 10:38.
Bricks of soul and the love of polka.
The smoke and the leaves and the orange moon glow and rubber bands... and post-it notes those are really romantic things.
The fog of lore the log of thor the frog of door the flog of more the dog of four the tog du jour the god of war.
Heavy.
or just...
Aren't you lucky they only take people.
A note about smiles that smile until they hurt and the hard lump that forms in your throat when you know it is over it is done it won't cause you the pain of love or the taste of death or the knowledge that you are not even close to enough.
A film about a little boy who thought he was made of wood and strings and cigar boxes and superglue and scraps of memories and glimmers of light and chilled ice cubes making your mouth become numb.
A book about nothing and everything and something less than that and something more and this and that and sudden movements and cold dead bodies that look somehow so wrong in death so fake and made up and plastic and not people you love and not people that you remember you won't mind when they're gone you don't remember them they are gone and dust and you are left to carry on and act like life matters when you know it doesn't when you know that you live only to carry over carry through Cary Grant Hawkeye pierced and waiting for the day you can sleep.
A chapter about origins and endings and falls from grace and the day they caught you and the day you knew the truth and the day after that when you still went on and you wondered why how why you wondered when it would happen and the waiting was a dream and a nightmare and a sweet penance and a dread relief and a seductive drift into oblivion.
An index of things that made noise and things that made light and things that made light of noise and things that made noise of light and things that went bump and things that taste like chicken and things that don't.
A footnote from the beyond about never having enough time to stop and breath to stop and think to stop and say thanks for a thankless task to stop and stop and to count the seconds to let time slip by without filling every moment with something to stop waiting for the time of our lives to realize that it is here now while we yearn for it it is all around us while we angst and wonder and wait and then it is gone all too soon all too swiftly but can you replace it you wonder can you find it again or is this good enough what is good enough when everything is pale and grey and full of that tension that pulls your shoulder blades together that feeling in the pit of your stomach that tells you that you should run (our brains taking clues as to how we should feel from our bodies in such things as these).
An aside (like this? (not like that (or this one where we talk about the obvious run on sentences that fill this missive (no. (how about me I'm speaking in the first person because I can and I have plenty to whisper (not even close. (damn.)cry baby.) damn.) oh well thems is the breaks.) damn.) leave it be.) crap.) yup.) about the futility of plans and the celebration of things left to chance, planned to be left to chance, plotted and outlined and diagrammed and practiced and left to chance.
What would this book be titled?
10:37 the time of our lives, no 10:38.
Bricks of soul and the love of polka.
The smoke and the leaves and the orange moon glow and rubber bands... and post-it notes those are really romantic things.
The fog of lore the log of thor the frog of door the flog of more the dog of four the tog du jour the god of war.
Heavy.
or just...
Aren't you lucky they only take people.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Books 'n' stuff, November 07
I'm still in the middle of a bunch of books, and I haven't had a ton of time lately but finished off these few while traveling.
"The Road" by Cormac McCarthy was a let down. It was probably over-hyped by the notoriety that it got via Oprah and her club. Given that the new Coen brothers' movie is based a book of his I thought I'd give it a try. Basically a post-"end of the world" novel about a boy and his father walking on a road across what is left of America. I just didn't get anything out of the book. No brilliant insights into mankind, no clever twists on story, just slogging through the basics of survival. Find food, lose food, get beat up, beat someone up, flashback to life before the end, wake up in desolation, repeat fifty times, end.
"Gentlemen of the Road" by Michael Chabon is a treat. A short little adventure set back 300 or 400 years in the past on the roads of the middle east. He admits that he originally called this book "Jews with Swords" but got too many snickers from friends. If you like his feasts (like the recently reviewed book about yiddish policemen) you'll enjoy this slim morsel. He just writes so well and has such fun with his characters that its hard not to devour it in a single sitting.
"Fragile Things" by Neil Gaiman is a collection of short stories and poems of horror and fantasy. I think I like his long form work better Maybe resetting every few pages and reading the same kinda story (or at least the same theme) so many times from so many different angles is just too much to take. This might have been better if I checked out a story or two and then hid the book away for a month or two before reading another story. In any case I think this is the year of Neil Gaiman with his recently released "Stardust" which was quite well done to the upcoming Beowulf movie that he co-wrote. If you haven't read "Anansi Boys" or "American Gods" you're missing some fine fantasy (and bear in mind I don't like fantasy as a rule).
"The Book of Lost Things" by John Connolly is a good enough example of why I don't read fantasy. It wasn't bad but it wasn't in any way rewarding. Basically the tale of a boy growing towards manhood during World War II in England. He stumbles into a world of stories (mostly riffs on Brother's Grimm tales) and learns how to be a better person by the end.
"The State of the Art" by Ian Banks is a collection of short stories from a master. If you've never read any of his novels this would be a good place to start. Many of the stories are set in his future civilization called the "culture." Think English manners and sense of humor but with a few thousand years of evolution and stagnation. It makes for a curious projection into the future of society and how it may work. All good.
Not books...
"The Darjeeling Limited" by Wes Anderson is another typical Anderson film. If you like his films you'll really enjoy this one. The cinematography is perfect, the colors are amazing, the characters are just plain fun and the locations (throughout India) are breathtaking. Anderson always makes some location into a character, in this case its a train (in other movies it was a sub, a building, or a school campus). For a taste of the movie they released a prequel called "The Hotel Chevalier" for free on iTunes. Watch it and decide if you want to see the movie, note the colors and the framing of the scene, gold. By the way, great soundtrack too.
"Across the Universe" by Julie Taymor is a flawed film but a worthy experiment in retrospective history-telling and musical collage. Formula? Take a bunch of Beatles songs, weave them into a story about a boy named Jude and a girl named Lucy with plenty of sidebar characters (the best of course being the three played by Joe Cocker). Include someone crawling in through the bathroom window and a cameo with Bono in a slightly too long psychedelic sequence add some freaky costumes left over from one of your Broadway productions and beat the audience senseless with edits, repeat. If you like the Beatles and can stand a bit of amateur directing, its worth seeing... on DVD.
"The Road" by Cormac McCarthy was a let down. It was probably over-hyped by the notoriety that it got via Oprah and her club. Given that the new Coen brothers' movie is based a book of his I thought I'd give it a try. Basically a post-"end of the world" novel about a boy and his father walking on a road across what is left of America. I just didn't get anything out of the book. No brilliant insights into mankind, no clever twists on story, just slogging through the basics of survival. Find food, lose food, get beat up, beat someone up, flashback to life before the end, wake up in desolation, repeat fifty times, end.
"Gentlemen of the Road" by Michael Chabon is a treat. A short little adventure set back 300 or 400 years in the past on the roads of the middle east. He admits that he originally called this book "Jews with Swords" but got too many snickers from friends. If you like his feasts (like the recently reviewed book about yiddish policemen) you'll enjoy this slim morsel. He just writes so well and has such fun with his characters that its hard not to devour it in a single sitting.
"Fragile Things" by Neil Gaiman is a collection of short stories and poems of horror and fantasy. I think I like his long form work better Maybe resetting every few pages and reading the same kinda story (or at least the same theme) so many times from so many different angles is just too much to take. This might have been better if I checked out a story or two and then hid the book away for a month or two before reading another story. In any case I think this is the year of Neil Gaiman with his recently released "Stardust" which was quite well done to the upcoming Beowulf movie that he co-wrote. If you haven't read "Anansi Boys" or "American Gods" you're missing some fine fantasy (and bear in mind I don't like fantasy as a rule).
"The Book of Lost Things" by John Connolly is a good enough example of why I don't read fantasy. It wasn't bad but it wasn't in any way rewarding. Basically the tale of a boy growing towards manhood during World War II in England. He stumbles into a world of stories (mostly riffs on Brother's Grimm tales) and learns how to be a better person by the end.
"The State of the Art" by Ian Banks is a collection of short stories from a master. If you've never read any of his novels this would be a good place to start. Many of the stories are set in his future civilization called the "culture." Think English manners and sense of humor but with a few thousand years of evolution and stagnation. It makes for a curious projection into the future of society and how it may work. All good.
Not books...
"The Darjeeling Limited" by Wes Anderson is another typical Anderson film. If you like his films you'll really enjoy this one. The cinematography is perfect, the colors are amazing, the characters are just plain fun and the locations (throughout India) are breathtaking. Anderson always makes some location into a character, in this case its a train (in other movies it was a sub, a building, or a school campus). For a taste of the movie they released a prequel called "The Hotel Chevalier" for free on iTunes. Watch it and decide if you want to see the movie, note the colors and the framing of the scene, gold. By the way, great soundtrack too.
"Across the Universe" by Julie Taymor is a flawed film but a worthy experiment in retrospective history-telling and musical collage. Formula? Take a bunch of Beatles songs, weave them into a story about a boy named Jude and a girl named Lucy with plenty of sidebar characters (the best of course being the three played by Joe Cocker). Include someone crawling in through the bathroom window and a cameo with Bono in a slightly too long psychedelic sequence add some freaky costumes left over from one of your Broadway productions and beat the audience senseless with edits, repeat. If you like the Beatles and can stand a bit of amateur directing, its worth seeing... on DVD.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Books 'n' stuff, September 07
Something to do while the paint dries on my soul.
"Afterword" by Jeff Van de Meer is an eccentric, convoluted, multithreaded memoir of a sister trying to piece together a brother's life in the fungus underground. It's written in the form of an afterword that just won't end with asides, and backtracks and notes in the margin from the brother that she thinks is dead to his sister that he can't find. Its set in some alternate world where the citizens above aren't quite sure that the citizens below are real. Worth reading if you don't mind density and an expose from another place and time.
"Sunborn" by Gregory Benford is a fine read for those who like this killer B's style of hard science fiction. In this case the story is about life between star systems made of very tenuous plasma born of the sun and the earthlings who are trying to figure out what exactly is going on.
"Spook Country" by William Gibson feels like a stretch from someone who has worn out his welcome in cyberspace. It's not a bad story as far as stories go, fun to read, tightly paced, good characters. But. But he tries so hard to coin new words that feel dated the moment you read about them, that feel obvious the moment he says them. His big idea this time? GPS-based augmented localized overlay art. Just don't look for the next Neuromancer and you'll be fine.
"Brass Man" by Neil Asher is one of a series, "Grid Link" is another. I found both of them to be fast and furious reads with a dash of space opera and a touch of "I, Robot," and maybe a nod to Sam Spade. Neil is fairly new and worth watching.
"Thirteen" by Richard K. Morgan is a flashback of sorts to Cobra-like supermen ala Timothy Zahn. The premise is simple, mankind has created genetic variants that are throwbacks to a more aggressive time to help fight their wars. When the wars are over what do you do with these poor supermen? Throw in re-engineered humans that have bonobo traits for a little local color and a far flung exile colony on mars, mix it with a bit of post-american breakup commentary and season with CSI Miami and you've pretty much got the story. Appetizing treat.
Music?
Regina Spector (ok, gotta say oddly enough I'm loving the new JCPenney commercials one and all... yes, JCP)
Menomena
Peter Bjorn and John
TV on the Radio
Will.I.Am (ok, he's a bit silly but one or two of his songs channel Kansas or Styx or something)
Feist (remixes and collaborations)
Ben Harper
"Afterword" by Jeff Van de Meer is an eccentric, convoluted, multithreaded memoir of a sister trying to piece together a brother's life in the fungus underground. It's written in the form of an afterword that just won't end with asides, and backtracks and notes in the margin from the brother that she thinks is dead to his sister that he can't find. Its set in some alternate world where the citizens above aren't quite sure that the citizens below are real. Worth reading if you don't mind density and an expose from another place and time.
"Sunborn" by Gregory Benford is a fine read for those who like this killer B's style of hard science fiction. In this case the story is about life between star systems made of very tenuous plasma born of the sun and the earthlings who are trying to figure out what exactly is going on.
"Spook Country" by William Gibson feels like a stretch from someone who has worn out his welcome in cyberspace. It's not a bad story as far as stories go, fun to read, tightly paced, good characters. But. But he tries so hard to coin new words that feel dated the moment you read about them, that feel obvious the moment he says them. His big idea this time? GPS-based augmented localized overlay art. Just don't look for the next Neuromancer and you'll be fine.
"Brass Man" by Neil Asher is one of a series, "Grid Link" is another. I found both of them to be fast and furious reads with a dash of space opera and a touch of "I, Robot," and maybe a nod to Sam Spade. Neil is fairly new and worth watching.
"Thirteen" by Richard K. Morgan is a flashback of sorts to Cobra-like supermen ala Timothy Zahn. The premise is simple, mankind has created genetic variants that are throwbacks to a more aggressive time to help fight their wars. When the wars are over what do you do with these poor supermen? Throw in re-engineered humans that have bonobo traits for a little local color and a far flung exile colony on mars, mix it with a bit of post-american breakup commentary and season with CSI Miami and you've pretty much got the story. Appetizing treat.
Music?
Regina Spector (ok, gotta say oddly enough I'm loving the new JCPenney commercials one and all... yes, JCP)
Menomena
Peter Bjorn and John
TV on the Radio
Will.I.Am (ok, he's a bit silly but one or two of his songs channel Kansas or Styx or something)
Feist (remixes and collaborations)
Ben Harper
Friday, August 10, 2007
Backstory: What is design, my first lesson
I built a 24 foot long polka dotted tie. He built a giant iron anvil that weighed almost nothing. Damn. Who is this guy? Why is his stuff so much better than mine? I hate him. I won't miss him when he's gone.
That summer I was trying to figure out what design was.
