9 questions book meme (there's that meme word again)

I'm doing it, half-hearted "unofficial" tag or not, Mr. Baus.

1. One book that changed your life
Besides the Bible, Life after Birth. If I'd read it sooner, I would have saved two months in counseling fees. check out my review here:

2. One book you have read more than once?
Most of my favorites I read over and over, since I read so fast. Anna Karenina, by Tolstoy. Every page is genius. You forget how bloody long the book is because the characters are so well-drawn. He's the only author I have read who understands how women think. Too bad he didn't apply his discernment to his own marriage...

3. One book you would want on a desert island?
I hate desert islands.

4. One book that made you cry?
The Brothers Karamazov, which I finished reading during jury duty one day. I was sobbing my eyes out in a room full of strangers while some volcano disaster movie was playing in the background.

5. One book that made you laugh?
Me Talk Pretty One Day. Read, "Jesus Shaves." Non-native speakers are trying to explain to a Morroccan woman, in French, what Easter is and who Jesus is. David Sedaris finds out that in France, the Rabbit of Easter is not the one who brings of the chocolate.

6. One book you wish had been written?
The sequel to Brothers Karamazov. Dostoyevsky was working on it when he died.

7. One book you wish had never had been written?
Man I'd have a fatwa on my head if I wrote what I'm really thinking. So I'll say The Da Vinci Code. Complete. Utter. Rubbish.

8. One book you are currently reading?
see my post below, and choose one for yourself.

9. One book you have been meaning to read?
A prayer for Owen Meaney (sp?). Recommended by two dear friends.

now I am supposed to tag 5 people. Um, do 5 people read this thing? Lella, dear faithful reader...my cousin reads this but she's about to have a baby any second, shell and whoever else, go for it!

some recent books

I've been reading several books lately, which is nothing new, but I wanted to write a bit about them so far.

A bitter truth: World War 1 and the Avant-Garde by ___? forgot his name. I'm only about halfway through, as it's quite a depressing read. It's a book I have borrowed from my dear friend Ed, who has a sizable library of art books and an enviable collection of prints--German Expressionists making up some of the strongest and most well-represented group. This book covers the response of artists to World War 1, from both sides of the conflict. Many avant-garde artists fought in the war or participated in some way; many died or were wounded, and all had their utopian visions smashed to bits by the utter waste and squalor they experienced. Italian Futurists hailed the upheaval initially, Germans claimed that war would be their savior, cleansing the dross of the old world to create a better future. The French and British were confident of swift victory by Christmas, 1914. All of them were so drastically wrong. By Christmas, over 400,000 soldiers had died. Four hundred thousand. And that's not counting the civilian casualties or the wounded. That would be like two thirds of Baltimore, wiped out in five months.

It is shocking how vast, unrelenting, and misguided the Great War was. Artists were some of the first people to show this collective madness for what it was, to give images back to the people who plunged into conflict headlong and without a plan. And without a reason. I believe the Enlightenment died when hostilities commenced. All this talk of progress and the triumph of reason, the lustre of the "new," of technology--governments were passionately in love with their weapons and took a path of self-destruction.

People will point to this as just the thing the Administration is doing. Their voices raised to a hysterical pitch, screaming about theocracy. But there have not been half a million soldiers killed, no matter how specious and cobbled-together our reasons for invasion were. You just can't compare the two.

As a side note, I am so tired of the term, The Administration. It has been used as the embodiment of evil, stupidity, hubris, and every other negative one can devise. It's just so overused and so hyperventilated about. The Administration gives me a headache.

On to another book. I just finished the history of the world in six glasses. It's pretty light reading, not terribly detailed, but nonetheless was a fascinating look at how beer, wine, spirits, coffee, tea, and coke have shaped the world's civilizations and affected history. Besides learning that the Egyptians had seventeen types of beer, I also learned that the British were great dirty bastards for a large chunk of their history, all because of spirits and tea. Rum, more specifically, was the backbone of the slave trade, the raison d'etre for slavery. Cheap sugar via slave labor was distilled to make molasses and then rum, which was sold to African tribesmen who were quite addicted to the stuff, who would in return, offer their own people as slaves who would go to work in carribean sugar plantations. Nice. I knew all this from 9th grade history, but it's just not real when you're that young. There's no context. And I hadn't tried rum by then either. Nasty stuff.

