…the almost right word

“I’m thinking of a queer feeling I sometimes get, a feeling that I’ve got something important to say and the power to say it — only I don’t know what it is, and I can’t make any use of the power. If there was some different way of writing…Or else something else to write about…” He was silent; then, “You see,” he went on at last, “I’m pretty good at inventing phrases — you know, the sort of words that suddenly make you jump, almost as though you’d sat on a pin, they seem so new and exciting even though they’re about something hypnopædically obvious. But that doesn’t seem enough. It’s not enough for the phrases to be good; what you make with them ought to be good too.”

                              – Aldous Huxley

From the sleeve notes to the Factory sampler Palatine.

On ‘Transmission’
I remember leaving a Secret Affair concert at the London Rainbow, oh, during some month or other in 1979, or was it ‘80? Anyway, I’d left early, being an NME critic and all that, and some skinheads attacked me, thinking for some crooked reasons that I was a ‘mod.’ They slashed my mouth with a Stanley knife. I remember crying out, ‘I am not a mod, I am a brave, rigorous and austerely clad fan of Joy Division,’ but they took no notice, and just kicked me a big in the ribs before smartly leaving me to feel sorry for myself. I really did struggle home, and as the blood poured out of me, I spent hours playing and replaying this track, taking it seriously, cursing every ignoramus and ass in the world that didn’t. By morning I’d played it, oh, 50 times, and found that I was writing about Joy Division using words a little like the following: ‘With instinctive unanimity, they hate all firmitas, because it bears witness to a healthiness quite different from theirs, and seek to throw suspicion on firmitas, on conciseness, whilst celebrating a fiery energy of movement, on abundant and delicate play of the muscles. Joy Division have agreed together to invert the nature and names of things and henceforth to speak of health when we see weakness, of sickness and tension when we encounter true health. Why the fuck aren’t they being played ten times a day on Radio One?’ I don’t know why, but people started to say that I took Joy Division just a little too seriously. So what! I had the scars, I felt the holy wrath, and even today when I play this track anywhere up to 50 times a day, I still feel, after everything and after all that, that any number of astonishing things are possible. The greatest song ever written.

– from Joy Division: Piece by Piece, Writing about Joy Division 1977-2007 by Paul Morley  

His wife found him. He had hung himself while she was out. He was only 46 years old.
And, within moments, Wikipedia updates their page to include past-tense verbs, to note his death.
I’ve spent the morning reading about him…

He talked about how difficult it was to be a novelist in a world seething with advertisements and entertainment and knee-jerk knowingness and facile irony. He wrote about the maddening impossibility of scrutinizing yourself without also scrutinizing yourself scrutinizing yourself and so on, ad infinitum, a vertiginous spiral of narcissism — because not even the most merciless self- examination can ignore the probability that you are simultaneously congratulating yourself for your soul-searching, that you are posing.

He and I had an ongoing resolution to each other, going back several years now, to go watch tarantulas scurry across the Claremont fire trails in the late fall week when they make their mad dashes out into the open. When I first mentioned that phenomenon to him, he gave me an impromptu lecture on the different characteristics of various arachnids, especially the dangers experienced by the frenzied male tarantula on the make. He really wanted to go. Somehow we never made it. When such a strange opportunity presents itself, when a David Foster Wallace wants to go tarantula watching with you, you probably shouldn’t let that one slip away.

The Catcher in the Rye is one of my favorite books of all time. I would even go so far to say that it was the most influential book in my adolescence. Therefore, I was literally infuriated by this article (which I found via Gawker). While reading “Why We Shouldn’t Still Be Learning Catcher in the Rye,” I continually wanted to scream out loud — Honestly, what were you thinking, Anne Trubek?

Why is The Catcher in the Rye still a rite of high school English? Sure, J.D. Salinger’s novel was edgy and controversial when teachers first put it on their syllabi. But that was 50 years ago. Today, Salinger’s novel lacks the currency or shock value it once had, and has lost some of its critical cachet. But it is still ubiquitously taught even though many newer novels of adolescence are available.