I had changed majors from Physics to Design due to a casual tour of some place called "The School of Art and Architecture" given by a ravishingly beautiful artist who would later spend her life paying for that one hour, paying for that spring day when I barely paid attention to the school, only just enough to change my life, but barely.
I was playing catch up with the students who actually knew what they wanted to do in life (wonder how many of them are actually designers today?) Taking summer classes so that I could get out of college before I was dead.
The classes were called foundational and were based on the teachings of the Bauhaus, a school that was legendary for teaching the merging of art, craft and technology and later disbanded under the threat of Nazi destruction (modernism was un-German).
Later I learned that most of my mentors were actually trained in design by a fellow named Laszlo Moholy Nagy, one of the famous teachers from said Weimar school. But when I was taking those first classes, trying to figure out if they would really award a degree for tinkering in the shop and critiquing other artists like they were lambs to the slaughter, I had no idea I had stumbled into history.
We worked with our hands, we built things every day, the challenges were odd but trivial compared to solving fermat's theorem and figuring out quantum mechanics (things I clearly couldn't really hack but that had been giving me nightmares for 2 years).
I'm not competitive by nature.
I was so destroying everyone else in the class.
Art is not supposed to be about competition it would be like saying we should always compare apples and oranges.
Art is about internal expression. No?
Well there is still technique, still creativity, still provocation, still taboo. Not everyone seemed to understand that art is only interesting to others if its universal (rather than self-absorbed).
Why am I talking about art now instead of design?
This is but one example of my lack of comprehension. I later learned the difference and the ways that each complement the other but at the time I was all raw, spewing, holy crap I can't believe I'm paying for this, can't believe there are jobs to be had in this, is anybody watching, can anyone tell I'm having way too much fun, energy.
I slayed them (or at least myself and convinced myself I was slaying them). Except for that one over there. My nemesis.
He appeared out of nowhere waltzing into my consciousness the day he came wandering into the shop carrying a massive anvil as if it weighed nothing.
We were learning about one of the methods that you can use to spark creativity (change the scale).
For context I was a full paying member of the new wave at this point in my life. Flock of Seagull meets Wham! hair, preppy/trashed layering of yellow cardigan and torn parachute pants complete with requisite tie. Rector riot gloves, five o'clock shadow. Duran duran (who I didn't really like) would have been proud. Music? Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark, The Cure, Howard Jones, The Police, Yaz.
So I decided to build a monster new-wave tie. Bright yellow, 24' long made of chicken wire, fabric and plaster. it would look like it had stepped off of someone's neck and was walking down the catwalk (right said, fred?)
He, on the other hand, knew what he was doing. Seemed to be born to design. Stunning stuff. Humbling. In fact I think it was at that moment that I began to understand that having a massive crushing ego is fine to help you convince yourself that you should continue with some hair-brained scheme, fine so that you could fail without falling apart, as long as you could also have no ego when you saw something wonderful. As long as you could appreciate the creative thinking, factor in the viewpoint, celebrate the cleverness, and learn most importantly learn from everyone, from everything. Get out of yourself.
I'm not sure how it happened exactly but I think he hated me as much as I hated him. I stewed all summer long. If that was the game I was going to have to start practicing for real.
When we finally actually talked (we were forced together during a road trip to a design conference in southern Illinois), we became fast, life-long friends.
I had to learn to get over myself. It turned out he was a mirror image of my insecurities and my creativity (I'm not ashamed to say that yes I am creative, its often so not the thing that matters though and usually gets you into more trouble than its worth).
Together we nearly destroyed, and ultimately (I hope) saved, our mentors' faith in the next generation.
We built a La Z Boy chair constructed entirely of one dollar appliances from the local salvation army store. Painted the white of graffiti killing white, all the cords woven into a decorative tail, waffle iron headrest, vacuum cleaner lumbar support, iron armrests. It was assembled using the famous paper-spike style of construction (drill a hole straight through the entire appliance with a very nasty drill bit and spike all the resulting components on a long shaft). We installed it in the central hall of the Architecture building halfway up the stairway on a landing. It lasted for over 5 years before some enterprising architectural professor assigned his class a model making exercise that involved found objects.
We invented and edited a student design magazine to wake up the sheep. We built an outpost/cafe that cantilevered out over the poor two-dimensional graphic design students haplessly struggling to make sense of Rubilith and Bodoni below.
We grew to a small horde of smart-ass design tyros. Punched human-shaped holes in the walls of the art school (or at least lets just say that someone who looked very much like us perhaps), designed inflatable televisions, body-blasting bass instruments, roamed the Italian countryside scavenging design artifacts from bombed out hospitals and poking fun at pompous design gods (was that Philippe with the food stains all over his t-shirt?).
We authored a collection of dangerous appliances and furnishings and left a swath of dazed and confused art professors in our wake.
I think I turned out to be the one who went to the dark side.
He walked toward the light, one part Banksy before Banksy was out of diapers (leaving his mark on the streets and buildings of Europe as I slept off the wine and cheese), and one part Mother Teresa.
Whenever I needed inspiration, needed a break from the adult life I had carved out of solidified corporate effluvia, I'd talk to him.
He was off to Sierra Leone to help teach the local villagers how to make furniture for their hospital, living in 100 degree, 100% humid weather with no running water and monkey brains on the menu. Later, when one of the many coups rippled through the land he was evacuated only to sneak back over the border to make sure that the locals had been paid for their goods.
I was designing marketing materials to help sell flavoring (packed with hormone and antibiotic goodness) for cardboard (how do you think chicken's stay so healthy that they can donate all those McNuggets to the common good?). Yes it was one more reason that I stopped eating meat.
He was building his own apartment building in one of the least safe places in our hometown, helping a community bootstrap back from the edge.
I was breathing in rooms full of benzene as I glued and cut my fingers to fit the models I was proposing as saviors for this or that commercial product, corporate showroom, or "important" event.
He was teaching underemployed and unemployed citizens how to work with their hands, placing every one of them in a job. Fighting the odd bureaucracies that crop up even among the best of intentions.
I was nearly killing people as they were blown off of perches I designed (four stories above crowds of 500 or more), foolishly thinking I could create memorable experiences from photoshopped fever dreams.
He was planting edible gardens, working within his community to make things better. Reminding me why I became a designer (or what I should do with my newfound skills).
I was exorcising my demons yes. I was learning yes. I was working towards redemption. But only slowly. How close creativity can come to fiasco. Be careful what you dream for.
I'm slowly learning how to hack the culture of a corporation, how to bend the collective mediocrity of large organizations towards a better path. Its my secret ode to my mirror image and the mentors that taught us that we could change the world if we committed our lives to be designers of good.
I don't see him that much anymore due to distance and time. At times I get the impression that just as before we are both watching the other. Silently wishing we had done this or that. Silently enjoying the simple acts of creativity that the other one makes.
Lesson 1: Design is not about the lone creative genius.
I look back and realize that I stumbled on more than just a career when I changed majors that day. I like to think that when we aren't just making ends we are both working slowly but surely towards the goal of a better world. A lifetime of silly experiments and big ideas, of public service and corporate hacking, of setbacks and failures, of designing the method as well as the madness.
That summer I was trying to figure out what design was.
I had changed majors from Physics to Design due to a casual tour of some place called "The School of Art and Architecture" given by a ravishingly beautiful artist who would later spend her life paying for that one hour, paying for that spring day when I barely paid attention to the school, only just enough to change my life, but barely.
I was playing catch up with the students who actually knew what they wanted to do in life (wonder how many of them are actually designers today?) Taking summer classes so that I could get out of college before I was dead.
The classes were called foundational and were based on the teachings of the Bauhaus, a school that was legendary for teaching the merging of art, craft and technology and later disbanded under the threat of Nazi destruction (modernism was un-German).
Later I learned that most of my mentors were actually trained in design by a fellow named Laszlo Moholy Nagy, one of the famous teachers from said Weimar school. But when I was taking those first classes, trying to figure out if they would really award a degree for tinkering in the shop and critiquing other artists like they were lambs to the slaughter, I had no idea I had stumbled into history.
We worked with our hands, we built things every day, the challenges were odd but trivial compared to solving fermat's theorem and figuring out quantum mechanics (things I clearly couldn't really hack but that had been giving me nightmares for 2 years).
I'm not competitive by nature.
I was so destroying everyone else in the class.
Art is not supposed to be about competition it would be like saying we should always compare apples and oranges.
Art is about internal expression. No?
Well there is still technique, still creativity, still provocation, still taboo. Not everyone seemed to understand that art is only interesting to others if its universal (rather than self-absorbed).
Why am I talking about art now instead of design?
This is but one example of my lack of comprehension. I later learned the difference and the ways that each complement the other but at the time I was all raw, spewing, holy crap I can't believe I'm paying for this, can't believe there are jobs to be had in this, is anybody watching, can anyone tell I'm having way too much fun, energy.
I slayed them (or at least myself and convinced myself I was slaying them). Except for that one over there. My nemesis.
He appeared out of nowhere waltzing into my consciousness the day he came wandering into the shop carrying a massive anvil as if it weighed nothing.
We were learning about one of the methods that you can use to spark creativity (change the scale).
For context I was a full paying member of the new wave at this point in my life. Flock of Seagull meets Wham! hair, preppy/trashed layering of yellow cardigan and torn parachute pants complete with requisite tie. Rector riot gloves, five o'clock shadow. Duran duran (who I didn't really like) would have been proud. Music? Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark, The Cure, Howard Jones, The Police, Yaz.
So I decided to build a monster new-wave tie. Bright yellow, 24' long made of chicken wire, fabric and plaster. it would look like it had stepped off of someone's neck and was walking down the catwalk (right said, fred?)
He, on the other hand, knew what he was doing. Seemed to be born to design. Stunning stuff. Humbling. In fact I think it was at that moment that I began to understand that having a massive crushing ego is fine to help you convince yourself that you should continue with some hair-brained scheme, fine so that you could fail without falling apart, as long as you could also have no ego when you saw something wonderful. As long as you could appreciate the creative thinking, factor in the viewpoint, celebrate the cleverness, and learn most importantly learn from everyone, from everything. Get out of yourself.
I'm not sure how it happened exactly but I think he hated me as much as I hated him. I stewed all summer long. If that was the game I was going to have to start practicing for real.
When we finally actually talked (we were forced together during a road trip to a design conference in southern Illinois), we became fast, life-long friends.
I had to learn to get over myself. It turned out he was a mirror image of my insecurities and my creativity (I'm not ashamed to say that yes I am creative, its often so not the thing that matters though and usually gets you into more trouble than its worth).
Together we nearly destroyed, and ultimately (I hope) saved, our mentors' faith in the next generation.
We built a La Z Boy chair constructed entirely of one dollar appliances from the local salvation army store. Painted the white of graffiti killing white, all the cords woven into a decorative tail, waffle iron headrest, vacuum cleaner lumbar support, iron armrests. It was assembled using the famous paper-spike style of construction (drill a hole straight through the entire appliance with a very nasty drill bit and spike all the resulting components on a long shaft). We installed it in the central hall of the Architecture building halfway up the stairway on a landing. It lasted for over 5 years before some enterprising architectural professor assigned his class a model making exercise that involved found objects.
We invented and edited a student design magazine to wake up the sheep. We built an outpost/cafe that cantilevered out over the poor two-dimensional graphic design students haplessly struggling to make sense of Rubilith and Bodoni below.
We grew to a small horde of smart-ass design tyros. Punched human-shaped holes in the walls of the art school (or at least lets just say that someone who looked very much like us perhaps), designed inflatable televisions, body-blasting bass instruments, roamed the Italian countryside scavenging design artifacts from bombed out hospitals and poking fun at pompous design gods (was that Philippe with the food stains all over his t-shirt?).
We authored a collection of dangerous appliances and furnishings and left a swath of dazed and confused art professors in our wake.
I think I turned out to be the one who went to the dark side.
He walked toward the light, one part Banksy before Banksy was out of diapers (leaving his mark on the streets and buildings of Europe as I slept off the wine and cheese), and one part Mother Teresa.
Whenever I needed inspiration, needed a break from the adult life I had carved out of solidified corporate effluvia, I'd talk to him.
He was off to Sierra Leone to help teach the local villagers how to make furniture for their hospital, living in 100 degree, 100% humid weather with no running water and monkey brains on the menu. Later, when one of the many coups rippled through the land he was evacuated only to sneak back over the border to make sure that the locals had been paid for their goods.
I was designing marketing materials to help sell flavoring (packed with hormone and antibiotic goodness) for cardboard (how do you think chicken's stay so healthy that they can donate all those McNuggets to the common good?). Yes it was one more reason that I stopped eating meat.
He was building his own apartment building in one of the least safe places in our hometown, helping a community bootstrap back from the edge.
I was breathing in rooms full of benzene as I glued and cut my fingers to fit the models I was proposing as saviors for this or that commercial product, corporate showroom, or "important" event.
He was teaching underemployed and unemployed citizens how to work with their hands, placing every one of them in a job. Fighting the odd bureaucracies that crop up even among the best of intentions.
I was nearly killing people as they were blown off of perches I designed (four stories above crowds of 500 or more), foolishly thinking I could create memorable experiences from photoshopped fever dreams.
He was planting edible gardens, working within his community to make things better. Reminding me why I became a designer (or what I should do with my newfound skills).
I was exorcising my demons yes. I was learning yes. I was working towards redemption. But only slowly. How close creativity can come to fiasco. Be careful what you dream for.
I'm slowly learning how to hack the culture of a corporation, how to bend the collective mediocrity of large organizations towards a better path. Its my secret ode to my mirror image and the mentors that taught us that we could change the world if we committed our lives to be designers of good.