Tea had become a national addiction for the British, who got all of it from China initially. The Chinese didn't want any of the British goods, only silver as payment for tea, so to make it easier to pay they fostered the opium addictions of the Chinese. British companies working for the east india company produced the opium, sold it for silver from the chinese, then the British paid for their tea with silver. When the Chinese government decided to crack down on the opium trade, the British came and squashed the Chinese army with their superior weaponry (a great shock and disappointment to the Chinese), forced them to open ports and do business with them. Then a few years later, the British discovered indigenous tea plants in India, so they no longer needed the more expensive Chinese tea, thereby decimating the Chinese economy. Because of the economic hardships and populace of opium addicts, civil unrest and revolution soon followed, culminating in the rise of communism in China. So thank the British next time China's human rights abuses come up. All they can say is, "I learned it from YOU, dad!"

Sporadically, I am also reading A Year in the World, by Frances Mayes. She wrote Under the Tuscan Sun, which I am almost ashamed to admit that I liked very much. It's so popular, and for good reason, but all the same, once a crappy movie's made from a book it's hard to take it seriously anymore. Nonetheless, Mayes has a very sensuous style, colorful, spot-on descriptive language, and great taste in food. This most recent book follows her throughout Europe and other spots as she tries to experience each culture through the eyes of a local, not a tourist. Sortof the road less travelled. It's harder to get into this book somehow, perhaps because I just did a good bit of travelling myself and it's too fresh, and also because I enjoy reading her work in the wintertime. There's nothing better than reading about the Sun when you are chilled to the bone. I really dislike being hot, so perhaps I am less forgiving of her sun-worship when I am boiling already.

The last two books I am reading are of a Christian-living variety: Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World, and Every Thought Captive. I mentioned the title of the first one to a friend who had thought I said a merry heart in a Martha world (and Martha being Martha Stewart I suppose.) It's not half bad to describe it that way. Both are very challenging books, as they deal very frankly with the lies that distort our thinking about God, ourselves, and other people.

It's been refreshing and instructive to read these last two, since I can finally see a change in the tenor of books directed at Christian women. Most are simpering, overgeneralized hallmark substitutes that wind up making one feel worse for whatever problem they're hoping to address. Some are just plain unbiblical, elevating good works over grace, and refuse to countenance even a possibility that women might not be "praisin' the Lord all the livelong day." There still isn't anything out there talking indepth about postpartum depression or the soul-crushing identity crisis of motherhood (maybe I've found my niche?)--the myth of the perfect mother does talk a bit about depression and the idolization of motherhood in Christian culture, but her points are too unbiblical in some places to feel comfortable with her solutions. Like she says that nowhere in the bible is a woman told to take care of her family. Um, which bible are you reading? And what does that even prove? Of course I want to take care of my family, even if the bible wasn't telling me to do so. My problem isn't taking care of my family. It's taking care of me. And that's where the Christian culture lets us down. Not only must we be supermommies like the rest of the culture expects, but we are also supposed to have perfectly-behaved, Bible-quoting Billy Grahams-in-training, perfect homes, listen to worship music (and like it), homeschool and spank regularly, and are not to be so self-indulgent as to spend time without our children or serving our husbands. And we are supposed to be popping out a "full quiver of children." Well thanks but no thanks. If that's what being a Christian is about, cancel my subscription.

As I say, these two books are actually honest about the struggles, more honest than I feel comfortable being, and address the root causes for the sins that so easily entangle. Instead of quoting scripture randomly and then saying, "problem solved!" these books talk about the disconnect one may feel between knowing the truth and believing the truth.

what is the day of your choice?