The Catcher in the Rye cannot be compared to “newer novels of adolescence.” It does not “lack the currency or shock value it once had.” It has not “lost some of its critical cachet.” In fact, I believe Holden Caulfield remains one of the most powerful characters in literary history. I believe he continues to represent an ideal that any adolescent can relate to. He does not conform. He does not wish to give in to the expectations of society. Holden is looking for something outside of the norm. He encourages independence and free thinking. He encourages the act of questioning (an act that will never lose its relevance).

I believe that by not reading this novel, one is actually missing out on something significant, something powerful. What should we do? Remove this book from our high school reading lists because it has lost its appeal? Because other books have been written that surpass Salinger’s most famous piece of literature? Should this go for every book that was once banned? Every book that was once burned? Every book that used to be on reading lists? Are they all outdated?

I could not disagree more with Anne Trubek. I could not insist more that The Catcher in the Rye is still influential for young readers. This book was the first that I ever truly loved. It was the first time I remember reading something that I could not put down. It was the first time I realized that I actually enjoyed reading. Take that away, take that possibility away, and young readers will inevitably miss out on this experience. You don’t have to have grown up in the 1950s to identify with Holden. That is part of its beauty, its power. That is Salinger’s genius.

Inspired by my recent viewing of “The Source,” I present The Beat Edition: Beat Books. Enjoy. Or should I say, Dig it (and I don’t mean Digg it).

Selected Poems 1947-1995 – Allen Ginsberg
The first book of Ginsberg’s poetry that I ever bought. It sat by my bedside for years. Its pages have been thumbed and turned in endless repetition. Selected Poems was published later in his career as a kind of anthology. It covers a vast period of time and seems to be the most comprehensive collection of his poetry. I have loved “Sunflower Sutra,” the infamous “Howl,” “America,” “Mind Breaths,” and “A Supermarket in California.” Ginsberg was significantly influenced by Walt Whitman, T.S. Eliot, and William Blake, among many others. He was the first “Beat” I discovered and remains a favorite.

Memoirs of a Beatnik — Diane DiPrima
She was the Chick-Beat. She is the Chick-Beat. Her works are not as widely acknowledged as some of the other Beat writers, but she has written powerful descriptions of her time with “the gang.” She began writing as a child, publishing her first book of poetry (with Totem Press: Leroi Jones aka Amiri Baraka’s short-lived publishing company), This Kind of Bird Flies Backward, in her late teenage years. Memoirs of a Beatnik is a novel, but it is based on the Beat days: memories of getting high with Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs; casual sex; all writing; all reading; all day-dreaming. I met her at a Book Festival years ago. She was a small, aged, gentle woman with a commanding presence.

The Dharma Bums — Jack Kerouac
Everyone knows of On the Road. The Dharma Bums is, in my opinion, far superior. Kerouac was one of those writers who carried a notebook with him everywhere. Nonetheless, he attempted to be anything but a writer: “He was a sports reporter for The Lowell Sun; a temporary worker in construction and food service; a United States Merchant Marine and he joined the United States Navy twice.” His first book, The Town and the City (originally published in 1950 under the pseydonym “John Kerouac”), went nowhere. On the Road was his second book and, clearly, the one that put him on the map. The Dharma Bums was written later in his short career. By then, he had become a Buddhist, in one way or another. The Dharma Bums was presented as a sequel of sorts: On the Road chronicled his cross-country drive with Neal Cassady, The Dharma Bums chronicled his experience with Buddhism, Gary Snyder and other Bay-Area Beat poets. I have always found this novel to be more engaging, and better written, than his earlier work.

Turtle Island – Gary Snyder
Some argue that Snyder is not a Beat poet. In my opinion, anyone who frequented that scene, and wrote, is Beat. His best-known book of poetry, Turtle Island, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. The title references a Native American term for North America. While studying Asian Culture at UC Berkeley, Snyder was introduced to Ginsberg. The two connected easily — Snyder quickly melted into the crowd of writers. In fact, he was the inspiration for The Dharma Bums‘ main character Japhy Ryder (just like Neal Cassady was the inspiration for Dean Moriarty — the main character in On the Road). He has been known for his environmental activism and Buddhism.