I don't see him that much anymore due to distance and time. At times I get the impression that just as before we are both watching the other. Silently wishing we had done this or that. Silently enjoying the simple acts of creativity that the other one makes.
Lesson 1: Design is not about the lone creative genius.
I look back and realize that I stumbled on more than just a career when I changed majors that day. I like to think that when we aren't just making ends we are both working slowly but surely towards the goal of a better world. A lifetime of silly experiments and big ideas, of public service and corporate hacking, of setbacks and failures, of designing the method as well as the madness.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Books 'n' stuff July 07
Yes I decided to read some science fiction this month...
"Quantico" by Greg Bear is a little different from one of the killer Bs. This time he forgoes the more futuristic elements of his thinking for the very real threat of biological terrorism. He provides a chilling account of how basically high school students or berserkers of any ilk could effectively destroy civilization or fan the flames of religious fanaticism with a few mail order pieces of equipment, an ink jet printer and some patience. This is named "Quantico" after the FBI training grounds of the same name. He clearly researched the FBI and related agencies in depth and this book reveals some of the positive and negative aspects of governmental organizations. A good read. If you like it buy all of Greg's books they are well worth the time.
"The Rosetta Codex" by Richard Paul Russo was an engaging diversion. Basically the life story of the child of a major leading family who is marooned on the bad side of a planet and his susequent climb back to status while stumbling upon the mystery of dum dum dah ... the "rosetta codex." Basically it is a boy gets stranded, boy grows up, boy meets aliens kinda story. I've also read a few others by RPR and they are all well written space operas.
"Glasshouse" by Charles Stross is a dive back into the universe defined by one of my favorite CS books, Accelerando, or at least I think it is (the same universe). The book starts with a man who has just erased all that he knew, gets talked into joining an experiment to recreate a lost time in our society (the late 1900's and early 2000's), and ends up fighting a nasty virus. Charles is probably the most forward looking writer today in terms of taking this world of ours and carrying it to its logical extremes. He seems to have three modes of writing. 1 is far future (like this one), the 2nd is alternate world fantasy, and the 3rd is james bond meets the IT crowd by way of mathematically created demon portals. They are all recommended reading.
"Harm" by Brian W. Aldiss is a dark story about england becoming more aggressive with their treatment of anybody non-native born (like someone who hasn't come from 100 generations of bad food, bad teeth and silly walks). It splits between torture and a disconnected fantasy world lived out by the victim in his waking dreams. Somber stuff. Well written but not my cup of tea.
And on the not sci-fi front...
"Werewolves In Their Youth" by Michael Chabon. Having just finished his most recent novel I took a walk back into the past and read a collection of his early short stories. Not bad, a few gems. Kinda depressing in a "jeez this guy writes way too good but all his stories seem to involve a failed marriage and slightly rumpled characters" sorta way. I think I like his novels better, maybe it gives him more room to expand and get off the obvious stuff that his dreams are made of.
"Quantico" by Greg Bear is a little different from one of the killer Bs. This time he forgoes the more futuristic elements of his thinking for the very real threat of biological terrorism. He provides a chilling account of how basically high school students or berserkers of any ilk could effectively destroy civilization or fan the flames of religious fanaticism with a few mail order pieces of equipment, an ink jet printer and some patience. This is named "Quantico" after the FBI training grounds of the same name. He clearly researched the FBI and related agencies in depth and this book reveals some of the positive and negative aspects of governmental organizations. A good read. If you like it buy all of Greg's books they are well worth the time.
"The Rosetta Codex" by Richard Paul Russo was an engaging diversion. Basically the life story of the child of a major leading family who is marooned on the bad side of a planet and his susequent climb back to status while stumbling upon the mystery of dum dum dah ... the "rosetta codex." Basically it is a boy gets stranded, boy grows up, boy meets aliens kinda story. I've also read a few others by RPR and they are all well written space operas.
"Glasshouse" by Charles Stross is a dive back into the universe defined by one of my favorite CS books, Accelerando, or at least I think it is (the same universe). The book starts with a man who has just erased all that he knew, gets talked into joining an experiment to recreate a lost time in our society (the late 1900's and early 2000's), and ends up fighting a nasty virus. Charles is probably the most forward looking writer today in terms of taking this world of ours and carrying it to its logical extremes. He seems to have three modes of writing. 1 is far future (like this one), the 2nd is alternate world fantasy, and the 3rd is james bond meets the IT crowd by way of mathematically created demon portals. They are all recommended reading.
"Harm" by Brian W. Aldiss is a dark story about england becoming more aggressive with their treatment of anybody non-native born (like someone who hasn't come from 100 generations of bad food, bad teeth and silly walks). It splits between torture and a disconnected fantasy world lived out by the victim in his waking dreams. Somber stuff. Well written but not my cup of tea.
And on the not sci-fi front...
"Werewolves In Their Youth" by Michael Chabon. Having just finished his most recent novel I took a walk back into the past and read a collection of his early short stories. Not bad, a few gems. Kinda depressing in a "jeez this guy writes way too good but all his stories seem to involve a failed marriage and slightly rumpled characters" sorta way. I think I like his novels better, maybe it gives him more room to expand and get off the obvious stuff that his dreams are made of.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Books 'n' stuff June 07
It was a good month for books...
"Team of Rivals" by Doris Kearns Goodwin is one of the best books I've read in a very long time. It chronicles the life and times of Abraham Lincoln and the country as a whole during the 1800s. Reads like a novel, deeply researched with many direct quotes from the key players, numerous hopeless turns of the screw, brilliant man, illustrates quite elegantly the power of words and need for leaders that are both humble and sure. The primary focus is on Lincoln's selection of his rivals to fill his first cabinet (even though they thought of him as a country bumpkin who got lucky) because they were the best for the job. He showed what sort of devotion you can inspire in men (most of them loved and respected him before they died) by turning the other cheek, taking responsibility and persevering in the face of countless disasters. You learn that Lincoln was far from naive but used the fact that people thought of him as a backwoodsman to his advantage. His assassination was lamented in the confederate presses of the south for good reason when he died. It is clear that without him there would be no United States today. This book is essential reading.
"A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini, of "Kite Runner" fame, is set in Afghanistan before during and after the taliban. A tale of the lives of 2 women who struggle for safety and dignity in a truly screwed up country. I wasn't as blown away by this one as the kite thing, maybe because this time I knew what to expect. I still ate it up and enjoyed the meal, just not as tasty. Maybe because this one is completely set in Afghanistan and the last one split its time between there and the USA (and all the cultural clashes that that entails). Maybe because I think I've read just about enough for a while about extremists with guns and women with less rights than dogs. If you like to read and need a distraction its recommended. If you have precious little time to read, read the "Kite Runner." Oddly they made the book cover look exactly like the previous book so I suspect many are just passing it by thinking its the same one.
"How Doctors Think" by Jerome Groopman is a chilling dissection of how doctors think and how that thinking leads naturally to a number of different kinds of cognitive error. Diagnosis momentum, attribution error, and availability error to name a few. They all point to problems that essentially stem from the doctor's inability to keep an open mind. The book is full of stories of diagnostics gone wrong as well but also has some examples and insights into when things go right. To some extent it is also a book about how you as a patient can make a difference. One example? if your doctor likes you and you have a friendship he may not want to subject you to some grueling tests. In this case its worth reminding him that "we know you care deeply about my health but if you have to prescribe a drug or test that will be terribly uncomfortable, know that its more important for me to get better than it is to protect me from short term pain"... or something like that. You get the idea. Some of the statistics in the book are sobering. Close to half of the doctors in one study didn't tell their patients how much or how long to take a medication for example. And over 10% of xrays and ct scans and the like are misdiagnosed because radiologists look at some hundreds of thousands of scans a year and their eyes sometimes don't even see things because they've been told what to look for ahead of time. In fact the same radiologist will often come up with a different diagnosis if asked to view the same scan 3 months later. An interesting study in how people make decisions so worth reading even if you're not in any need of doctoring (like if you're a robot for instance or not from this planet, or a plant of some sort). Not a hard read, pretty quick and light.
"The Yiddish Policemen's Union" by Michael Chabon (of "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay" which is on my list of all time favorites) is just a fun book to read. He's got a way with words that makes them dance on the page like John Travolta in a Bee Gee's scored fever dream. It's a murder mystery, a rumination on running off a cliff and not realizing it until you're half way to the other side, an alternate history of the creation of a Jewish homeland (and a limbo zone in the largest coldest state of our union replete with inuit sidekicks and fanatical espionage agents) or just an experiment in creating a world out of whole cloth. He made me ashamed to ever even try to create images with words. This one made me sad when it ended. Now I'm seriously contemplating digging back up the Kavalier and Clay adventures just for the satisfaction of gaining a few more days savoring this sort of talent.
"Second Chance: Three Presidents and the Crisis of Superpower" by Zbigiew Brzezinski was a bit heavier as a read. Zbig (he let's his friends call him Zbig, we're close) was Carter's national security adviser. He analyzes the history, opportunities, and decisions of the last three "global leaders." This was his term for the last three presidents of the US since effectively the cold war was over and the other superpower of the era (the USSR) was vanquished during Bush the first's term. The book is full of insights, chilling insider observations, lost opportunities and cautionary predictions. Bottom line? Bush 1 was the best, Clinton got a B and the current Bush gets an F. America will have a long and hard struggle back from the brink and although not impossible it won't be easy. I think I'd recommend it if you're a history or policy junkie, its a fast and short read that gives a much needed perspective on the complexities facing the world.
Other goodness?
"The Flight of the Conchords" is the best new show on TV (HBO). You can watch it online, and download the lyrics (they sing at least 2 new songs each episode). I think the simplest way to describe the show would be to say that its the illegitimate love child of Barry Gibbs, Tenacious D, Bosom Buddies, and the Monkees by way of The Office. I'm probably bringing too much to this interpretation-wise but when they did the second take (during the closing credits) on life on the planet after the robots kill us all in their authentic aluminum painted cardboard costumes (including a binary solo "011101010100....") I was hooked.
Just saw "Children of Men." Watch it.
Heavy Rotation?
Ok, they're derivative and poppy but I'm digging some of the songs on The Bravery's new album.
"The Future Is Unwritten" a new documentary about Joe Strummer's life (the lead singer from the Clash) has a pretty solid soundtrack that includes the Clash, Elvis, Joe Strummer on his own (he had some great albums with the Mescaleros) , Nina Simone, and Woodie Guthrie.
"Team of Rivals" by Doris Kearns Goodwin is one of the best books I've read in a very long time. It chronicles the life and times of Abraham Lincoln and the country as a whole during the 1800s. Reads like a novel, deeply researched with many direct quotes from the key players, numerous hopeless turns of the screw, brilliant man, illustrates quite elegantly the power of words and need for leaders that are both humble and sure. The primary focus is on Lincoln's selection of his rivals to fill his first cabinet (even though they thought of him as a country bumpkin who got lucky) because they were the best for the job. He showed what sort of devotion you can inspire in men (most of them loved and respected him before they died) by turning the other cheek, taking responsibility and persevering in the face of countless disasters. You learn that Lincoln was far from naive but used the fact that people thought of him as a backwoodsman to his advantage. His assassination was lamented in the confederate presses of the south for good reason when he died. It is clear that without him there would be no United States today. This book is essential reading.
"A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini, of "Kite Runner" fame, is set in Afghanistan before during and after the taliban. A tale of the lives of 2 women who struggle for safety and dignity in a truly screwed up country. I wasn't as blown away by this one as the kite thing, maybe because this time I knew what to expect. I still ate it up and enjoyed the meal, just not as tasty. Maybe because this one is completely set in Afghanistan and the last one split its time between there and the USA (and all the cultural clashes that that entails). Maybe because I think I've read just about enough for a while about extremists with guns and women with less rights than dogs. If you like to read and need a distraction its recommended. If you have precious little time to read, read the "Kite Runner." Oddly they made the book cover look exactly like the previous book so I suspect many are just passing it by thinking its the same one.
"How Doctors Think" by Jerome Groopman is a chilling dissection of how doctors think and how that thinking leads naturally to a number of different kinds of cognitive error. Diagnosis momentum, attribution error, and availability error to name a few. They all point to problems that essentially stem from the doctor's inability to keep an open mind. The book is full of stories of diagnostics gone wrong as well but also has some examples and insights into when things go right. To some extent it is also a book about how you as a patient can make a difference. One example? if your doctor likes you and you have a friendship he may not want to subject you to some grueling tests. In this case its worth reminding him that "we know you care deeply about my health but if you have to prescribe a drug or test that will be terribly uncomfortable, know that its more important for me to get better than it is to protect me from short term pain"... or something like that. You get the idea. Some of the statistics in the book are sobering. Close to half of the doctors in one study didn't tell their patients how much or how long to take a medication for example. And over 10% of xrays and ct scans and the like are misdiagnosed because radiologists look at some hundreds of thousands of scans a year and their eyes sometimes don't even see things because they've been told what to look for ahead of time. In fact the same radiologist will often come up with a different diagnosis if asked to view the same scan 3 months later. An interesting study in how people make decisions so worth reading even if you're not in any need of doctoring (like if you're a robot for instance or not from this planet, or a plant of some sort). Not a hard read, pretty quick and light.
"The Yiddish Policemen's Union" by Michael Chabon (of "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay" which is on my list of all time favorites) is just a fun book to read. He's got a way with words that makes them dance on the page like John Travolta in a Bee Gee's scored fever dream. It's a murder mystery, a rumination on running off a cliff and not realizing it until you're half way to the other side, an alternate history of the creation of a Jewish homeland (and a limbo zone in the largest coldest state of our union replete with inuit sidekicks and fanatical espionage agents) or just an experiment in creating a world out of whole cloth. He made me ashamed to ever even try to create images with words. This one made me sad when it ended. Now I'm seriously contemplating digging back up the Kavalier and Clay adventures just for the satisfaction of gaining a few more days savoring this sort of talent.
