The Joy of Reading: Let's Not Forget

I feel renewed, as though I just got back from the most relaxing meditative vacation: a cruise or an island getaway, those unique breaks that allow quiet personal reflection, healthy indulgences and overdue relaxation. In fact, I'm just temporarily unemployed.

The furlough in my work schedule is not the reason for my current sense of contentment, however. What is? Books. Stories.

You see, I've spent the last two weeks reading almost non-stop, and although I am constantly reading, this was intense. I feel as though I have rekindled my love affair (obsession?) with books, and in the process remembered their irreplaceable role in my life.

Allow me to explain... Since publishing my memoir, I have been an Internet whore, so to speak. I've clocked many non-working hours online: joining social network sites, making e-friendships and trading resources with other struggling writers, whom I believe have great promise and, like me, are still developing their platforms. I have ventured territories that I said I never would: Twitter, Ning sites, Gather, MySpace, and in the midst of it all, I lost my ability to read.

Sounds dramatic, I know, but it's true. I found myself sending hundreds of emails and brief sentiments, exchanging bite-sized news clips and inspirational quotes, using shorthand type to get across my point, and often being misinterpreted because I'm not so good at this new, abridged e-language yet. And eventually, perhaps consequently, I found myself unable to concentrate on my nightly reading, no matter how talented the writer or engaging the prose.

This inability to pay attention is not unique to me. I've noticed that at the college writing center, where I work, students' papers are often riddled with abridged language ("U" instead of "you") and half-developed thoughts. And I can't help but to think that this is a direct result of our fragmented attention spans, our adjustment to quick responses, quick news, quick contact... Who has time to read?

But here's the thing: After the past few days, I feel renewed. I feel mentally stimulated and able to write. I feel free from my short attention span, and even confident to return to social media on a restricted schedule. You see, good books might just be more valuable to our society than ever. They have a unique ability to release us, if only temporarily, from the fleeting satisfaction of instant gratification. Books slow us down.

Perhaps books--instead of becoming extinct at the hands of electronic media--will actually be treasured all the more, seen as even more of an escape from stress and a time to reflect. After my reading Oasis, I feel as though I admire books--their transcendent power--more than ever. Good books that is...

[My reading over this past week? "Lit" (see below) "Sky Below" "Beyond My Control" and "Without A Map" all very good books!]

MUSICAL CHAIRS is available to ship by the holiday. Check it out!

Absurd Hunger: A Beginning

The neighborhood politics are ridiculous. Mrs. Owen is organizing a community effort to "clean up the neighborhood," to get local media attention so that the police might start paying attention when all it really does is cause them to park their cars in residents' spots. Wallace thinks the old woman has too much time on her hands. Things won't change because a handful of people, mostly geriatric, are bitching about it.

He'd seen the neighborhood cycle through such ridiculous attempts before, Band-Aid fixes: the overweight Blues stealing the good seats at IHOP; and it only pisses him off…

Wallace was explaining all of this to Elena as he watched an IV drip sustenance into her frail arm. She was nodding her head in a sign of agreement, but somehow he doubted that she was listening. It didn’t matter, so long as there was noise. The girl was on the up and up. She was recovering and already looking better than she had a month ago, but his heart still ached to see her so thin. She had been too thin when he met her, even when she was healthy he remembered thinking that someone needed to sit the girl down and force feed her a steak and potato dinner each night, until she filled out a little. But then, it had been Vince who thought she was perfect then, who had complimented her when she began losing weight. He had been so in love with this girl or the idea of her, and now where was he?

Wallace kissed the girl on her forehead and told her he'd be back soon, maybe even tomorrow. She smiled, nodded, then instructed him to move out; she was tired. He sniggered, did as he was told. “I’m moving as fast as an 86 year old man can move, young lady. You just sleep, kiddo. I’ll be out of here by the time you wake up.”
Wallace had been visiting Elena daily, after coffee, before his walk. He didn’t worry over her like he should, like he did the neighborhood, the political climate of Michigan, his wife having an accident while taking one of those meditative bubble baths she insisted on, his son’s name showing up in the obituaries. No. Elena, even when she suffered, was capable of anything. The girl’s self-sufficiency was rare; only Wendy, his first wife, had shown the same sort of strength.

Funny that these two women would end up being the toughest of those he knew. Funny, when most of the female population seemed barely able to stand erect long enough to get picked up again. Wallace paid his bus fare and rode in silence as three blocks passed. He got off at the UDF at the corner of his street, still envisioning Elena's delicate shape draped in hospital-white sheets.

There were two girls standing in front of UDF. They wore suffocating jeans; they were no older than thirteen. Two of them, one black, one white, smoking cigarettes by the old payphone stand. They laughed loudly as Wallace approached, asking for his attention, asking for the attention of any swinging dick that walked by. They’d be on their backs by afternoon, Wallace thought, knocked up by the end of the year.