The Source directed by Chuck Workman — Picture a young John Turturro, dressed as Allen Ginsberg: Khaki pants, a white button-down, collared shirt and black-rimmed glasses. He is standing in New York City, reciting Howl. This is a taste of the movie’s dramatic impact.

The film is a look into the life of the three original beats, from the time they met, until their respective deaths. Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs were truly counterculture. The three were introduced by Lucien Carr, the “glue” of the group, according to Ginsberg. They engaged in intense conversations, shared poetry, sex and drugs. Eventually, the group migrated west to San Francisco. Enter Lawrence Ferlinghetti, West Coast Beats and City Lights Bookstore. Enter poetry readings, book banning and court hearings. The group, and the movement, flourished.

“The Source” is mostly a series of interviews and old footage, accompanied by aforementioned Turturro, Johnny Depp and Dennis Hopper’s dramatic reciting. Depp is a young Kerouac, smoking, sipping and reading from On the Road, Scattered Poems and more. Hopper is Burroughs in a quiet room and a dark suit.

I was enamored with the Beats at an early age. I quickly began to follow Ginsberg, Kerouac, Gary Snyder, Ken Kesey, Diane DiPrima…They were my first heroes. They were my inspiration. If you have any interest in this time period, “The Source” captures its spirit effortlessly.

I first fell in love with Julian Schnabel after seeing Basquiat. The film featured countless cameos (Parker Posey, Courtney Love, Christopher Walken, Dennis Hopper and more), as well as remarkable performances by Jeffrey Wright and Benicio Del Toro. I had always admired Basquiat’s work, the film only furthered my admiration. I fell in love with Schnabel all over again when I saw his artwork at a museum. He creates abstract paintings in a style reminiscent of Pollock and Picasso — “I’m the closest thing to Picasso that you’ll see in this *#@ life,” he once said. Schnabel is also the mastermind behind Before Night Falls, the story of Reinaldo Arenas, a Cuban poet who was persecuted for his homosexuality and subversive writing during the Cuban Communist Revolution. Schnabel’s films have a common thread — not only do they tell stories of great artists, but they provide the viewer with uniquely ethereal experiences.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is no different. It is, in my opinion, Schnabel’s most sophisticated film yet. In 1995, Jean-Dominique Bauby, the 43 year-old Editor of the French Elle Magazine, suffered a massive stroke that put him in a coma and left his entire body paralyzed. When he awoke, over twenty days later, he was diagnosed with Locked-in Syndrome — his left eye was the only muscle he could move. Bauby gradually learned to communicate with this eye. With a simple blink he would confirm a letter which would spell a word. Although Bauby engaged in speech and physical therapy, he never regained movement, or use of his tongue. In two summer months of 1996, Bauby wrote a book, with the help of a transcriber. “The book took about 200,000 blinks to write and each word took approximately two minutes. The book also chronicles everyday events and what they are like for a person with locked-in syndrome,” states Wikipedia. Schnabel’s film is based on this book. We watch as Bauby struggles to communicate. We see him visit his children. We see him cry. “The French edition of the book was published in March, 1997. It received excellent reviews and sold 150,000 copies in the first week and went on to become a number one bestseller across Europe. Ten days after the book was published, Bauby died of pneumonia” (also from Wikipedia).

Salon wrote, “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly suggests — perhaps it even proves — that our capacity for joy, and our ability to process it through whatever senses are available to us, are more durable than we think. In his book, Bauby wrote about how although his ability to hear the outside world had been somewhat impaired, the hearing inside his head had changed dramatically. He wrote of being aware of the butterflies ‘that flutter inside my head. To hear them, one must be calm and pay close attention, for their wingbeats are barely audible. Loud breathing is enough to drown them out. This is astonishing: My hearing does not improve, yet I hear them better and better. I must have butterfly hearing.’”

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a poetic, yet true, interpretation of Bauby’s memoir. It is artisticly mezmorizing and emotionally challenging.