"Second Chance: Three Presidents and the Crisis of Superpower" by Zbigiew Brzezinski was a bit heavier as a read. Zbig (he let's his friends call him Zbig, we're close) was Carter's national security adviser. He analyzes the history, opportunities, and decisions of the last three "global leaders." This was his term for the last three presidents of the US since effectively the cold war was over and the other superpower of the era (the USSR) was vanquished during Bush the first's term. The book is full of insights, chilling insider observations, lost opportunities and cautionary predictions. Bottom line? Bush 1 was the best, Clinton got a B and the current Bush gets an F. America will have a long and hard struggle back from the brink and although not impossible it won't be easy. I think I'd recommend it if you're a history or policy junkie, its a fast and short read that gives a much needed perspective on the complexities facing the world.
Other goodness?
"The Flight of the Conchords" is the best new show on TV (HBO). You can watch it online, and download the lyrics (they sing at least 2 new songs each episode). I think the simplest way to describe the show would be to say that its the illegitimate love child of Barry Gibbs, Tenacious D, Bosom Buddies, and the Monkees by way of The Office. I'm probably bringing too much to this interpretation-wise but when they did the second take (during the closing credits) on life on the planet after the robots kill us all in their authentic aluminum painted cardboard costumes (including a binary solo "011101010100....") I was hooked.
Just saw "Children of Men." Watch it.
Heavy Rotation?
Ok, they're derivative and poppy but I'm digging some of the songs on The Bravery's new album.
"The Future Is Unwritten" a new documentary about Joe Strummer's life (the lead singer from the Clash) has a pretty solid soundtrack that includes the Clash, Elvis, Joe Strummer on his own (he had some great albums with the Mescaleros) , Nina Simone, and Woodie Guthrie.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Books 'n' stuff May 07
I've been reading some really good books lately from very different authors and genres.
I'll admit it I like to read.
Top hits?
Jonathan Carroll's "Land of Laughs" is a tight little novel about a writer who visits a town where his hero (a legendary fantasy writer who has long since passed away) used to live. He meets people in the town including his hero's daughter who seem to be oddly reminiscent of characters in his favorite books. Dogs who talk, people who can predict their own demise and a train that hasn't stopped at the town for decades but suddenly does, make this mystery from a slightly different dimension. I like his writing, I've never read his work before. But I'll just point out that I just bought another one of his books. A really good writer with a little bit of Lewis Carroll in him somewhere.
Chuck Palahniuk's "Rant" is, like all of Chuck's work (I'm a big fan), minimalist, brutal, funny, and twisted, but mostly not what it seems. Touted as an oral biography made up of interviews of friends and associates of Buster Casey, the patient zero of a new epidemic of human to human transmitted rabies, it turns out to be a quite different story by the end. Much like his "Fight Club" which turned 180 degrees by its climax Rant is a page turner with a nice twist. It is not for the squeamish. My favorite character is a car salesman who uses his chance to talk to teach the reader a bit about salesmanship.
Douglas Hofstadter recently came out with a new book (you'll probably remember him from his mind bending debut called "Godel, Escher, Bach" from when you were young.) "I Am a Strange Loop" is a sequel of sorts, though I found it much easier to read (is it him or me?) His book takes on "I-ness" and what it is where it comes from and how much you or I have of it versus a bug or a newborn or a hitler or a schweitzer. He relates Godel's creation of a strange self referential loop built out of mathematical theories, along with is own experiments with video feedback loops, to our own looping feedback belief (or hallucination) of consciousness. Its a stimulating ride though sometimes pedantic and a bit goofy (I only mean that in that he sometimes has paragraphs that take three times to read just to comprehend and other times tells page long stories of absurdity in parallel worlds that you come away thinking that you could have gotten in a sentence or two). Bottom line? Is there some magical force that is a soul or is it just something we get for free as an emergent property of the many many feedback loops swirling around in our head as we react and categorize and look for symbols and abstract out all the sensory perceptions that bubble through out brains? Best parts? he reaches into a box of envelopes only to feel a marble somewhere inside the box, maybe in one of the envelopes, he can feel it, sense its spherical nature, but when he takes out all of the individual envelopes there is no marble. When he has others reach in they all feel it but it isn't there. Its really just an illusion that emerges from all the folded over and glued parts of each envelope. Second best part? He posits a thought experiment in that you and I are both video cameras pointing at our own screen so that we are seeing a deep corridor-like feedback loop to infinity, now your screen is over there in the corner of mine, I can just see your feedback loop in mine (though at a far lower resolution), your loop is fed into mine a bit so that my own changes, and visa versa. This is how the mind works. We are emergent patterns of feedback, but strange in that we shift from level to level of abstraction. So when his wife dies is she really gone? If her "I" was a pattern and he had been partially reflecting it and looping it for lo these many years, isn't she still sometimes alive in him? Read the book if you like to read because its a nice aperitif for the soul.
Others that I've consumed while reading these?
"Grave Peril" and "Summer Knight" more dresden files (book three and four, yes I've read four of them now... yikes) by Jim Butcher. Light fluffy wizard living in Chicago stuff, I think I'll refrain from reviewing any more of his books because they are basically all the same book. I'm not a fan of fantasy but he's a good pulp fiction writer and sometimes I need roughage. If you like this sort of thing (sam spade meets the ghost of Bela Lugosi?) you'll enjoy all of his books. I think you'll like them better than the drivel that is called a series on TV (of the same name and from the same creator).
Other stuff?
Just heard William Gibson has a book coming in a few months called "Spook Country" and I've just started "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by the author of "The Kite Runner" seems good so far.
Reviews to come? Band of Rivals, Second Chance, and Against the Day (yes it will take me a full year to read that one).
Heavy Rotation?
Regina Spektor who I think someday is gonna make it big, she's got a playful virtuosity to her music.
Blonde Redhead's got something going too.
"Come on Feel the Illinoise" by Sufjan Stevens has some instant classics... (They Are Night Zombies is my favorite).
I'll admit it I like to read.
Top hits?
Jonathan Carroll's "Land of Laughs" is a tight little novel about a writer who visits a town where his hero (a legendary fantasy writer who has long since passed away) used to live. He meets people in the town including his hero's daughter who seem to be oddly reminiscent of characters in his favorite books. Dogs who talk, people who can predict their own demise and a train that hasn't stopped at the town for decades but suddenly does, make this mystery from a slightly different dimension. I like his writing, I've never read his work before. But I'll just point out that I just bought another one of his books. A really good writer with a little bit of Lewis Carroll in him somewhere.
Chuck Palahniuk's "Rant" is, like all of Chuck's work (I'm a big fan), minimalist, brutal, funny, and twisted, but mostly not what it seems. Touted as an oral biography made up of interviews of friends and associates of Buster Casey, the patient zero of a new epidemic of human to human transmitted rabies, it turns out to be a quite different story by the end. Much like his "Fight Club" which turned 180 degrees by its climax Rant is a page turner with a nice twist. It is not for the squeamish. My favorite character is a car salesman who uses his chance to talk to teach the reader a bit about salesmanship.
Douglas Hofstadter recently came out with a new book (you'll probably remember him from his mind bending debut called "Godel, Escher, Bach" from when you were young.) "I Am a Strange Loop" is a sequel of sorts, though I found it much easier to read (is it him or me?) His book takes on "I-ness" and what it is where it comes from and how much you or I have of it versus a bug or a newborn or a hitler or a schweitzer. He relates Godel's creation of a strange self referential loop built out of mathematical theories, along with is own experiments with video feedback loops, to our own looping feedback belief (or hallucination) of consciousness. Its a stimulating ride though sometimes pedantic and a bit goofy (I only mean that in that he sometimes has paragraphs that take three times to read just to comprehend and other times tells page long stories of absurdity in parallel worlds that you come away thinking that you could have gotten in a sentence or two). Bottom line? Is there some magical force that is a soul or is it just something we get for free as an emergent property of the many many feedback loops swirling around in our head as we react and categorize and look for symbols and abstract out all the sensory perceptions that bubble through out brains? Best parts? he reaches into a box of envelopes only to feel a marble somewhere inside the box, maybe in one of the envelopes, he can feel it, sense its spherical nature, but when he takes out all of the individual envelopes there is no marble. When he has others reach in they all feel it but it isn't there. Its really just an illusion that emerges from all the folded over and glued parts of each envelope. Second best part? He posits a thought experiment in that you and I are both video cameras pointing at our own screen so that we are seeing a deep corridor-like feedback loop to infinity, now your screen is over there in the corner of mine, I can just see your feedback loop in mine (though at a far lower resolution), your loop is fed into mine a bit so that my own changes, and visa versa. This is how the mind works. We are emergent patterns of feedback, but strange in that we shift from level to level of abstraction. So when his wife dies is she really gone? If her "I" was a pattern and he had been partially reflecting it and looping it for lo these many years, isn't she still sometimes alive in him? Read the book if you like to read because its a nice aperitif for the soul.
Others that I've consumed while reading these?
"Grave Peril" and "Summer Knight" more dresden files (book three and four, yes I've read four of them now... yikes) by Jim Butcher. Light fluffy wizard living in Chicago stuff, I think I'll refrain from reviewing any more of his books because they are basically all the same book. I'm not a fan of fantasy but he's a good pulp fiction writer and sometimes I need roughage. If you like this sort of thing (sam spade meets the ghost of Bela Lugosi?) you'll enjoy all of his books. I think you'll like them better than the drivel that is called a series on TV (of the same name and from the same creator).
Other stuff?
Just heard William Gibson has a book coming in a few months called "Spook Country" and I've just started "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by the author of "The Kite Runner" seems good so far.
Reviews to come? Band of Rivals, Second Chance, and Against the Day (yes it will take me a full year to read that one).
Heavy Rotation?
Regina Spektor who I think someday is gonna make it big, she's got a playful virtuosity to her music.
Blonde Redhead's got something going too.
"Come on Feel the Illinoise" by Sufjan Stevens has some instant classics... (They Are Night Zombies is my favorite).
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Backstory part 6: Pick. Up. The. Phone.
Raising a child is like capturing water. Hold it in your hands, cup it close, sip the cool liquid, feel it slip and tumble and slide over your soul. Millions of drops, trickle through your fingers, you taste them on your tongue, still cool, fresh, even when they are gone you taste them. Time is frozen, frozen. Still. Then, like wisps of smoke dissipating in the ether, there, there, no. There... Gone.
Falling asleep in my arms.
Building a room worthy of Metropolis magazine out of two by fours and the slanting beer stained walls of his fraternity, sleeping on the floor, we plot and plan, he's on his own for the first time and we are literally building his home, it will be gone a few months later, but for a moment it was a shared fever dream made real, a double-layer cake, envy of his room-mates. Clever order in a frat house made for disorder, probably describes him as much as the room.
Holding his head as his body shakes, his stomach emptying, empty, blood on his knuckles, his face, his elbow weeping and swelling as I watch, glasses missing, slurred speech, friends (friends?) dropped him off a few minutes ago, 3am, I wake to the sound of something heavy falling up the stairs, bandage him up, lay him down, listen through the night for his breathing, scanning the world for details about concussions, poisoning, wondering if my namesake has been slipped him. Nothing seems right, never saw this before, what the hell is going on, wake up, sleep. Is he still breathing? Wake up. Sleep. Finally as if to signal some magic witching hour has ended sunlight streams in. This was just a bad dream. He lives. Morning has broken. Now I will kill him. Or his mom will. We'll flip for it.
He would call, pleading for us to "Pick uuup. Answer. The. Phone. Muhh. Therrrr. Of. Meeeeeeee." We would save the messages on our first, odd little tivo-like digital answering machine (designed by frog, long ago). As the years went by his pleading, his cajoling voice changing as he grew, would roll around inside that machine, even after we moved from house to house, just keep the backup batteries fresh. A time capsule of moments where he wanted to talk to us. He wanted to talk to us. And we weren't there. Or we were and sitting very still for a moment to catch our breath.
Two and a half years old, sunsetting, beetle engine ding ding dinging, road streaming by, little boy in backseat asking about the sun, its departure, its home, where? Why? We smile at each other as a song lilts, loops, lights from the boy, "it went down... it went down... it went dowwwwnnn."
Christmas morning, his apartment, eggs and bacon sizzling in the kitchen, we just sit and take it in, his apartment, not ours, not our house, not our home, his home. His. We are done. This is some thing. He is grown. We didn't completely break him, never sent him back to the manufacturer. Never asked for a refund. Somehow kept him alive to see this day against a world that was often capricious, random, brutal. Drink the water, sip it.
Its just beginning isn't it?
2 AM, no word, he's 16 with a car, a summer Saturday night party, due home at 11. 2:30 am, still no word, no call, no message, no answer on his cell phone, country roads, just last weekend 2 teens died going too fast, 2:45 am, headlights, my wife has given up, she's in bed, awake, feigning sleep, waiting to breath, door opens, he's home, I have now become his worst nightmare, mine, "The inn is closed. You, my friend were due hours ago, a call? Anything?" I give him his pillow, lead him to his car (his car, what where we thinking, was I this way, I was, I was worse, what have I become, when did someone else become so much more important to me than me?), tell him to get comfortable in the backseat, take his keys away, throw them into the field, four acres of pissed off, beside myself, not even sure what I'm angry about, but I am the bad cop and he is not coming in until he learns something, anything. Monday I get a call from my wife (the good cop), he's in the field, with recruited friends, talking about renting a metal detector to find the keys, not mad (one of the ways he is not me, he simmers but lets things go sooner... how are children so different... yet in other ways so much the same as us?), just determined. She wonders what I was thinking, was I thinking. Oddly enough I was, those keys were old, and not actually his. "I have his keys." I am clearly evil, clearly the devil, and I calculated all night long, waiting up, wondering, too much imagination, too much time, how to impart maximum devastation on his teenage soul, she laughs, calls off the dogs.