Illness, these girls couldn’t handle. They couldn’t fight. They would lay down and take it.

“Hey, mister, can you buy us a wine cooler? Mister?” The white one said.
Wallace stopped, turned toward the girls. He felt the sudden urge to smack them around a bit, tell them what life would do to them.

“Take your skinny kid asses home,” he yells. After a slight jump from both, they laugh. It's a nervous laughter, though, and he knows it.

An Unstarred Review

Mary Karr is most recognized for her memoirs:
The Liars' Club (1995) ISBN 0-67-085053-5
Cherry: A Memoir (2001) ISBN 0-14-100207-7
Lit: A Memoir (2009) ISBN 978-0060596989

# The Professional Blurbs #

The Liars' Club brought to vivid, indelible life Mary Karr's hardscrabble Texas childhood. Cherry, her account of her adolescence, "continued to set the literary standard for making the personal universal" (Entertainment Weekly). Now Lit follows the self-professed blackbelt sinner's descent into the inferno of alcoholism and madness--and to her astonishing resurrection.

Lit is about getting drunk and getting sober; becoming a mother by letting go of a mother; learning to write by learning to live. Written with Karr's relentless honesty, unflinching self-scrutiny, and irreverent, lacerating humor, it is a truly electrifying story of how to grow up--as only Mary Karr can tell it.


# My Thoughts #

It's no secret that I enjoy memoirs. I especially love a memoir from a strong female author, who has overcome financial and sociological obstacles as well as a handful of bad choices, before becoming a renowned literary figure. (No bias here!)

Karr's hard-edged poetic voice made The Liars' Club one of my favorite books. In Lit, I found the voice just as searing and lovely, perhaps not as consistent. For me, the childhood digressions--nods to her previous works--were the weakest portions of the narrative, but they were brief, and moreover, they were easily forgiven when bookmarking transcendent scenes such as one in which a group of illiterate women in a group home remind the author the universality of good poetry.

I've always appreciated the candid, in-your-face style of Karr's prose and this book is no different. What's better, Karr has limitless stories to tell--good stories about real fucked up circumstance.

I highly recommend this book for writers and anyone who's interested enough in their chosen art to enter an MFA program. This is a book to writers and artists, from a poet known for her prose.

HOW TO BE PERFECT ...and live forever

(the EXTENDED version)

Purchase the following:
grape seed extract, acai extract, omega 3-6-9 and a multi-vitamin. Eat only whole foods, foods that are preferably locally grown and in-season. Don't drink, don't smoke, do not eat anything with refined sugars or artificial sweeteners. Consume exactly 64 ounces of liquids each day for every 120lbs you weigh (do the math yourself).

Exercise four times a week, varying the routine. Incorporate at least twenty minutes of cardio during each workout. Do not attempt the same repetitive exercise in excess, it will cause joint strain and end up backfiring in later years. Use weights in repetitions of at least four. The last set should cause your arms or legs to shake, otherwise, you are wasting your time.

Stretch. Do yoga. Knit.

Purchase only natural deodorant, shampoo, soap and cleaning supplies, and when you purchase them, please use your recyclable bags so as not to harm the enviornment.

Live in Wyoming, but travel at least once a year. Drink only distilled water and try to restrict direct sun exposure to >30 minutes in any one day [it is also advised that a person avoid sunscreens and sunblocks - they are not safe].

Sleep when you are tired. Get a pet, meditate, befriend only positive people, love yourself. Shut off your cellphone and spend more time with your family and/or spouse. Try to have (safe) sex at least twice a week.

Restrict Twitter use

Get sick at least once a year, to keep immunity up. Wash your hands after you use a public restroom, but restrict hand-washing to less than a dozen times each day. Do not use chapstick.

Oh, and buy my book: MUSICAL CHAIRS

If the above is not reasonable, please see Religion and Philosophy; Rows 13-51.

***

Inconsistency

Mom always told me that consistency was necessary for sanity. A long time ago, I gave up on sanity. But, I know what she means. Consistency offers comfort, it allows expectations to be filled.

As a reader, the idea of consistency makes me think about favorite authors. I am one of the many readers out there who finds a book she loves and wants to read everything the author has created, expecting more of the same genius. Rarely do I find this is the case, but I continue to try (the definition of insanity?).

I'm sure many factors contribute to a writer's inconsistency. Writing is something that takes time, patience, perspective, and it can't be rushed. If it is ...
This might account for the fact that I have absolutely fallen in love with, say, The Liar's Club. In turn, I fell for Karr. Then I read Cherry ...

I was in love with Cather in the Rye, so I fell for Salinger, but then I read Nine Stories ...

I found myself consumed by Kafka, who I continued to read until I became utterly confused, worried that maybe I wasn't "getting it."

