Cavaties of the Brain

I read so much trash at the beach that I cannot seem to focus on anything of real value. This is not just reflected on my book reading, but also my newspaper, magazine, and blog reading. I could not even read the first two paragraphs on a Post article about the new baseball stadium. I should be all about this article. I should be speed reading it, running to the computer, reading what every blogger says about my new slice of heaven, and then, naturally, reading recently written blogs and articles about my baseball boyfriend.

Instead, I read my favorite comic, scanned the headlines, and ran to the computer to re-read my favorite posts on dfa. I have about the self control of a small child who just discovered m&ms. And the attention span as I cannot seem to concentrate on this post because of the pull of the Internet. Maybe dfa posted again? Have I read all the gawker comments? When was the last time I checked gofugyourself?

Proof that this cotton candy reading diet is zapping me: I am loving my new David Sedaris(normal) but am mentally referring it as my intellectual reading of the week (almost normal), and justifying reading of a Sedaris passage to "research" the Silverman-Kimmel split (totally crazy).

Avoiding my bookclub book, as usual

I really hate the main character. The title was a heads up that I ignored. However, the chapters were short and the cover was of a cheap, pliable material. Perfect for subway reading and purse stuffing.

Contentment

A nap of 20 minutes lasted 120. I woke up squinty eyed, confused, and with my skirt on backwards. Drool matted my hair to my face. I was a set of wrinkles: face wrinkles, shirt wrinkles, and worry wrinkles. I had articles to read! Literary letters to write! Bathrooms to clean! However, I don't move from my encasement of sheet, blanket, and down comforter. I turn over and watch the fading light from my window.

I could be there now,
snuggled with content,
if not for the smell of bacon. *


*so aware of the extra syllable. it is killing me.

Confidential

The package was tucked in my box, sealed in a manila envelope, labeled as important. As I slide it out, hidden among the packets of Tuesday folder flyers and attendance cards, my fingers tingle with the contraband. Who knew reading could feel so devious?

My Life as a Ten Year Old: How on the first day of vacation, I avoided all adult responsibilities and read a book all day, from start to finish.

When I started Hiroko Sherwin's Eight Million Gods and Demons, I thought I was reading about the strength of a tender wife whose philandering husband causes great devastation in her home life. I did not know her strength was just the introduction, that her story laid the foundation for the narrative's theme.

I was reading about the strength of family. How strength and courage changes overtime; what was once confrontational, maybe now courage to speak one's mind. As the characters moved out of their caricatures, I found myself in their words and actions. And I wondered. In the same shadow of destruction, would I have the same strength of words and actions. Or is my courage only strong when the sun is shinning.

Squeals of the Little Girl Variety

I am torn between taking the shower that I skipped this morning to re-reading all my favorite scenes. I do have many things to ponder as I re-read, starting with Potter as King Arthur (He did jump in freezing water for a sword, too bad Ron was his lady of the lake.) or Jesus (Dieing to save others? Dieing to destroy evil?). Maybe, however, my Lord of the Flies loving self might be coming out as it tends to do sometimes. Proof being that my gut reaction when Harry talks about his glasses is "sucks to your asthma."

Forced Feed

I really want to read it. It sounds funny. It is about food. It takes place in my favorite places - New York City and Italy. It is non fiction (an admitted turn off) BUT written in the lyrical casualness of fiction. I really, honestly want to read it.

But I haven't. I have tried. I read a bit before bed, a bit before I read the paper instead, a bit while I brush my teeth. My bits add up to 40 pages.

Maybe it is not just right? Maybe it is just flat? Maybe I am not in the right place to appreciate it's flashback style? No, it is just a book club book. I really, honestly, and truly want to read them. It is just that my inability to meet deadlines is infecting my literary social life.

Out of Order: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

The narrative reads more like a serious of occasions that create a life, less like a series of events that create a complication.

Maybe as children we do not see the complications that impact our life. The drunk father, the lack of money, the fights with neighborhood ruffians - that is Just the Way Life Is. Even as adults reflecting back, do we, should we, break apart and dissect our childhood? The why did this happen? And how did it come to this point? Or should we just accept our childhood experiences at face value - this is what happened, this is who was there, this is what she did, he did, I did.

Jeannette Walls presents her childhood at face value - this is what happened, this is who was there. She does not reflect on the why, the cause and effect, the ramifications of her childhood. Just on What Was.

Her memoir reads as a series of vignettes. While the vignettes flow chronologically, they stand alone, enjoyable on their own merits. I can skip from her childhood in Arizona to her life in New York, and still enjoy the lyrical flow of her words and the comfortable rhythm of her storytelling. Read out of order, her story is not lost. It reads like a new friend, telling me about their life in piece mail. Recounting childhood memories as she remembers them. I do not need to know that this event lead to that event. I already know the finished product - I am reading the resolution.

Is that Character Me?

List of ways I am like Hannah Gavener, main character of the man of my dreams:

• Older perfect sisters
• Not trying on the first couple of dates and then being surprised when the gentleman calls for more dates
• Pretending to be interested in sports by asking what the score is
• Thinking snide comments but keeping them to myself

List of ways I might be like Hannah Gavener, but I hope to almighty I am not:

• Copping out of a fun night last minute in order to wear soft pajamas and then fall asleep in front of bad tv
• Jumping from small talk to making out (in my head only) when making small talk with a random guy

List of things Hannah Gavener and I would talk about, if we worked in the same office:

• The weather
• The weird funky smell coming from the refrigerator
• The color choice of the kitchen
• The lightening in the bathroom

Book Review: Busybody Advice to a Character

to Goat from That's What Friends Are For
Written and illustrated by Valeri Gorbachev

Goat, if you were so concerned about Pig, you should have gone over early. However, since you prepared for the worst and did not burden Pig with your paranoia, I forgive you.

Oh how I love the Sunday paper. The only paper that can rip me from my shelter of soft blankets and soothing denial. I spring out of bed with purpose, with urgency. My paper, my day, can wait no longer. It takes me through breakfast, morning nap, lunch, afternoon nap, couch comfy time, pre-dinner snack, post dinner snack, the shower, and bedtime. The read pages lay strewn around my room like autumn leaves, while the to be continued pages stack on my rocking chair. Waiting for an early morning read.

If only saving Sunday pages for later made everyday as peaceful as Sunday.

Someone left the paper out in the rain

I miss Wednesday's paper. It's advice, it's recipes, it's descriptions of food that I think I might like. Thursday's can never compare. I sullenly flip through it's sections. Skim the comics, the obits, the letters to the editor. Daydream of the comfort of Wednesday's paper and the excitement that will be Friday's paper.

Gratification

I purchased Kelly Link's Magic For Beginners as bait on Monday and bribed myself that once the paper was written, revised, and edited, I could reward myself with a deliciously strange story of choice. Needless to say, the reward was delayed as the paper was printed while I brushed my teeth for school.

Post teaching, post class, post CW Tuesday night, post watching the Met's lose, I finally immersed myself in the now late night, short story pick me up. What I love about Kelly Link's stories is that she often takes something fairly ordinary, and paints it as something truly strange and remarkable, but living in a fairly ordinary world. After reading "The Faery Handbag," I will never look at my purses the same again. Maybe my consignment shop treasures are also the portal to a missing country? One could dream.