He calls now. Mostly.
At times recently I've gotten short son message services (SSMSs?) like this, "I love you. I'll call later." Not much. So much. Enough.
Never enough.
Asleep in my wife's arms.
Boy as toaster, walking down chilled October streets, car slows, cheers erupt from window, rolls on, he mounts the steps, barely making it, toaster weighing in slightly more than his 8-year-old body, we ring the doorbell (his hands trapped inside the giant slice of toast that is his body now, holding the scaffolding of his chrome covered retro appliance), door opens, he pops out of the back slot of the toaster, lightly browned, "trick or treat!" He is legend now. Suffering for art.
He was death the year his two front teeth ended up on the floor of a skating arena in Chicago, afraid to tell us, he enlists my mother as the messenger, death needed a hug very badly that night.
When he was younger he was the borg with hydraulic fingers, Carl Zeiss eyes, and rubber floor-mat gilded armor.
He was a brilliant porcelain toilet, head in cistern, Time magazine on top, flips up the lid to catch all the goodies proudly strutting down the street. This was not my idea. Portrait of an independent mind, Z as a young teen.
A year or two later he was Jean Paul Gautier with snake skin practically painted on shirt, razor cut short bleached hair, soul patch on his chin. Girls swooned. Somehow he was unaware of his beauty. Walking hand in hand with his devastatingly wondrous mother in her french toast swirled outfit with matching pad of butter chapeau. Somehow she is just as unaware of her beauty. Could I just save this one moment, drink from it a little bit more?
Snuggled up close to my mother, his grandmother, she answers his questions, they never seem to end, she doesn't mind, they drift to sleep.
Bad cop this time is mom, "Just let him get up." Snow swirls. His suit inflated against the cold south side of Chicago blustery hair frozen to head, day. Ice on the sidewalk, he's fallen again, falling behind. We continue to walk. He's just learning how. He'll get up. I want to go back and get him. I don't. The wind whips his baby face bright pink, blond hair playing hide and seek, he's with us, babbling, keeping up, running ahead, down. Again. He'll get up, I now realize. He'll look for compassion, for a reason to cry, can he cry now, nobody is even looking, what is the point? he gets up, smiles. Runs ahead again. Children I learn, are plastic elastic goose bumps on our souls. Well not all children. I only actually ever even liked one and he is...
Now under the water. He slips through the waves. He is more fish than boy. He is...
Now faking slumber when we pull into the driveway. Pick him up. Carry him inside. His feet drag on the ground. Read that again and remember that I am not a short man. He can't possibly still be asleep. I can't possibly still be carrying him home. Cars are the magic excuse for this ritual, I'm too old for this. He is. We are. We aren't, ever.
Falling asleep in my arms.
Building a room worthy of Metropolis magazine out of two by fours and the slanting beer stained walls of his fraternity, sleeping on the floor, we plot and plan, he's on his own for the first time and we are literally building his home, it will be gone a few months later, but for a moment it was a shared fever dream made real, a double-layer cake, envy of his room-mates. Clever order in a frat house made for disorder, probably describes him as much as the room.
Holding his head as his body shakes, his stomach emptying, empty, blood on his knuckles, his face, his elbow weeping and swelling as I watch, glasses missing, slurred speech, friends (friends?) dropped him off a few minutes ago, 3am, I wake to the sound of something heavy falling up the stairs, bandage him up, lay him down, listen through the night for his breathing, scanning the world for details about concussions, poisoning, wondering if my namesake has been slipped him. Nothing seems right, never saw this before, what the hell is going on, wake up, sleep. Is he still breathing? Wake up. Sleep. Finally as if to signal some magic witching hour has ended sunlight streams in. This was just a bad dream. He lives. Morning has broken. Now I will kill him. Or his mom will. We'll flip for it.
He would call, pleading for us to "Pick uuup. Answer. The. Phone. Muhh. Therrrr. Of. Meeeeeeee." We would save the messages on our first, odd little tivo-like digital answering machine (designed by frog, long ago). As the years went by his pleading, his cajoling voice changing as he grew, would roll around inside that machine, even after we moved from house to house, just keep the backup batteries fresh. A time capsule of moments where he wanted to talk to us. He wanted to talk to us. And we weren't there. Or we were and sitting very still for a moment to catch our breath.
Two and a half years old, sunsetting, beetle engine ding ding dinging, road streaming by, little boy in backseat asking about the sun, its departure, its home, where? Why? We smile at each other as a song lilts, loops, lights from the boy, "it went down... it went down... it went dowwwwnnn."
Christmas morning, his apartment, eggs and bacon sizzling in the kitchen, we just sit and take it in, his apartment, not ours, not our house, not our home, his home. His. We are done. This is some thing. He is grown. We didn't completely break him, never sent him back to the manufacturer. Never asked for a refund. Somehow kept him alive to see this day against a world that was often capricious, random, brutal. Drink the water, sip it.
Its just beginning isn't it?
2 AM, no word, he's 16 with a car, a summer Saturday night party, due home at 11. 2:30 am, still no word, no call, no message, no answer on his cell phone, country roads, just last weekend 2 teens died going too fast, 2:45 am, headlights, my wife has given up, she's in bed, awake, feigning sleep, waiting to breath, door opens, he's home, I have now become his worst nightmare, mine, "The inn is closed. You, my friend were due hours ago, a call? Anything?" I give him his pillow, lead him to his car (his car, what where we thinking, was I this way, I was, I was worse, what have I become, when did someone else become so much more important to me than me?), tell him to get comfortable in the backseat, take his keys away, throw them into the field, four acres of pissed off, beside myself, not even sure what I'm angry about, but I am the bad cop and he is not coming in until he learns something, anything. Monday I get a call from my wife (the good cop), he's in the field, with recruited friends, talking about renting a metal detector to find the keys, not mad (one of the ways he is not me, he simmers but lets things go sooner... how are children so different... yet in other ways so much the same as us?), just determined. She wonders what I was thinking, was I thinking. Oddly enough I was, those keys were old, and not actually his. "I have his keys." I am clearly evil, clearly the devil, and I calculated all night long, waiting up, wondering, too much imagination, too much time, how to impart maximum devastation on his teenage soul, she laughs, calls off the dogs.
He calls now. Mostly.
At times recently I've gotten short son message services (SSMSs?) like this, "I love you. I'll call later." Not much. So much. Enough.
Never enough.
Asleep in my wife's arms.
Boy as toaster, walking down chilled October streets, car slows, cheers erupt from window, rolls on, he mounts the steps, barely making it, toaster weighing in slightly more than his 8-year-old body, we ring the doorbell (his hands trapped inside the giant slice of toast that is his body now, holding the scaffolding of his chrome covered retro appliance), door opens, he pops out of the back slot of the toaster, lightly browned, "trick or treat!" He is legend now. Suffering for art.
He was death the year his two front teeth ended up on the floor of a skating arena in Chicago, afraid to tell us, he enlists my mother as the messenger, death needed a hug very badly that night.
When he was younger he was the borg with hydraulic fingers, Carl Zeiss eyes, and rubber floor-mat gilded armor.
He was a brilliant porcelain toilet, head in cistern, Time magazine on top, flips up the lid to catch all the goodies proudly strutting down the street. This was not my idea. Portrait of an independent mind, Z as a young teen.
A year or two later he was Jean Paul Gautier with snake skin practically painted on shirt, razor cut short bleached hair, soul patch on his chin. Girls swooned. Somehow he was unaware of his beauty. Walking hand in hand with his devastatingly wondrous mother in her french toast swirled outfit with matching pad of butter chapeau. Somehow she is just as unaware of her beauty. Could I just save this one moment, drink from it a little bit more?
Snuggled up close to my mother, his grandmother, she answers his questions, they never seem to end, she doesn't mind, they drift to sleep.
Bad cop this time is mom, "Just let him get up." Snow swirls. His suit inflated against the cold south side of Chicago blustery hair frozen to head, day. Ice on the sidewalk, he's fallen again, falling behind. We continue to walk. He's just learning how. He'll get up. I want to go back and get him. I don't. The wind whips his baby face bright pink, blond hair playing hide and seek, he's with us, babbling, keeping up, running ahead, down. Again. He'll get up, I now realize. He'll look for compassion, for a reason to cry, can he cry now, nobody is even looking, what is the point? he gets up, smiles. Runs ahead again. Children I learn, are plastic elastic goose bumps on our souls. Well not all children. I only actually ever even liked one and he is...
Now under the water. He slips through the waves. He is more fish than boy. He is...
Now faking slumber when we pull into the driveway. Pick him up. Carry him inside. His feet drag on the ground. Read that again and remember that I am not a short man. He can't possibly still be asleep. I can't possibly still be carrying him home. Cars are the magic excuse for this ritual, I'm too old for this. He is. We are. We aren't, ever.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
backstory: carry on my wayward son
When I was really young (6 or 7?) a tornado ripped through our street. It tore the windows off our porch, downed some trees and basically just missed flinging us over the rainbow (or at least so I thought, not knowing a small tornado from a big one and only hearing the howl, the rattle, the scream... only seeing the strewn wreckage, oddly tilting cars, garden of broken screens).
Right around this time, for years afterwards, I would have a recurring dream.
Kitchen table, kids around a lemon cake in the center, bright yellow walls circa 1900 with a burnt out 60's era mod stove, pot of cooking grease on the counter and cabinets that never closed (taking out the eyes of wayward wanderers, slammed for effect, a place to hang a hand when engaged in light banter).
Gloomy day, wind whipping through the windows, darkness leaking into the corners of the now dank space. Rattle, then knock, then pound, on the back door.
I answer. I'm 5.
Wind now teaching the trees a new more violent dance, rain spattering my face, a shadow standing in the doorway, I can't see who it is, no face, just a questioning stare, begging me to answer, I lean out and suddenly I'm grabbed by the arms of the tornado, screaming but have lost my voice, I scrabble for hold somewhere on the door frame, lose it, edge of porch slips by, last moment I find a bit of railing, nails digging in, I'm horizontal now, legs slamming into each other, bruises leaking out across my skin, I'm screaming but my voice is gone, no breath, no energy, struck dumb, the door shuts with a bang, they can't hear me, candles lit on cake, birthday verse echoing in the distance off key and snatched away by the presence that is now coming for me.
I try to negotiate, I try whispering, I try pulling myself back onto the porch, the shadow of my worst childhood enemy stands at the doorway looking out, I plead with my eyes before they are blasted shut by pebbles, rocks, debris. I'm crying. Hiccuping, coughing, shuddering, weak, muscles losing grip, sapped of strength.
I wake up. Remember the last time I had the dream was a year back. Wonder what it means to have it once a year for years and years.
Realize it means something, nothing, practice for a rainy day, cautionary tale, means the promise of death, of silent words, of crushing force, of people looking out and souls looking in, something, nothing.
Happy day.
Right around this time, for years afterwards, I would have a recurring dream.
Kitchen table, kids around a lemon cake in the center, bright yellow walls circa 1900 with a burnt out 60's era mod stove, pot of cooking grease on the counter and cabinets that never closed (taking out the eyes of wayward wanderers, slammed for effect, a place to hang a hand when engaged in light banter).
Gloomy day, wind whipping through the windows, darkness leaking into the corners of the now dank space. Rattle, then knock, then pound, on the back door.
I answer. I'm 5.
Wind now teaching the trees a new more violent dance, rain spattering my face, a shadow standing in the doorway, I can't see who it is, no face, just a questioning stare, begging me to answer, I lean out and suddenly I'm grabbed by the arms of the tornado, screaming but have lost my voice, I scrabble for hold somewhere on the door frame, lose it, edge of porch slips by, last moment I find a bit of railing, nails digging in, I'm horizontal now, legs slamming into each other, bruises leaking out across my skin, I'm screaming but my voice is gone, no breath, no energy, struck dumb, the door shuts with a bang, they can't hear me, candles lit on cake, birthday verse echoing in the distance off key and snatched away by the presence that is now coming for me.
I try to negotiate, I try whispering, I try pulling myself back onto the porch, the shadow of my worst childhood enemy stands at the doorway looking out, I plead with my eyes before they are blasted shut by pebbles, rocks, debris. I'm crying. Hiccuping, coughing, shuddering, weak, muscles losing grip, sapped of strength.
I wake up. Remember the last time I had the dream was a year back. Wonder what it means to have it once a year for years and years.
Realize it means something, nothing, practice for a rainy day, cautionary tale, means the promise of death, of silent words, of crushing force, of people looking out and souls looking in, something, nothing.
Happy day.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Books 'n' stuff March 07
Appetizers
"Dresden Files book 1" by Jim Butcher. about a very bad, drug running wizard. Fun, fast reading if you can stand fantasy, wizards, chicago, and sam spade. Not as bad as the scifi show.
"Dresden Files book 2," about the different flavors of werewolves. Pretty much the same as above, except with wolves. Think American Werewolf in London meets a grimy detective novel and gets its teeth knocked out.
Timothy Zahn's Star Wars book "Outbound Flight" was another aperitif. He's an excellent writer of space opera/tactical thrillers. I'm not sure how I feel even saying I read Star Wars novels, but for Timothy I'll admit it. Just wish he'd get back to writing pure novels.