Contrariwise.org was originally a website used for the owner’s high school photography assignment. Today, she maintains a series of literary tattoo photographs — “tattoos based on books, poems, lyrics, and many other things.” It appears that many tattoo fans like Kurt Vonnegut, The Little Prince, E.E. Cummings and Walt Whitman. This site is literally tattoo inspiration for the literary.

♦ On the subject of tattoos and blogs, check out The Tattooed Mama’s All Things Cupcake blog which features a page of cupcake tattoos!

Editorial Postscript: Apparently I am not the only one noticing this blog! Paper Cuts, a NYTimes book blog, just published a post about it, as did the London Telegraph and Gawker.

I know I’m probably one of the few remaining women in the United States who has not yet seen Sex and the City, the movie. I don’t mean to imply that I’m not interested — I watched the show like everyone else. I just wasn’t prepared to run out and pay ten bucks to sit in an uncomfortable theater and surround myself with people who actually answer their phones during films (!!). I’ll wait patiently for Netflix to deliver, thank you.

Apparently a book is mentioned in the movie that everyone immediately googled (or g••gl•d, as the un would say) — “Love Letters of Great Men.” A New York Times book blog informs us that this, once fictional, book will now be published. It’s true, the collection of love letters never actually existed, but the film references letters that are real. So publisher Macmillan has decided to create it.

Darwin and Flaubert, Mozart and Twain, Browning and Wilde — “every shade of love is here,” the book site proclaims.

Perhaps this is a marketing ploy. Perhaps women across the world have been searching for this book since the film premiered. But honestly, don’t we have tons of books of letters to read?

Dorothea Lange has always been one of my favorite photographers. She won me over with the classic “Migrant Mother” (shown here), which is “one of the most reproduced photographs in history.” An M.I.T. professor has chronicled Lange’s work in a new book titled Daring to Look: Dorothea Lange’s Photographs and Reports from the Field. In addition to the photographs, the book includes notes and descriptions written by Lange herself.

Originally a portrait photographer in San Francisco, she left behind her wealthy clients to delve into the depression era. In fact, she was part of the legendary group of photographers who documented the conditions of the American people during the New Deal. The work of these photographers was supposed to “help build public support for government improvement programs.” The book concentrates on Lange’s most prolific year — 1939. During that year, Lange took thousands of photographs in addition to documenting field reports. She was hoping to re-characterize her professional identity:

She decided then to “concentrate upon people, only people. All kinds of people, people who paid me and people who didn’t.” Whether or not the conversion was really so melodramatic, Lange’s transformation from portrait photographer of the urbane wealthy to “field investigator, photographer” (the title of her first job with the federal government in 1935), was life-changing.

I am enamored with revolutionaries, artists who challenge the mainstream. Dorothea Lange was, indeed, one of these revolutionary artists — “We unearthed and discovered what had been… neglected, or not known.” In 1965, Lange died of cancer. Late in her career, she commented on her work and her process: “No country has ever closely scrutinized itself visually. … I know what we could make of it if people only thought we could dare look at ourselves.”

Quotes and facts from Dorothea Lange: Daring to Look, at npr.org.

A friend sent me an article, published by New York Magazine, titled “Au Revoir, New York ‘Literary’ Scene.” The article is about a blog post that caught the mag’s eye — The Revolution will be Tumblrized, written by a 20 year old NYU student, Jessica Roy (of this blog). She’s a typical indie kid — dark eyeliner, a headband on her head, blogging about “stuff.” This girl, however, “had just recently suffered her first really demoralizing New York media experience.” She wound up at a New York-writers party in a “multi-million-dollar brownstone in Brooklyn:”

A part of me longed to be absorbed into that elite circle of Ivy-educated literature nuts who have co-opted what it means to be a writer in New York. Because these days, if you’re not with them, you’re being mocked by them. I have thin skin, so I figured the former would be my best bet.

Until the other night, when the people whose Internet personas I had admired appeared to me in the flesh…

It just was all so fucking fake. These people that I had admired my entire New York existence — they all disappointed me. I don’t understand how people can exist in such a dishonest way and still call themselves writers. Isn’t it the responsibility of a writer to be honest? And why would you uphold a conversation with someone whom you’re going to talk shit on while walking back to the G train? They’re living in a box, where they only talk to others who have read Gessen’s book and think it sucks but will tell him it’s brilliant because they need his approval.