A very interesting question, which A has asked me several times recently. I have no earthly idea what it means, where he came up with it, or what the answer to the question is. It might be like asking what my favorite day is, which I am not sure. Saturday is so pedestrian, but it is my sortof day off, thus the day I would choose. Must give it some more thought.

An update: my Inspiron is not affected by the battery recall. I am quite happy, not only for the relief of knowing I have not endangered my son's life by babysitting him with DVDs on the computer (maybe I have done other damage through that means, but I shant think about that), but also because immediately after writing yesterday, I did all the things I had avoided doing, like confirming the battery danger and calling a person about art lessons. I hate calling people, a lot. Calling-people-day is not the day of my choice.

I am trying to write down a few of the things A says lately, because I can't remember things so well otherwise. I may be the only one, besides D, who is interested in what A says, but since only about three people visit my blog it doesn't really matter, does it?

So to continue... the very first and only thing A gave a name to, other than a purely descriptive one (i.e. "bear" for...his bear, duh!), was a little plastic dinosaur he calls Bolt. Bolt's Daddy is our very heavy, chunky T-Rex Great Pop-Pop found at Goodwill, and the T-rex likes eating Bolt's friends. Isn't that just like a dad to ruin all one's fun?

A was staging a fight with two of his batmen(we have about six, of varying sizes), and said in his trying-to-be-manly voice: "Theyrrr fighting their chutherrrrrs!" Fighting each other, of course, but I like to think of chuthers more. It detaches the people fighting from themselves, and makes chuthers the object of the fight. The "errrrrrrr or urrrrrrrrrrr" sound makes many appearances in our house. A says he's "making a TOWERRRRRRR" while building with blocks, so of course we say we are taking a SHOWERRRRRR, under the COVERRRRRS or climbing a TOWERRRRR when we were in Italy.

Batman is a constant fixture in our lives, and I am pretty sure that is why I could be perfectly content never seeing another comic-book movie with "-man" in the title. I am just plain sick of superheroes, and could care less about their authority/fear/savior issues. Our culture's children and young adults grew up with some of the crappiest and most non-existent Dads, and it really is no surprise that any man with an interest in someone other than himself should be appealing. It's so rare, they have to have some type of radioactive or mutating cataclysmic event, or come from another planet altogether, to be concerned with the needs and protection of others. No wonder mothers are stressed out. It's the one thing they can't really give, and a huge gaping hole in the lives of sixty percent of children out there. Men, get off your asses and grow the hell up! We don't have time for your whiny self-absorption. Take some frickin responsibility.

Whew, I feel so much better. Not really. I feel all riled up because I just started thinking about a new book out, "Artificial Happiness." It's about people who are just unhappy with their lives, for whatever reason, and turn to medication instead of confronting their problems and trying to change. Of course, the author makes a big distinction between people whose brain chemistry is whacked--the true illness of clinical depression--and those who are not chemically imbalanced. I heard an interview with the author yesterday, and something that really struck a chord was what he said about religion: "many Americans are only superficially religious, outwardly professing belief in God while crossing over to medicine for help when life grows really difficult." He said that churches since the 1950's have been telling parishoners that they should expect the good life now, that God will reward us if we are good and we should not be having any troubles at all. People call this the health-and-wealth Gospel, among other names, and it is truly an insidious lie promulgated by many (mostly) suburban churches. Especially with people who might be confident enough to say they had pulled themselves up from their bootstraps. The problem, as I myself have experienced, is when those bootstraps break and things go pear-shaped and then you question whether God really loves you if He's allowing all this crap to go down. What then? Ah, you weren't really a good Christian then, you see? All you need to do is really have faith, which you obviously don't, and turn your life around, and then God will love you again and give you all the stuff you want. And then if you happen to have a real mental illness, a chemical imbalance that leads to major depression or anything else, you're really not a Christian if you seek help. It's really quite disgusting, a spiritual catch-22.