Specials
"The Jennifer Morgue" by Charles Stross, is Casino Royale meets the IT Crowd by way of Perdido Street Station. Read it now. Especially if you want something fun, geeky, and somehow about math geniuses opening up gateways into very bad dimensions with their geekery. Probably going to be very dated to read in a few years, but just plain good book reading. By the author who brought us Accelerando and The Atrocity Archives (really good reading one and all).
"Why Geography Matters" by Harm de Blij was an interesting book that focused on understanding geography to understand how cultures work. It's thesis centered around 3 major challenges that we face in the new millennium; climate change, the rise of china and global terrorism. Its a sprawling study of the world as viewed by a geographer who was also an editor for the National Geographic Society. His point is that history and culture should be viewed from a spatial as well as a temporal aspect, his other point is that America in particular has lost any awareness of the geographic implications of its actions due in part to a lack of geographic educational programs in our premier universities.
"You Don't Love Me Yet" by Jonathan Lethem is not as big and deep as his previous outings but I just like reading Mr. Lethem. The book revolves around a group of misfits trying to make it in a makeshift band and their brush with fame through one night of art house spontaneousness. And oh yeah, a mysterious stranger, a piece of performance art, and sex.
"Love is a Mixtape" by Rob Sheffield is like High Fidelity but heavier. The true story of a guy who fell in love, got married, suffered a crushing loss, and made it through by listening, making, trading, mixtapes. If you grew up in the 80's, 90's or just love music you'll resonate with this one. Not really long or deep but really good.
"Mimzy Were the Borogoves" by Henry Kuttner was one of Henry's great short stories (now a kid's movie). There is a recent book out with a collection of his art called "The Last Mimzy," worth reading for classic scifi goodness (though not only scifi). He is another one of those titans of storytelling and ideas that nobody really remembers. Mimzy is about a child's godhood toy tossed back in time and found by a child of the 50s.
See "Meet the Robinsons," with a child if you must but see it. Its Disney's new foray into 3d pixarness (and when I say 3d I mean you get glasses if you go to the right theaters and it's clearly a play towards a new kind of movieness that Disney is trying to corner). Its about invention and inventing and accepting failure and not stopping. Take Ritalin before going though. Special bonus is that they show a disney short from walt circa mid-century that was also created in 3d. The trick (for those who are interested in 3dish stuff) is to keep the effect within the frame, when it breaks the frame it collapses. Robinsons does it well. You can feel John L. from Pixar making inroads into the Disney realm in this one, good to see.
Also be afraid because there is a sequel to "The Nightmare Before Christmas" coming... and its in 3d (now if they had just not made it a musical and/or had someone succeeded in kicking Danny Elfman out of his groove... I would go).
Reviews coming soon... (since I'm reading or trying to read these things)...
"The History of the Battle of Lisbon"
"I Am a Strange Loop"
"Against the Day"
Not Fully Recommended by Chef
"Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules" is a short story collection edited by David Sedaris and if you like David Sedaris you may like this too but I didn't. It is quite a collection of classic short stories from the last century but they were hard for me to enjoy. They all seemed fatalistic or too clever for themselves or too too for my taste.
Heavy Rotation?
Marie Antoinette Soundtrack, Arcade Fire, and oddly enough Cold Mountain's soundtrack (by T Bone Burnett maker of all things Oh Brother like)
"Dresden Files book 1" by Jim Butcher. about a very bad, drug running wizard. Fun, fast reading if you can stand fantasy, wizards, chicago, and sam spade. Not as bad as the scifi show.
"Dresden Files book 2," about the different flavors of werewolves. Pretty much the same as above, except with wolves. Think American Werewolf in London meets a grimy detective novel and gets its teeth knocked out.
Timothy Zahn's Star Wars book "Outbound Flight" was another aperitif. He's an excellent writer of space opera/tactical thrillers. I'm not sure how I feel even saying I read Star Wars novels, but for Timothy I'll admit it. Just wish he'd get back to writing pure novels.
Specials
"The Jennifer Morgue" by Charles Stross, is Casino Royale meets the IT Crowd by way of Perdido Street Station. Read it now. Especially if you want something fun, geeky, and somehow about math geniuses opening up gateways into very bad dimensions with their geekery. Probably going to be very dated to read in a few years, but just plain good book reading. By the author who brought us Accelerando and The Atrocity Archives (really good reading one and all).
"Why Geography Matters" by Harm de Blij was an interesting book that focused on understanding geography to understand how cultures work. It's thesis centered around 3 major challenges that we face in the new millennium; climate change, the rise of china and global terrorism. Its a sprawling study of the world as viewed by a geographer who was also an editor for the National Geographic Society. His point is that history and culture should be viewed from a spatial as well as a temporal aspect, his other point is that America in particular has lost any awareness of the geographic implications of its actions due in part to a lack of geographic educational programs in our premier universities.
"You Don't Love Me Yet" by Jonathan Lethem is not as big and deep as his previous outings but I just like reading Mr. Lethem. The book revolves around a group of misfits trying to make it in a makeshift band and their brush with fame through one night of art house spontaneousness. And oh yeah, a mysterious stranger, a piece of performance art, and sex.
"Love is a Mixtape" by Rob Sheffield is like High Fidelity but heavier. The true story of a guy who fell in love, got married, suffered a crushing loss, and made it through by listening, making, trading, mixtapes. If you grew up in the 80's, 90's or just love music you'll resonate with this one. Not really long or deep but really good.
"Mimzy Were the Borogoves" by Henry Kuttner was one of Henry's great short stories (now a kid's movie). There is a recent book out with a collection of his art called "The Last Mimzy," worth reading for classic scifi goodness (though not only scifi). He is another one of those titans of storytelling and ideas that nobody really remembers. Mimzy is about a child's godhood toy tossed back in time and found by a child of the 50s.
See "Meet the Robinsons," with a child if you must but see it. Its Disney's new foray into 3d pixarness (and when I say 3d I mean you get glasses if you go to the right theaters and it's clearly a play towards a new kind of movieness that Disney is trying to corner). Its about invention and inventing and accepting failure and not stopping. Take Ritalin before going though. Special bonus is that they show a disney short from walt circa mid-century that was also created in 3d. The trick (for those who are interested in 3dish stuff) is to keep the effect within the frame, when it breaks the frame it collapses. Robinsons does it well. You can feel John L. from Pixar making inroads into the Disney realm in this one, good to see.
Also be afraid because there is a sequel to "The Nightmare Before Christmas" coming... and its in 3d (now if they had just not made it a musical and/or had someone succeeded in kicking Danny Elfman out of his groove... I would go).
Reviews coming soon... (since I'm reading or trying to read these things)...
"The History of the Battle of Lisbon"
"I Am a Strange Loop"
"Against the Day"
Not Fully Recommended by Chef
"Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules" is a short story collection edited by David Sedaris and if you like David Sedaris you may like this too but I didn't. It is quite a collection of classic short stories from the last century but they were hard for me to enjoy. They all seemed fatalistic or too clever for themselves or too too for my taste.
Heavy Rotation?
Marie Antoinette Soundtrack, Arcade Fire, and oddly enough Cold Mountain's soundtrack (by T Bone Burnett maker of all things Oh Brother like)
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Books 'n' stuff February 07
A few gems and some others that were just filler for my polyunsaturated cupcake of a brain.
"The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss started with an old man trying to make sure that he was noticed every day so that he wouldn't be one of those people that they say "I didn't even know he lived here" and then flashed back and forth through the last 60 years fleshing out his life and the lives of the ones he loved. At times funny and heartbreaking.
"Man Walks Into A Room" by Nicole Krauss the same author as the book above (once I read the first one it was good enough to pique my interest in her writing). Rumination on memory and the holes that are left when it fails. She's a good writer and this was a small story done well.
"The Diviners" by Rick Moody is by the same guy who wrote "The Ice Storm." The book is a "Player" style send-up of the entertainment industry. Readable but no big shakes. Save your money and go buy...
"Sacred Games" by Vikram Chandra is the best book I've read in a while. A fun, deep, telling biography of the city of Bombay (Mumbai) and its surroundings in the form of a crime thriller. The two main characters (aside from the city itself) are a mob kingpin thought to be out of the country who builds a nuclear bunker in the middle of the city (unbeknownst to anyone until the day he's found there locked inside and about to take his life rather than give up to the police) and a police detective tasked with figuring out why the kingpin was back in Bombay, in a bunker, and soon enough, dead. My sense while reading this book was that I was getting a backstage pass to the drama, passion, dysfunction, and ultimate humanity of the indian culture in all of its glory. One of those books you really wish would keep going for just a bit more.
"Lullabies for Little Criminals" by Heather O'Neill captures life on the streets for a young girl raised by her childlike drug addicted father. A rapid descent into all of the things we are warned about while growing up as told by a woman (girl) who knows what its really like. No pity, no bathos, just matter of fact, moment to moment, gut-wrenching storytelling.
"No God But God" by Reza Aslan is the only non-fiction in the group. It dissects (in an attempt to explain to the western world) the rise of Islam from early Meccan pilgrimages at the altar of gods through the life of the prophet (with his jewish, christian, and moslem wives) to the current struggle being fought within the community between extremists and moderates. It draws quite a few parallels to the internal struggles that beset the christian community during the reformation. Fascinating perspective on the evolution of a religion (and its mutations to fit the desires or whims of its leaders after Muhammad's death).
Heavy Rotation...
"Wincing the Night Away" by the Shins
"The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss started with an old man trying to make sure that he was noticed every day so that he wouldn't be one of those people that they say "I didn't even know he lived here" and then flashed back and forth through the last 60 years fleshing out his life and the lives of the ones he loved. At times funny and heartbreaking.
"Man Walks Into A Room" by Nicole Krauss the same author as the book above (once I read the first one it was good enough to pique my interest in her writing). Rumination on memory and the holes that are left when it fails. She's a good writer and this was a small story done well.
"The Diviners" by Rick Moody is by the same guy who wrote "The Ice Storm." The book is a "Player" style send-up of the entertainment industry. Readable but no big shakes. Save your money and go buy...
"Sacred Games" by Vikram Chandra is the best book I've read in a while. A fun, deep, telling biography of the city of Bombay (Mumbai) and its surroundings in the form of a crime thriller. The two main characters (aside from the city itself) are a mob kingpin thought to be out of the country who builds a nuclear bunker in the middle of the city (unbeknownst to anyone until the day he's found there locked inside and about to take his life rather than give up to the police) and a police detective tasked with figuring out why the kingpin was back in Bombay, in a bunker, and soon enough, dead. My sense while reading this book was that I was getting a backstage pass to the drama, passion, dysfunction, and ultimate humanity of the indian culture in all of its glory. One of those books you really wish would keep going for just a bit more.
"Lullabies for Little Criminals" by Heather O'Neill captures life on the streets for a young girl raised by her childlike drug addicted father. A rapid descent into all of the things we are warned about while growing up as told by a woman (girl) who knows what its really like. No pity, no bathos, just matter of fact, moment to moment, gut-wrenching storytelling.
"No God But God" by Reza Aslan is the only non-fiction in the group. It dissects (in an attempt to explain to the western world) the rise of Islam from early Meccan pilgrimages at the altar of gods through the life of the prophet (with his jewish, christian, and moslem wives) to the current struggle being fought within the community between extremists and moderates. It draws quite a few parallels to the internal struggles that beset the christian community during the reformation. Fascinating perspective on the evolution of a religion (and its mutations to fit the desires or whims of its leaders after Muhammad's death).
Heavy Rotation...
"Wincing the Night Away" by the Shins
Monday, December 25, 2006
Books 'n' stuff December 06
I'm kinda failing at finishing books lately, not sure why... possibly I'm sleeping instead.
I did finish a few though, so here goes...
"Thunderstruck" by Erik Larson chronicles both the period in G. Marconi's life when he single handedly pushed through the idea of using wireless transmissions to reach across the ocean and the detective story and chase of a murderer across the ocean waves as wireless transmissions effectively made the world a much smaller (and more transparent) place. It wasn't as good as his previous book about the devil and the white city (hmm, he has a penchant for murder and invention) but it was worth reading if only for the historical context regarding the hard parts of innovation (hint it has very little to do with the technology sometimes).
"A Madman Dreams of Turing Machines" by Janna Levin is a little bit of fiction about two of the giants of math from the 20th century. Kurt Godel and Alan Turing had very different views and contributed to the shape of our current understanding about math and thinking. In other books I've caught a glimpse of Alan (cryptonomicon for one) but in this one you get a pretty good sense of his perspective on the world. He was a major code breaker during world war 2. This book gives you a taste of his private life and his motivations and thoughts. Kurt gave us the notion that math could be incomplete (not solvable) which turned quite a bit of thinking on its head. Janna is a scientist and this book is her first novel. She's written other books though, so I'm off to find them (yes that means this was good).
"Autograph Man" by Zadie Smith was one that I picked up a while ago, she's pretty good and this was a solidly entertaining read about a boy who grows up obsessed with collecting autographs and ultimately tries to track down one of the people that is represented (questionably) as one of his prized possessions. A glimpse into English life and this particular subculture.
"The Zero" by Jess Walters is set on September 12th 2001 and is a tragicomic take (from the point of view of a cop who is slowly losing his eyesight and possibly his mind) on the social aspects of 9/11. In particular it deals with the blunting of emotions, the marketing of tragedy, and the inflated and misguided hunt for enemies within. A tight book.
Heavy Rotation?
Red Hot Chili Pepper's new 2 cd set is not "new" music in that it sounds just like the last RHCP album but if you like the sound, its more of the same.
"The Inside Man" soundtrack. Great indian/hip hop song and some really nice and moody arrangements by Spike Lee's longtime musical collaborator.