I did not move to New York to return to high school, but that’s exactly what it felt like.

In a sense, she appears to be Emily Gould reincarnated. In case you’re just tuning in, Gould is a blogger who published an article (months ago) in the New York Times Magazine entitled, “Exposed,” in which she publicly reevaluated her career and her participation in the controversial Manhattan gossip site known as Gawker. Although I notice similarities between Jessica Roy’s article and Gould’s, Roy actually notes that Gould was at this disappointing New York writer’s party — She is mentioned in the article as someone who was part of the “demoralizing new york media experience.” Roy’s article isn’t nearly as long as Gould’s NYTimes piece, so…read it.

I recommend it because I get it — I have always believed that I would have to move to New York if I wanted to become a “writer.” I believed I could never “make it” anywhere else. I’m only recently abandoning this concept, and I admit that it’s an ongoing struggle. Obviously this girl, Jessica, feels similarly: New York = Success. Unfortunately disappointment can be a big part of this so-called “success.” I know it, even though I haven’t quite experienced it. ::side note…I guess I should give myself some credit for actually having published my writing (thanks to the SFReporter and The Santa Fean). Sometimes I forget that I can call myself a writer, but I guess that’s a different story, for a different time::

Of course, Jessica Roy is heading to Paris in an effort to escape New York before it poisons her. Me? Yeah, I’m jealous.

P.S. Yesterday’s post at Jessica’s Blog is titled About that elephant in the room (a la Emily Gould herself who, after her NYTimes article, acknowledged the “elephant in the room” in a blog post. Isn’t there a contradiction here? Isn’t Jessica claiming that Gould is part of the poison?). Jessica’s post is a retort to all the petty assumptions one can make after reading the NYMag piece — mighty bold of her, if I do say so myself.

i have great respect for websites that highlight quality writing on the internet. indie bloggers (r.i.p.) was about just that. it appears fray does the same. the site has recently morphed into a quarterly series of independently published books. the website states: Fray is the web’s original storytelling magazine, telling true stories online and off since 1996. the first quarterly was titled busted! true stories of getting caught in the act. the website offers a few of the published stories for your sampling pleasure. i particularly enjoyed how i blew it in the 80s and ropeswing season. it appears that their second issue is titled geek: stories of people taking things too seriously which sounds rather intriguing. plus, the artwork on the site is really unusual.

As the print media continue to be overtaken by the Internet, and pundits declare that all writers in the service of ink and paper should put down their quills and fire up their TypePad blogs, there remain some true believers who keep the flame of print-lit alive. Stoked by sheer pluck, determination and the magical properties of their wayward imaginations, many of these folks work for McSweeney’s.

you may or may not have already realized — i’m a mcsweeney’s fan. i read dave eggers‘ first couple books and continued to follow mcsweeney’s authors and publications. oh the glory of it all, written by sean wilsey, a mcsweeney’s author, is one of my favorite books of all time. mcsweeney’s is creative, original, and continually pushing the boundaries. eggers says, regarding the name of the american publishing house:

[My family] would always get letters from someone named Timothy McSweeney … He claimed to be my mother’s long-lost brother…[Letters] would always include flight plans, like he was planning on coming to visit. I don’t know if he’s real or not. My relatives deny it, but who knows?

in may, l.a. weekly published an article describing the success of mcsweeney’s. in fact, they call the american publishing house, “the most important publisher of independent fiction today.” in a world that is grappling with the onset of the e-book, mcsweeney’s forges ahead in an effort to keep the physical manifestation of literature alive. the article describes the wide range of artwork that can be found on mcsweeney’s covers, from books like what is the what?, to their monthly magazine, the believer (edited by vendela vida, eggers’ wife). the artwork is an attempt to do away with book covers and create a work of art in the book itself.

discussion of the electronic revolution is prevalent (check out a friend’s post on the topic) — we’ve seen vinyl come and go (for the most part), c.ds went with it. now, we approach a time in which books are actually under questioning. will they survive? or will they turn into mp3s, easily downloadable from the interwebs and virtually nonexistent in a physical form? will mcsweeney’s have a vital impact on the future of publishing? After all, you can’t have an embossed tri-fold jacket on a Web site, states the l.a. weekly article.

p.s. take a look at this site, which i also added to my sidebar: a blog that chronicles book cover artwork, some of which happen to be from mcsweeney’s (thanks to sean, who blogged about this site awhile back).