The not-so-funny truth is that the very founder of our faith lived a perfect life, was good in every sense, and got the cross as his "reward." How do you figure that, then? Sure there's the resurrection and all, but I don't think that was going through his mind on Good Friday.

As a reviewer of the book put it, it comes down to the Socratic questions: what is the good life? What is happiness? I am pretty sure that people have a rather shallow idea, if any, of what constitutes a good and happy life. It might just be too painful for people to confront the notions that underpin their whole existence. I know it wasn't fun for me, that's certain. But I would do it all again if it meant that I could live free of the lies I had believed about myself and about God. Living a life of quiet desperation, or of loud medicated shallowness, are just not things I can tolerate. I confess that I really look down on people who don't think about life, what it means and what their place is in it. It's snooty and hypocritical of me, because generally I despise philosophy. I only know one person who has not turned into a complete unmitigated prick after heavily studying philosophy. It seems people who delve too far into it, and into theology, find amazing ways to divorce themselves completely from moral behavior and a practical working out of their faith. As if studying something exempts you from any further involvement.

What I am looking for, and usually fail to achieve, is balance. In everything, really. It's an enduring theme, something I revisit with regularity. EVERYTHING has become so polarized, in every facet of life, and no one is content until you can be put into the appropriate box and then forgotten for the very fact of the box you're in: oh, well she doesn't buy organic, she's a bottlefeeder, oh he's a Republican, she's got a minivan in the suburbs, she's homeschooling, he's gay. All of which can be followed with a knowing look and a dismissive, "Oh. Well in that case I don't need to even bother with what they have to say. They obviously aren't the right kind of people."

The solution to this madness? They should really stop the arguing and start fighting their chuthers.

blogging on my on-firon

Hope you like my new name for my Dell Inspiron, whose battery apparently has been recalled as a serious fire hazard. Hm. One more thing to worry about, as I rig it up several times a week to show movies in A's room while I take a shower. It does get rather hot, and we already replaced the fan last year because it made some strange squeaking sounds. But thinking about one more thing that could have happened to forever change my life, it's just too much work.

I am avoiding doing real things like finding out how to get a new battery, calling people back about art lessons and sending in a new article to my favorite magazine, even though it's pretty much done. I realized, once again, that I am terrible at taking pictures of people. I don't consider my immediate family in that, since I am very comfortable with them, but I don't like taking pictures of people. I had a few for this article I'm writing, and all but two were complete rubbish, either blurry or uninteresting. It probably shows some very deep-seated antisocial, conflict-avoidance tendencies, which are likely true, but it might also mean that I much prefer landscapes and objects as subjects. (admit it, mk, you just hate people. ok I admit it.)

As I sit here waiting for the laptop to catch fire, I intermittently hear the sharp, piercing bark of one of the many smaller-than-a-breadbox dogs that surround my house. My immediate neighbor got one about a year ago, and he's a bored terrier with one hobby: barking. Then right across the street, a little unsupervised girl has yet another, smaller terrier that would probably make my ears bleed if I stood too close to it. Many perfect-spring-weather afternoons, with the smell of lilacs outside my studio window, were ruined by the persistent scream of this dog. Then, to my horror, about two weeks ago I looked out my back window and saw my other neighbor's yard, with a little white yipyip puppy running back and forth along the fence. I am beseiged.

I am off now, to avoid other things and to listen to more of 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith. Sometimes I really hate this book, and other times I am riveted. Or to be more precise, about half the characters I totally despise, and the other half I am ambivalent towards. Why am I continuing with the book? Because I usually like McCall Smith's stuff, and perhaps this will have a lovely denouement like many of his works. Or not. But I have to find out.

r.i.p. romeo

My inlaws' beautiful cat, Romeo, died today. He was probably the most gorgeous cat I had ever seen, with a perfectly symmetrical Rorsach test down his back, and a very distinguished chin. He was a purebred American Shorthair, descended from some very pretentiously-named champion cat. But he was just as down-to-earth as a cat could be, and very sociable. My inlaws are quite torn up about it, and I am sad too.

heeeeere am I floating in a tin can...faaaar above the world

I am in a surreal place, not physically but in every other sense. It's late, and I am playing Single Mom this week. D is in California, playing a Production Assistant for the XGames. I kid you not. It's a long story, how he got this gig, but suffice it to say he has needed clean underwear every ten minutes, seeing all his skateboard idols up close and personal.