"Love" by the Beatles. A new remix by the Beatle survivors of some of their classics. Octopuses (pi?) garden is my favorite on this one...
Sean Lennon has a new album and I like it. The first track is my favorite thus far. He's got a bit of his dad in there somewhere and it is starting to come out.
I did finish a few though, so here goes...
"Thunderstruck" by Erik Larson chronicles both the period in G. Marconi's life when he single handedly pushed through the idea of using wireless transmissions to reach across the ocean and the detective story and chase of a murderer across the ocean waves as wireless transmissions effectively made the world a much smaller (and more transparent) place. It wasn't as good as his previous book about the devil and the white city (hmm, he has a penchant for murder and invention) but it was worth reading if only for the historical context regarding the hard parts of innovation (hint it has very little to do with the technology sometimes).
"A Madman Dreams of Turing Machines" by Janna Levin is a little bit of fiction about two of the giants of math from the 20th century. Kurt Godel and Alan Turing had very different views and contributed to the shape of our current understanding about math and thinking. In other books I've caught a glimpse of Alan (cryptonomicon for one) but in this one you get a pretty good sense of his perspective on the world. He was a major code breaker during world war 2. This book gives you a taste of his private life and his motivations and thoughts. Kurt gave us the notion that math could be incomplete (not solvable) which turned quite a bit of thinking on its head. Janna is a scientist and this book is her first novel. She's written other books though, so I'm off to find them (yes that means this was good).
"Autograph Man" by Zadie Smith was one that I picked up a while ago, she's pretty good and this was a solidly entertaining read about a boy who grows up obsessed with collecting autographs and ultimately tries to track down one of the people that is represented (questionably) as one of his prized possessions. A glimpse into English life and this particular subculture.
"The Zero" by Jess Walters is set on September 12th 2001 and is a tragicomic take (from the point of view of a cop who is slowly losing his eyesight and possibly his mind) on the social aspects of 9/11. In particular it deals with the blunting of emotions, the marketing of tragedy, and the inflated and misguided hunt for enemies within. A tight book.
Heavy Rotation?
Red Hot Chili Pepper's new 2 cd set is not "new" music in that it sounds just like the last RHCP album but if you like the sound, its more of the same.
"The Inside Man" soundtrack. Great indian/hip hop song and some really nice and moody arrangements by Spike Lee's longtime musical collaborator.
"Love" by the Beatles. A new remix by the Beatle survivors of some of their classics. Octopuses (pi?) garden is my favorite on this one...
Sean Lennon has a new album and I like it. The first track is my favorite thus far. He's got a bit of his dad in there somewhere and it is starting to come out.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Books n stuff November 2006
Hmm, its been a while.
Lessee... books I've read (and actually remember) and other stuff of note mediawise.
The "Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards was a heavy read (not a big book but an emotional one about giving away a child during the 60's when kids with down's syndrome where thrown away like defective goods.)
"The Ghost Map" by Steven Johnson is a great detective-style historical story (true story) about the cholera epidemics that swept through london in the 16-1800s. In particular it focuses on the worst one and how the people who solved the problem used visualization to understand and later communicate the real source of the epidemic to a world that did not want to acknowledge that they were stuck in their own orthodoxy (they all thought up to this point that you got cholera either because you weren't of strong moral fiber or because you were living at a low altitude... animacules where not really widely understood yet). What is really scary is that today there are still cholera outbreaks in india and the developing world. Secret solution back then? Well lets just say that the brewery workers where paid in beer and didn't get sick. Read it.
"What is the what" a new book by David Eggers (of "Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" fame... if you didn't read that one read it). In "WITW" Dave does another kind of autobiography, this time for one of the lost boys of sudan. He and Valentino Achak Deng (one of the lost boys) carried on a multiyear conversation and then David wrote the book. Its called a novel but most of the stuff that happens actually happened to Deng or one of the other boys. Its a book worth reading. At times sad and funny, stark and oddly hopeful. It spans Valentino's early childhood in an idyllic dinka village and his long and grueling, unexpected, lucky, unlucky journey to America, and being tied up and robbed while minding his own business in his own apartment in Atlanta by not so friendly Americans. I'm not done with the book yet but I'm already enjoying the read.
David is also the creator of the best super hero supply company in brooklyn and a fine pirate supply shop in san franscisco and if you read a bunch you've also probably seen his McSweeney's Quarterly. He has also started up a creativity/writing program for kids aged 6-18 in New York (and now a few other cities) that is making me think that maybe I should try to get one started up in my town.
"Beasts of No Nation," by a 23 year old named Uzodinma Iweala who is a young american of african decent. Although he grew up in washington DC he captures the life of a child turned child soldier amazingly well. Its not explicitly set in the sudan or africa at all but reading both this book and "What is the What" together is probably about all I can read on this subject for a while. Its pretty good for a debut novel with a unique voice and a heartbreaking message. Maybe a bit overhyped.
"The Town that Forgot How to Breath" by Kenneth J. Harvey is a ghost story about electromagnetic disturbances, a sleepy newfoundland port town and the people who have lost their lives to the water. Its a fun little book to read around halloween.
"This I Believe" was produced back in the mid century by Edward R. Murrow and has been brought back by NPR with a companion book that is a must read. He started the project as a daily series of 5 minute radio segments by famous people about what they believed. Helen Keller, Eleanor Roosevelt, Robert Heinlein and hundreds of other participants took a brief moment out of their lives to talk, in a positive way, about what they believed. After listeners complained that they didn't hear from any regular joes the series expanded to include teachers, dockworkers, and other people from all walks of life. The series took off and became an international phenomenon. I think whats wonderful about this idea is that it was very simple and yet it revealed a great deal about the psyche of the time. Its interesting that the new book includes both 1950 and current essays and that it is very hard to tell the difference between the two. There is the same feeling of hopelessness about the current state of the world and the same sense of hope about what is good and right in the world. The website has all of the essays in a searchable database. Go. Now. Read one. Listen to NPR. Write one. They provide a nice respite from the day. I'd recommend one a day or at least one a week for the rest of our lives. It was originally started to become an antidote to the cycle of bad, horrible, unthinkable news that was then flooding the airwaves. its good that this antidote has been rediscovered.
A (rather long) clip from Edward R. Murrow's own essay/intro gives you a taste...
"We hardly need to be reminded that we are living in an age of confusion. A lot of us have traded in our beliefs for bitterness and cynicism, or a for a heavy package of despair, or even a quivering portion of hysteria. Opinions can be picked up cheap in the marketplace, while such commodities as courage and fortitude and faith are in alarmingly short supply. Around us all—now high like a distant thunderhead, now close upon us with the wet choking intimacy of a London fog—there is an enveloping cloud of fear....We don’t pretend to make this time a spiritual or psychological patent medicine chest where one can come and get a pill of wisdom to be swallowed like an aspirin, to banish the headaches of our time. This reporter’s beliefs are in a state of flux. It would be easier to enumerate the items I do not believe in, than the other way around. And yet, in talking to people, in listening to them, I have come to realize that I don’t have a monopoly on the world’s problems; others have their share, often far, far bigger than mine. This has helped me to see my own problems in truer perspective. And in learning how others have faced their problems, this has given me fresh ideas about how to tackle mine."
Heavy Rotation?
Idlewild by Outkast (from their new movie... which I haven't seen yet... uneven but worth listening to)
Til the Sun Turns Black Ray Lamontagne (kinda joe cocker meets jack johnson... really good, gotta go buy his older stuff)
Every Waking Moment... new Citizen Cope (maybe not quite as good as his first one but damn good)
Eraser by Thom Yorke (from Radiohead... basically sounds like radiohead)
Lemonade (nice G. Love mix with a bunch of songs with guest performers)
Game Theory by the Roots (Dave Chappelle's house band kills me)
Exit Music (covers of Radiohead songs by others... really good)
Just went and saw English Beat on Friday. Lets just say that if you need a little pick me up you should go read Edward R. Murrow's complete essay while listening to "mirror in the bathroom" and think about how lucky you are to be alive (well, that's what I'm gonna do).
Lessee... books I've read (and actually remember) and other stuff of note mediawise.
The "Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards was a heavy read (not a big book but an emotional one about giving away a child during the 60's when kids with down's syndrome where thrown away like defective goods.)
"The Ghost Map" by Steven Johnson is a great detective-style historical story (true story) about the cholera epidemics that swept through london in the 16-1800s. In particular it focuses on the worst one and how the people who solved the problem used visualization to understand and later communicate the real source of the epidemic to a world that did not want to acknowledge that they were stuck in their own orthodoxy (they all thought up to this point that you got cholera either because you weren't of strong moral fiber or because you were living at a low altitude... animacules where not really widely understood yet). What is really scary is that today there are still cholera outbreaks in india and the developing world. Secret solution back then? Well lets just say that the brewery workers where paid in beer and didn't get sick. Read it.
"What is the what" a new book by David Eggers (of "Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" fame... if you didn't read that one read it). In "WITW" Dave does another kind of autobiography, this time for one of the lost boys of sudan. He and Valentino Achak Deng (one of the lost boys) carried on a multiyear conversation and then David wrote the book. Its called a novel but most of the stuff that happens actually happened to Deng or one of the other boys. Its a book worth reading. At times sad and funny, stark and oddly hopeful. It spans Valentino's early childhood in an idyllic dinka village and his long and grueling, unexpected, lucky, unlucky journey to America, and being tied up and robbed while minding his own business in his own apartment in Atlanta by not so friendly Americans. I'm not done with the book yet but I'm already enjoying the read.
David is also the creator of the best super hero supply company in brooklyn and a fine pirate supply shop in san franscisco and if you read a bunch you've also probably seen his McSweeney's Quarterly. He has also started up a creativity/writing program for kids aged 6-18 in New York (and now a few other cities) that is making me think that maybe I should try to get one started up in my town.
"Beasts of No Nation," by a 23 year old named Uzodinma Iweala who is a young american of african decent. Although he grew up in washington DC he captures the life of a child turned child soldier amazingly well. Its not explicitly set in the sudan or africa at all but reading both this book and "What is the What" together is probably about all I can read on this subject for a while. Its pretty good for a debut novel with a unique voice and a heartbreaking message. Maybe a bit overhyped.
"The Town that Forgot How to Breath" by Kenneth J. Harvey is a ghost story about electromagnetic disturbances, a sleepy newfoundland port town and the people who have lost their lives to the water. Its a fun little book to read around halloween.
"This I Believe" was produced back in the mid century by Edward R. Murrow and has been brought back by NPR with a companion book that is a must read. He started the project as a daily series of 5 minute radio segments by famous people about what they believed. Helen Keller, Eleanor Roosevelt, Robert Heinlein and hundreds of other participants took a brief moment out of their lives to talk, in a positive way, about what they believed. After listeners complained that they didn't hear from any regular joes the series expanded to include teachers, dockworkers, and other people from all walks of life. The series took off and became an international phenomenon. I think whats wonderful about this idea is that it was very simple and yet it revealed a great deal about the psyche of the time. Its interesting that the new book includes both 1950 and current essays and that it is very hard to tell the difference between the two. There is the same feeling of hopelessness about the current state of the world and the same sense of hope about what is good and right in the world. The website has all of the essays in a searchable database. Go. Now. Read one. Listen to NPR. Write one. They provide a nice respite from the day. I'd recommend one a day or at least one a week for the rest of our lives. It was originally started to become an antidote to the cycle of bad, horrible, unthinkable news that was then flooding the airwaves. its good that this antidote has been rediscovered.
A (rather long) clip from Edward R. Murrow's own essay/intro gives you a taste...
"We hardly need to be reminded that we are living in an age of confusion. A lot of us have traded in our beliefs for bitterness and cynicism, or a for a heavy package of despair, or even a quivering portion of hysteria. Opinions can be picked up cheap in the marketplace, while such commodities as courage and fortitude and faith are in alarmingly short supply. Around us all—now high like a distant thunderhead, now close upon us with the wet choking intimacy of a London fog—there is an enveloping cloud of fear....We don’t pretend to make this time a spiritual or psychological patent medicine chest where one can come and get a pill of wisdom to be swallowed like an aspirin, to banish the headaches of our time. This reporter’s beliefs are in a state of flux. It would be easier to enumerate the items I do not believe in, than the other way around. And yet, in talking to people, in listening to them, I have come to realize that I don’t have a monopoly on the world’s problems; others have their share, often far, far bigger than mine. This has helped me to see my own problems in truer perspective. And in learning how others have faced their problems, this has given me fresh ideas about how to tackle mine."
Heavy Rotation?
Idlewild by Outkast (from their new movie... which I haven't seen yet... uneven but worth listening to)
Til the Sun Turns Black Ray Lamontagne (kinda joe cocker meets jack johnson... really good, gotta go buy his older stuff)
Every Waking Moment... new Citizen Cope (maybe not quite as good as his first one but damn good)
Eraser by Thom Yorke (from Radiohead... basically sounds like radiohead)
Lemonade (nice G. Love mix with a bunch of songs with guest performers)
Game Theory by the Roots (Dave Chappelle's house band kills me)
Exit Music (covers of Radiohead songs by others... really good)
Just went and saw English Beat on Friday. Lets just say that if you need a little pick me up you should go read Edward R. Murrow's complete essay while listening to "mirror in the bathroom" and think about how lucky you are to be alive (well, that's what I'm gonna do).
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Road Trip 1: Be Prepared.
He was the whitest, purest, most naive, kindest hearted person I had ever met. We discovered friendship on a shared ride to Wisconsin thrown together by fate. He would later become a police officer driving a one horse-power, four legged coupe through the streets of chicagoland.