This scenario holds true for many writers on my "sometimes favorites" list. Yet, I continue to read their work. It might not be such a coincidence that many of my all time favorite writers are the most consistent--Jeffrey Eugenides, for instance. It can't go unmentioned, however, that Eugenides spent nine years writing his second book, Middlesex, and it shows. He didn't have a successful book only to then ride the wave of publication and begin publishing just to publish. He spent the same care, time, and effort with his second book as he did The Virgin Suicides.

I think that many times the business of writing overshadows the art of writing. But then, sometimes it doesn't. Mary Karr's new memoir Lit, for example, is far more representative of Karr's potential than Cherry (in my humble opinion).

It seems as though time feeds an author's consistency (though I am aware that my examples are limited here) and I wonder if this is true in life as well. When we take our time, structure our lives, and find routines, are we more efficient? Perhaps. Can I implement this, in writing or otherwise, in order to create and put forth my best work, my best self? Who knows. I can try. I wonder ...

Realization

After our first Thanksgiving holiday away from family, Chris and I have decided to prioritize. We moved to San Antonio for a job--Chris's job--and although both of us always wanted to escape the limitations of our Midwestern hometown (the lack of things to do in the evenings, the irritating familiarity of the flat landscapes) we realized this year just how thankful we are to have both found our way back to family.

It's funny how distance can do this. Even with the easy access of communication through cellular phones and Internet, the physical space between us and our family truly emphasized the importance of our relationships. Just as I spent much of my youth trying to run away from my family, Chris, too, remembers his own rebellion as a child. And now, our distance from them seers. It made us truly thankful this holiday.

We spent our Thanksgiving morning working with the San Antonio Food Bank, to put turkeys on tables for many of Texans who are in need this year. Our dinner was hosted by two friends, whose family we spent the night with, playing games and over-eating in the way only Americans know how. We had a great day, in all, and yet we missed, to no small extent, the very thing our youthful selves had run away from.

Americans are unique this way, putting individualistic and self-revelatory needs in front of familial relationships. This is especially the case for those who pursue higher education. It is almost as though to be valuable to society in this country (unless there is a family business or unlimited money) one must break away in order to fully reach potential. Whereas, in many other countries generations live together under one roof, working toward a collective goal and supporting each other even at the expense of individualistic dreams.

I think that there are benefits and costs to each way of life, but I will say that being away from family is tough now. This means a few things. It means that we're growing up, realizing the value of strong family ties. It means that our sacrifice puts in perspective our goals, and that in order to accommodate both our relationships and our careers, we will have to be somewhat successful. The fact that we couldn't afford to visit our family this year is not uncommon, and yet it is understandable.

I write this post with little focus today, more as a simple list of the things I am grateful for, albeit a few days late: I'm grateful to have a family to miss this holiday season. I'm grateful for our opportunity to pursue our dreams. Finally, I'm grateful for the hope that one day both our individualistic aspirations and our ability to connect with family on these all-important occasions will one day be possible--if only we work hard enough. If only we keep at it. I'm grateful for this change of perspective because new perspective is often necessary to feel such a level of thankfulness.

Not The Mama

............................................
I once had a neighbor tell me that I would never be complete until I had children. He said this casually; we were playing chess. Odds are, we were drinking, too. It was early in my career so I hadn't yet to learn how to over-spend; and drinking and chess made me quite happy, so I remember shrugging it off, telling my neighbor he had no idea what he was talking about--I was thoroughly fulfilled!

I don't remember that neighbor's name. I do remember that he beat me, always beat me in chess, and I had learned a long time ago to listen carefully to advice from anyone who could beat me in chess. It meant that said person was able to think further ahead, perhaps more dynamically than myself. (I hadn't yet learned that some people are just good because they memorize plays--if I had, I might have questioned his opinion, rather than giving him credit for his ability to think ahead.) I do remember going home that night and crying--something I didn't do in those days. I was genuinely hurt because I felt no desire to have kids, and yet this man was telling me I wasn't complete until I gave birth.

I'm thirty years old today, and I am childless. Many people accuse me of living as a younger person might--small apartment, three trips each week to the grocery store--but I am beginning to feel my age. And I have to say, I have no desire to have a child. This is not because I'm successful in my career. Far from it. I'm always perplexed by women who say they want to put their career first. I put my family first--my husband, dog and cat. Yet, I don't have any inkling to expand that family, nor do I have any excuse as to why. I just don't want kids.

Now, this might change, but right now it's how I feel. I just wanted to make the statement publicly, just in case there is another woman out there who feels alone in any lack of maternal inclination.

[The above illustration is from an early 90s TV show called "The Dinosaurs" The baby used to say "Not da Mama" repeatedly and bash his father over the head with a frying pan. It was quite the show!]