“I’m really in the way as a person,” he said. “The myth has taken over. I find myself an appendage. I’m no longer necessary. I’m in the way. It would be much better if I died. Then people could take the myth and make films.”

i became enamored with hunter s. thompson during my “beat” phase. i read fear and loathing, watched the movie a handful of times, and then dove into tom wolfe (the electric kool-aid acid test was an amazing book, and so well written — far superior to i am charolette simmons, one of his most recent novels). i compare the two writers only because of a comparison made in the nytimes article:

“I would argue that Hunter and Tom Wolfe are the two most original voices to come out of journalism in the last century, and it’s no coincidence that they both worked for Jann Wenner at Rolling Stone…”

indeed, thompson was an original.

“gonzo: the life and work of dr. hunter s. thompson” is a documentary comprised of rare footage (including home movies, audiotapes and excerpts from unpublished writing) and narrated by johnny depp. i’ve read repeatedly about depp’s fascination with thompson. he spent an extensive period of time living with the man and studying his every move, in order to perfect his performance for “fear and loathing.” i caught an interview once, with depp and hunter thompson himself — the similarities between the character in the movie, and the character in real life (because yes, he was a character) were uncanny.

the film is currently awaiting release, but it’s already saved in my queue.

Thompson, whose defects of character could occupy a separate ZIP code, was not just an original, he was also a patriot and a romantic. Working from the far reaches of the culture and often lucidity, Thompson, who died in 2005 at 67, changed the way that much of America thought about itself, in part because his version of journalism threw a grenade at the bland convention of formal balance and straight reporting.

miss gould’s book proposal has now been “leaked” to the press. i actually discovered this on gawker’s home page, a site i have never looked at, until today (seriously); yes, that’s the website that she spurned in her nytimes article (not that i blame her). gawker actually links you to a new york magazine article on her upcoming book — and the heart says, “whatever.“ the article’s introduction is on the verge of brutal:

Oh God. We seem to have gotten a copy of former Gawker editor–recent Times Magazine cover subject–chronic-oversharer Emily Gould’s book proposal, And the Heart Says, “Whatever.” We’re not going to pass judgment, not even about the title.

she obviously has something in her writing, or in her writing style, that attracts people — i’ll read her book (which is a “fictional memoir” — i think that’s the best way to describe this “new genre.” it certainly is an accurate description of our ole pal, james frey. and david sedaris is now discussing his own creative embellishments). an image of one paragraph from the gould mauscript was published by new york magazine. most of the comments are rather…negative (yes, i know i should not be surprised).

i just don’t feel ready to pass judgement based on one paragraph.

did anyone catch this article in vanity fair? granted, reading it online is rather difficult since there is an image of angelina jolie’s HUGE cleavage in the sidebar…and the article is six pages long. but, next to that emily gould article i wrote about incessantly, this was probably one of the most worthwhile online reads i have had in a while.

the article is on james frey, yes, that controversial name that either sends you running and screaming or intrigues you to no end. me, i’m intrigued. yeah, frey fracked up. we all know that. but he still wrote that book, and wasn’t it the book that we were impressed with? so what if the story wasn’t factual, the writing was impressive. vanity fair spent a considerable amount of time with frey in order to present “his side of the story” as accurately as possible. in the article, we learn that frey was inspired by writers such as kerouac and bukowski — he wanted to do something different, he wanted to break the rules. i admire that. the article goes on to critique the complications of the publishing industry and the memoir trend that has taken us by storm.

conclusion? i am going to read his latest book, bright shiny morning. it takes place in l.a., why wouldn’t i?

side note: a fellow blogger read this book and wrote a short critique of it in her most recent post!