Tonight we would embark on our ultimate trip across the eastern United States in the first Beetle I ever owned (a 1971 two-toned beast that would soon leave us drifting into the mountains of Kentucky). We left at midnight (mistake number 1) bound for Atlanta with a full tank of gas, two weeks of freedom, matching "Mr. Bubble" t-shirts (mistake number 2), and of course the requisite new wave bleached, razor-slot-cut sided, spikey topped sting wannabe hairstyles (mistake number 3). We were college room mates who had spent the last year getting to know each other by driving (through snowstorms, tollbooths, heatwaves, and beer swilling toga cloaked fratboys to visit our girlfriends 3 hours away in madcity). I had devised a simple plan and Paul was all for it. A. Drive down to Atlanta and pick up my childhood chum; B. continue on to Hilton Head Island for a week of lazy sunburned days on the beaches; C. collect the run off girls (mistake number 4... ok, really more like hopeless fantasy number 1) that dripped from Paul's charisma; D. drive back to chicagoland and resume our meek and humble college lives.
Around 4 am (remember mistake number 1?), Paul at the wheel (this became a pattern), Indiana ablating the paint from our ride, "Tainte Love" spilling from our tape deck, things started to go slightly awry. For background it's useful to have memorized and have at your fingertips a copy of John Muir's classic "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive" and in particular the section of the book that describes the large hole at the bottom of a beetle engine where a drain plug is supposed to reside in the hopes that oil will resist spilling out onto the highway, killing your engine, and slowing your southerly directionality. We didn't hear the engine die. Paul (budding detective) noted the glowing red light and rapidly descending speedometer though and we pulled off the road for a looksee. After retracing our journey (on foot, eyes scanning the road, crickets serenading us) in search of the mythic oil drain plug we decided to push the car to Atlanta (noting a glow on the horizon that looked promising). We were soon gliding downhill towards an oasis of gas and truckstop love. We found no drain plugs at the rest stop, no german engineered parts at all for that matter. They laughed at us when we asked (remember mistake number 2?) for help. However we would not be diverted so easily. Paul began to buy up bottles of 10w-40 while I slipped under the car to drop the entire oil pan. We fashioned gaskets using a swiss army knife and spare oil containers. We sandwiched the makeshift parts in place over the gaping oil plug hole with degenerate american nuts and bolts. We were soon pinging down the roadways in search of our american dream again, refilling the engine with gas and oil every hour on the hour as it dribbled across the border between north and south, laughing in the face of Mr Murphy and his law.
Paul was driving again when we entered Kentucky's mountain range and he noticed that we were slowing down even though we heard the engine winding up, even though we were in fourth gear, even though we had the gas pedal embedded in the floor even though Joe Strummer and his crew were calling us towards London. "Bonnieville 1 mile" is where the Volkswagen finally came to rest. Once again Mr. Muir's book is useful for reference, and in particular the section that illustrates the one large nut holding the wheel to the axle, the one large blurred, spinning when it clearly shouldn't have been spinning since we were sitting by the side of the road wondering why revving through the gears was doing nothing but spinning the, axle with that one large nut doing nothing useful. We would not Rube Goldberg our way out of this (years before macgyvering was all the rage Rube would guide our journeys). We had met our roadtrip match. Who designed this car? Who thought one screw should hold in the life blood, one nut should hold on the wheels, four bolts the entire engine? More importantly who would fix it in Bonnieville Kentucky, a town with no stop lights, slow moving gapers looking at mistakes number 2 & 3, a town with a single gas station with dirt floors and a shotgun leaning up against the door, strains of Deliverance lilting in the breeze, who?
Toad (or was it Newt?) of course but he'd have to tow it to his shop, he assured us he could fix it in a week for 200 bucks no ups and no extras, Newt (Toad?) would save us. As we rode in the back of his pickup truck to the next town down the greyhound line (Lizbethtown?) we were looking on the bright side, we'd never been on a bus ride of such epic proportion before, we'd never had to hail a bus who's driver didn't usually stop in that particular hamlet so may not even slow down for those two sorry oil stained Mr. Bubble apparitions, we'd never felt so out of place (well maybe the time that our accelerator cable broke and we slowly drifted to a stop in the heart of the Cabrini Green housing project, bullets zinging off the roof, cops laughing at us as they carted us away for our own protection). Our first real taste of southern hospitality came 4 hours later when the bus pulled into a local town and stopped so we could all buy dinner from the local po' folks (the actual unfortunate name of a chain of restaurants in the south).
Two weeks later, our skin glowing blindingly red from the sun and our minds still reeling from the effects (or lack thereof) of fantasy number 1, we tooled along the highways and byways of Kentucky in a metallic blue 240z saying our goodbyes to my atlanta friend, in debt to him for more than we could say. Newt handed us the keys milked us for the dough (now it was 250 bucks and he retarded the engine timing so that we'd spend the rest of the drive overheating and stalling) and we headed home.
Paul and I grew up together that summer, stumbled towards manhood, fumbled through relationships, opened our souls, tested most limits (the first and last time I ever almost threw up from too much beer, he in fact did throw up... after both too much beer and 10 white castle hamburgers... across my parent's bathroom).
I learned that he was a fat little crippled boy scout raised by the commander of police of a small suburb, suddenly rejuvinated, maraculously cured and suddenly growing into his looks, winning gymnastic competitions, just learning to live his own life (getting an earring in his family was cause for permanent expulsion from his parent's home for, apparently, ever). He found me to be, oddly enough, the bad influence, the dangerous friend, the city kid raised to know that we'd all be blown off the face of the earth by 22 (this was just a few years after Three Mile Island and the cold war was mutually assuring plenty of destruction), hoping to invent his way out of it.
I was going to be a scientist (mad of course) and he an airforce pilot.
Paul was driving later that summer when he talked me into taking a detour into my first art class in college. The wheels fell off my theoretical scientific future at that moment but all we thought at the time was that it would be a nice way to make some easy credits, the wind whistling past our faces as we began to slide uncontrollably out of man-childhood. That decision changed our direction and prepared us for life in startling new ways. In fact that one push, that single conversation, his singular idea to take a blow-off art class when neither of us was particularly interested in art (I had last engaged in drawing on an Atari 400 in high school, replacing pencil for pixels but ultimately assumed it was no way to make a living and wandered slowly away) set us on very different roads from that moment on.
A year later he was a bouncer at a punk bar (he fell in with our art teacher and her alternative crowd... did I mention that no woman could resist his baby face and boyscout glow?), we had both broke up with our girls and become engaged in new lives. Somehow we had also lost the map to our friendship.
The next (and last) time I saw him I would have a child, a career in something called design, and a soulmate. He would gallop off into the sunset, girls spilling from his fitted uniform, back on the straight and narrow, following in his father's tracks, fighting crime, his ride no longer in need of a book about misfit automotive engineering and the 101 uses for a pencap, super glue, chewing gum and toothpicks.
Tonight we would embark on our ultimate trip across the eastern United States in the first Beetle I ever owned (a 1971 two-toned beast that would soon leave us drifting into the mountains of Kentucky). We left at midnight (mistake number 1) bound for Atlanta with a full tank of gas, two weeks of freedom, matching "Mr. Bubble" t-shirts (mistake number 2), and of course the requisite new wave bleached, razor-slot-cut sided, spikey topped sting wannabe hairstyles (mistake number 3). We were college room mates who had spent the last year getting to know each other by driving (through snowstorms, tollbooths, heatwaves, and beer swilling toga cloaked fratboys to visit our girlfriends 3 hours away in madcity). I had devised a simple plan and Paul was all for it. A. Drive down to Atlanta and pick up my childhood chum; B. continue on to Hilton Head Island for a week of lazy sunburned days on the beaches; C. collect the run off girls (mistake number 4... ok, really more like hopeless fantasy number 1) that dripped from Paul's charisma; D. drive back to chicagoland and resume our meek and humble college lives.
Around 4 am (remember mistake number 1?), Paul at the wheel (this became a pattern), Indiana ablating the paint from our ride, "Tainte Love" spilling from our tape deck, things started to go slightly awry. For background it's useful to have memorized and have at your fingertips a copy of John Muir's classic "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive" and in particular the section of the book that describes the large hole at the bottom of a beetle engine where a drain plug is supposed to reside in the hopes that oil will resist spilling out onto the highway, killing your engine, and slowing your southerly directionality. We didn't hear the engine die. Paul (budding detective) noted the glowing red light and rapidly descending speedometer though and we pulled off the road for a looksee. After retracing our journey (on foot, eyes scanning the road, crickets serenading us) in search of the mythic oil drain plug we decided to push the car to Atlanta (noting a glow on the horizon that looked promising). We were soon gliding downhill towards an oasis of gas and truckstop love. We found no drain plugs at the rest stop, no german engineered parts at all for that matter. They laughed at us when we asked (remember mistake number 2?) for help. However we would not be diverted so easily. Paul began to buy up bottles of 10w-40 while I slipped under the car to drop the entire oil pan. We fashioned gaskets using a swiss army knife and spare oil containers. We sandwiched the makeshift parts in place over the gaping oil plug hole with degenerate american nuts and bolts. We were soon pinging down the roadways in search of our american dream again, refilling the engine with gas and oil every hour on the hour as it dribbled across the border between north and south, laughing in the face of Mr Murphy and his law.
Paul was driving again when we entered Kentucky's mountain range and he noticed that we were slowing down even though we heard the engine winding up, even though we were in fourth gear, even though we had the gas pedal embedded in the floor even though Joe Strummer and his crew were calling us towards London. "Bonnieville 1 mile" is where the Volkswagen finally came to rest. Once again Mr. Muir's book is useful for reference, and in particular the section that illustrates the one large nut holding the wheel to the axle, the one large blurred, spinning when it clearly shouldn't have been spinning since we were sitting by the side of the road wondering why revving through the gears was doing nothing but spinning the, axle with that one large nut doing nothing useful. We would not Rube Goldberg our way out of this (years before macgyvering was all the rage Rube would guide our journeys). We had met our roadtrip match. Who designed this car? Who thought one screw should hold in the life blood, one nut should hold on the wheels, four bolts the entire engine? More importantly who would fix it in Bonnieville Kentucky, a town with no stop lights, slow moving gapers looking at mistakes number 2 & 3, a town with a single gas station with dirt floors and a shotgun leaning up against the door, strains of Deliverance lilting in the breeze, who?
Toad (or was it Newt?) of course but he'd have to tow it to his shop, he assured us he could fix it in a week for 200 bucks no ups and no extras, Newt (Toad?) would save us. As we rode in the back of his pickup truck to the next town down the greyhound line (Lizbethtown?) we were looking on the bright side, we'd never been on a bus ride of such epic proportion before, we'd never had to hail a bus who's driver didn't usually stop in that particular hamlet so may not even slow down for those two sorry oil stained Mr. Bubble apparitions, we'd never felt so out of place (well maybe the time that our accelerator cable broke and we slowly drifted to a stop in the heart of the Cabrini Green housing project, bullets zinging off the roof, cops laughing at us as they carted us away for our own protection). Our first real taste of southern hospitality came 4 hours later when the bus pulled into a local town and stopped so we could all buy dinner from the local po' folks (the actual unfortunate name of a chain of restaurants in the south).
Two weeks later, our skin glowing blindingly red from the sun and our minds still reeling from the effects (or lack thereof) of fantasy number 1, we tooled along the highways and byways of Kentucky in a metallic blue 240z saying our goodbyes to my atlanta friend, in debt to him for more than we could say. Newt handed us the keys milked us for the dough (now it was 250 bucks and he retarded the engine timing so that we'd spend the rest of the drive overheating and stalling) and we headed home.
Paul and I grew up together that summer, stumbled towards manhood, fumbled through relationships, opened our souls, tested most limits (the first and last time I ever almost threw up from too much beer, he in fact did throw up... after both too much beer and 10 white castle hamburgers... across my parent's bathroom).
I learned that he was a fat little crippled boy scout raised by the commander of police of a small suburb, suddenly rejuvinated, maraculously cured and suddenly growing into his looks, winning gymnastic competitions, just learning to live his own life (getting an earring in his family was cause for permanent expulsion from his parent's home for, apparently, ever). He found me to be, oddly enough, the bad influence, the dangerous friend, the city kid raised to know that we'd all be blown off the face of the earth by 22 (this was just a few years after Three Mile Island and the cold war was mutually assuring plenty of destruction), hoping to invent his way out of it.
I was going to be a scientist (mad of course) and he an airforce pilot.
Paul was driving later that summer when he talked me into taking a detour into my first art class in college. The wheels fell off my theoretical scientific future at that moment but all we thought at the time was that it would be a nice way to make some easy credits, the wind whistling past our faces as we began to slide uncontrollably out of man-childhood. That decision changed our direction and prepared us for life in startling new ways. In fact that one push, that single conversation, his singular idea to take a blow-off art class when neither of us was particularly interested in art (I had last engaged in drawing on an Atari 400 in high school, replacing pencil for pixels but ultimately assumed it was no way to make a living and wandered slowly away) set us on very different roads from that moment on.
A year later he was a bouncer at a punk bar (he fell in with our art teacher and her alternative crowd... did I mention that no woman could resist his baby face and boyscout glow?), we had both broke up with our girls and become engaged in new lives. Somehow we had also lost the map to our friendship.
The next (and last) time I saw him I would have a child, a career in something called design, and a soulmate. He would gallop off into the sunset, girls spilling from his fitted uniform, back on the straight and narrow, following in his father's tracks, fighting crime, his ride no longer in need of a book about misfit automotive engineering and the 101 uses for a pencap, super glue, chewing gum and toothpicks.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
books 'n' stuff for May 06
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.
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 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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