I am wondering, as I often do, how other single moms manage nutritious meals for their children when it's so effing bloody hot that going outside to the car to get groceries is like signing up for a mission to the Sun. What A had for dinner was chicken nuggets, "S-punch Bob fwoot snaaaacks" and a handful of Rice Chex. No real fruit to be seen. I was ashamed of myself but I let him eat it anyway. I had bland Trader Joes Asparagus Risotto (needs garlic), and went to the site, "Pimp my Snack" to relieve the boredom. It didn't help that their food was even more appallingly non-nutritious, since I really wanted to eat the forty-centimeter donut instead. So did A. Plus I am feeling crappy.

After A went to bed, I spent an emotional couple of hours reading other people's blogs, mostly people in Baltimore. There are some great writers out there. And not far out there, but right here in The Greatest City In America. I wept several times as I read about a dear grandma dying, a teacher who has MS and goes to New Song, and a woman whose birthday is so close to mine, and has been poring over her old diaries like I do and has such a quirky gift for words:

truth is, whenever i think of the early nineties
your face comes up with a vengeance
like it was yesterday

Today, that face did come up with a vengeance, walking from the ATM at St. Joe's to my Doctor's office with my copay, and it made me sad. It also made me want to blow up the Motel on Joppa Road next to Papa John's. No particular reason.

So I am left here with competing thoughts. One, I am so tired I could die right here and I need to go to bed. Two, what is my motivation for writing and for anything else I do? Three, what should I do with my life now that I have grown up? Four, will I ever rid myself from feelings of Insane Ambition To Be The Best Everything I Decide To Be? To be a Professional--whatever? I got back from the Knit and Crochet Show thinking of myself as a Published Designer, which is technically true, but what does it matter? There are thousands of people out there floating in cyberspace and designing schtick and posting it and selling it and the whole nine. Do I want that? It seems like it would be a pain in the ass eventually, and I'd let it lapse like so many other things I start. I enjoy writing so much, but can't I just allow myself to get my kicks out of it without feeling like someday I will be the Best Writer Ever and have my blog turned into a Real Book that will be the EW pick for the week and on and on? It really is delusional, a textbook case. When I was teaching, it was the same thing: I wanted my students to name their kids after me and produce the next bloody Picasso. I wanna be adored, as the Stone Roses said.

Yet. I have felt an incredible apathy, almost as strong, about pretty much everything except crochet. Most days I feel like I wouldn't mind never painting again, never slogging through another class I didn't want to teach, living a quiet Mom-life and not creating more stuff to do and more things to think about. I would likely shrivel up and die if I did that, but sometimes I think it would be nice not having ninety projects and/or thoughts going at once. All day long I am thinking about everything, and lately I haven't stopped when my eyes finally close. I just keep thinking about former colleagues, nuclear holocaust, having terribly disorganized workspaces, dealing with difficult people, trying to figure out how to make a supportive bra without underwire. I'm wiped out.

Now that I have a child and I am officially not allowed to be selfish, things take on a whole new aspect. I don't want to think about my life as waiting for him to grow up enough so I can be insanely ambitious again, the holding pattern of waiting for naptime to have interests beyond him. I don't want to be the absent mom, in body or in mind. But playing with playdoh is only SO interesting, drawing Batman the same way in six different colors...*sigh*. I need to learn to be in the now, and not keep thinking into some grandiose future world that will likely never exist. Not to cease being a dreamer, but to keep those dreams from disappointing my reality, if that makes sense.

What definitely doesn't make sense is how bloody late it is (early, I should say). More later I am sure.