it was a dark and stormy night

And I'm sitting here with a heating pad on my shoulder (weird crick in neck...do I need Ben Gay?) in the blue glow of my monitor, full of thoughts that need spilling. First, I would probably be terminally depressed if I lived in Seattle, or -*sniff*- London. All that rain, this incessant collllld rain, is a major downer even with polkadot wellies. It makes sense why all those great explorers came from Europe. "Anyplace! Anyplace else! We all have fleas!" That was really what drove them. History says they looked for the fountain of youth, or a route to the Indies, but it was really just escaping their own lice-ridden, perpetually wet, grey existence.

Which leads to a few good books, TV shows (!!!!!! squee!!!! we got cable, and a DVR!!! I am a couch potato!), games, and other things I've been putting off writing about.

Books: I've already mentioned East of Eden, by John Steinbeck. It is quickly closing in on the top ten books of all time in my list. D is reading it to me at night when we aren't watching Lost or the Colbert Report, or Unwrapped (for me...I love seeing how stuff is made, also another show). It's funny to think of a fifty-year-old book making me LOL, but lo and behold, if the chapter isn't tragic, it's hilarious. And it might be both. His descriptions of the land, the way small-California-town life works, just little turns of phrase have me thinking that he would be an excellent Father of American Fiction. I have gravitated mostly to British and Russian 19th century novels and mysteries, but I am slowly becoming captivated by the West, the lure of the untamed parts of the world where no one ever heard of an oyster fork, or calling cards, or the impropriety of showing an ankle. Perhaps I am growing more uncivilized, or becoming more like who I really am and hanging up all the hangups. Like the Rev. Beebe observing Lucy's piano playing in Room with a View,

When he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch, disjoined from her music stool, was only a young lady with a quantity of dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face. She loved going to concerts, she loved stopping with her cousin, she loved iced coffee and meringues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he now made to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreamily towards him:

"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both for us and for her."

I like the "pale, undeveloped face." Pale certainly hits the mark. She eventually throws off the stifling Victorian propriety that is merely a decorous form of lying to everyone, and does learn to live as she plays. And as acted by Helena Bonham Carter, she has an amazing quantity of dark hair. One of the catalysts for me "taking to live as I play" has been the development of my studio into a true sanctuary, and regularly making time to be in it. Over the eight years we have lived here, the room has gradually become a home for my creative life, now including the closet. I had guiltily shoved things into it, shielded myself from falling debris every time I opened it, and would go out and buy certain supplies I knew I had but couldn't for the life of me remember where I had put them. Now I have things where they need to be, the space is utilized to its fullest, and I was able to display several cherished items that had languished since we had A. Sigh. I saw it, and it was good. When the lilacs bloomed, they just touched the bottom of my window, and warm breezes brought the perfume in. A dove sat on the windowsill too, and I thought the violins would start up any minute now, diagonal rays of the setting sun shooting into my tear-filled eyes...

More books: Vermeer's Hat, an excellent, light history book about objects in Vermeer's paintings, and how they point to the rise of globalism in the seventeenth century. It might sound like a real snooze to you, but I loved it. I had thought trading vessels were manned only by fellow countrymen (i.e., Dutchmen on East India Company ships, Englishmen on British East India Company ships, etc), when in fact there might be a minority of sponsor-country sailors in a crew of Portugese, Chinese, Japenese (look at these...) Central American, Philipino, Spanish, and mixed-race people, along with African slaves on the same ship. Every crew was a motley crew.

The Chinese were just as wary of foreigners then as now, though even they were influenced by the trade they engaged in. Blue-and-white china patterns, for example, were not indigenous design choices, but were stylistically favored by wealthy Persians, who ordered the tableware for opulent dinners, since they could not show ostentatiousness with gold and silver plates. Then European traders saw the ware, literally bought it by the boatload, and hailed it as "true Chinese style."

I also recently read the new Maisie Dobbs mystery, An Incomplete Revenge, which was well-woven and captivating, and deals a lot with gypsies living in England between the wars. It was so refreshing to read this book on the heels of Life Class, a new novel about artists in WWI. The last Maisie Dobbs was about a war artist as well, and I thought, wow, what luck to find 2 books within a couple of years about two of my favorite subjects! Life Class, however, would only be a good book if I knew nothing at all about the social mores and attitudes of people during that time. Sure, there were artists who lived "bohemian" lives, and were on the cusp of all that was scandalous, but there were just too many--non sequiturs? is that the term? Instead of being anachronistic, people were far too modern in this book. And the end was so anti-climactic, the sex scenes embarrassingly cold and animal-like, nothing truly redemptive or thoughtful about the toll of war and the loss of innocence (no innocence to be lost, except the vague notion of assumed patriotism). Just bad.

On to TV, briefly. John Adams, watch it. Paul Giamatti, Laura Linney, both geniuses. Adams was a dolt of a father, but a great man nonetheless. Abigail Adams needs to have a monument, if there isn't one already. The kick-ass woman monument. I have a new heroine. That was when America was as primitive as it gets, and it's no wonder that early American art is as bad as it is:
I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.

Though now we have no excuse whatever for bad art. We don't even need to cross the ocean to be in the center(s) of the art world. The lack of depth is inexcusable, though it's hardly surprising. Not a lot of lives being examined around here. We're spending too much time watching cable...ahem...

Last, the Brain Age Game 2 for the Nintendo DS. There are some challenging puzzles, sudoku, and other games meant to stimulate your brain and keep it nimble. I must confess, however, that my main motivation to play every day (besides getting a snazzy "stamp" on my game calendar) is to unlock "Virus Buster," their beautiful version of Dr. Mario. Virus Buster is a puzzle game where different color viruses are sitting in a bottle, and your job is to drop matching-color pills onto the viruses to kill them (oh, wouldn't we have a pharmaceutical ethics field day with this one! well relax. It's just organic Tetris). So I've beat my own high score several times, and it's still fun. Maybe because it doesn't have a two-player mode, in which D could kick my ass and cause me to become homicidal. For the sake of our marriage, we do not often play videogames together anymore.

That's all for now. Tune in next week when I discuss survivor guilt, as horrific things are happening to people I love and people around the world, and I am here in splendor and idleness.