1. francesca lia block — this afternoon, i finished reading one of her most recent novels, quakeland. it was, by far, one of her more unusual books. her first novel, weetzie bat, was published in 1989 while she was a student at berkeley. weetzie bat rocked my world. and i’d bet money (yes, the benjamins themselves) that if i read it again today, it would still rock my world. block has a remarkable imagination, and her writing is exceptional. she creates a world in which l.a. is not the smog-filled, traffic-injected, ugly city that i remember, but a great land of dreamsicles and fairies. quakeland was a surprise. and still wonderful. if you’re new to her work, start with dangerous angels: a collection of the weetzie bat books.

•••••••••••••••••••

2. miranda july — this afternoon, i stumbled upon a rather entertaining link — no one belongs here more than you. the title alone attracted me. the entertaining, artistic promotional site behind the link further lured me. i love anyone who creates something new from something we hardly consider in our daily lives. miranda july has certainly done this here. and yes, perhaps i’ll check out the book as a result. i originally discovered july when i heard about ‘me and you and everyone we know,’ in which she acted, but also wrote and directed. fun fact: she’s also a banana slug, which means i have to love her (even if she never graduated).

* in honor of my quickly approaching jaunt to the city that will always be home to me; written with laura veirs’ (no, she’s not an l.a. resident) “chimney sweeping man” playing in my ears, thank you un.

courtesy of the book bench:

imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not…it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

– j.k. rowling

i still call the san fernando valley “home.” it’s been nearly ten years since i last lived there for any period of time longer than three months. specifically, my room at my father’s house is the “home” i am referencing. its walls are still covered with a collage of high school photographs. now don’t get me wrong, i was never the type to like high school. i may have appeared social and comfortable, a happy teenager. but i was angsty, just like most teenagers. and i hated high school, just like most teenagers. nevertheless, i always have that nostalgic ability to look backwards and smile. so the pictures have stayed on the walls there. in fact, they’re right beside the tons of books that i left behind — i’ll get them some other time, i always tell myself. when will i stop considering my room at my father’s house to be “home?”

the theme for the month is “home,” thus this post. there’ll be more musings on “home” to come. for now, however, a quote from the latest a.r.w. read…

“i’d like to stay here by myself,” she said, “rent a room on one of these islands and just write.” i told her she should, but she shook her head. “i wouldn’t last a week,” she said. “i’m not good at being alone. but you, on the other hand,” and here she tilted her head and crossed her arms, “i think you’d be fine.”

i have never, to the best of my knowledge, had any fear of solitude, and so i shrugged in assent and said, by way of explanation, “when i was a child, there were eight of us, eight cousins, all in the same compound — a single boundary wall surrounded the plot of land my grandfather left to his sons, you see — and we had between us as many as three dogs and, for a time, a duck.” she laughed, and then said, “so being alone was a luxury, huh?” i nodded. “you give off this strong sense of home,” she said……”it’s nice. it makes you feel solid.” i was pleased — even though i was not sure i fully understood — and said thank you for want of anything better to say. then, hesitantly because i did not wish to be too forward, i asked, “and you, do you feel solid?”

she considered this and said, with what i thought was a trace of sadness in her voice, “sometimes, but no, not really.”

–the reluctant fundamentalist, moshin hamid

perhaps it’s the weather that is making me feel down and depressed. making me want to stay in my pajamas por todo el dia. i will shower. i will. eventually. and then i will go to therapy. and i will not get a speeding ticket. i will get work done. i will be productive. and tomorrow, i will take my mom for that very belated mother’s day breakfast. and on sunday, i will read my new book. and on sunday, the weather will be better. i will lay in the sun. i will relax. and perhaps i will no longer feel down and depressed.

dear celexa 20 mg,
i thought you were supposed to alleviate the down and depression-ness. i know you usually do a good job, on most days. but what about the days when you seem to leave me to my own accord? what about the days when it’s rainy and it’s supposed to be spring? where do you go then?

i await your response,
the a.r.w.