everything i tell you is hearsay

to what i was saying yesterday about being unable to pick up my guitar, i’ve decided to start trolling for gigs. i’m hoping that as long as i:

• a) am not trying to write anything
• b) avoid those songs that make me want to sob until my eyeballs wash away
• c) do not invite disaster (or certain people) to the venue

i might be motivated by a show for which i must prepare. it worked reasonably well last time. maybe it will work again.

plus this time, i’ll have CD’s to schill!! awesome.

i went to the library on monday and picked out like 8 books. so far, all of them have sucked.

admittedly, some of my reasoning wasn’t fabulous in terms of selection criteria; i put far too much weight on the cover of a book sometimes, but i usually have a better record than this. i just can’t seem to get excited about anything i picked up.

The Infernal Desire Machines of Dr Hoffman i grabbed after seeing the title on a Librarything group list and thinking: huh, that sounds cool. unfortunately it just made me go into super skim mode. never a good sign. the writing was incredibly pretentious and cumbersome (something i usually like, actually) but the diffuse and necessarily vague nature of the action in the story just made my brain snort in disdain.

The New York Trilogy i grabbed along with 2 other titles by Paul Auster because he is an author i KNOW i like having been a huge fan of other works of his. this is a trio of short stories about writing and detectives. eh. worst of all, he writes himself into the first of the three tales. i am NOT for that. ever. haven’t cracked the other two yet, just haven’t been able to muster the enthusiasm after the first flop.

The Sot-Weed Factor i actually enjoyed the first chapter of, but now cannot find. whoops.

The Heretic is just necessarily going to require more effort. i really enjoy historical fiction, and am fascinated by all things theologica, but there’s nothing harder than sitting poolside and trying to drag oneself through a novel about the Spanish inquisition (which, nobody expects). the cognative dissonance was too much for me so i put it down in favor of more tanning oil. i’ll try taking this one to bed, see if that goes better. nothing else interesting happening there, that’s for sure.

i haven’t looked at the others in more than a passing way since i got them. for some reason i have the notion Willa Cather might be a downer, and the other one, i just haven’t gotten around to yet.

i guess when i think about what qualities define me, i’d be reluctant to admit that “creative” ranks up there pretty high, but it seems to be true. i say this because i know when i’m not playing music, pasting things as my own weenie attempts at art, taking (poor) photographs, or something in that vein i get pretty antsy.

and things have been kinda tough in that respect lately.

i’ve been singing for longer than i’ve been talking, but never one for formal training, i hadn’t bothered to learn an instrument. about two years ago someone thought it worth my while enough to press an acoustic into my hands and suggest i take a shot at some chords. once again thank you caseyface!as such, since then, its been my primary creative outlet. and i’m proud of what i’ve been able to create.

and usually i do my best work when i’m sad. my musical catalogue is pretty heavy on the boo-fuckin-hoo end of the emotional continuum. but, for some reason, in the last little while i’ve been too sad to even play the guitar, let alone try and write anything. i even have a really good songlet chasing itself around in my head. but every time i’ve tried to start work on it, i begin to cry so hard i get Livingston all wet. he doesn’t really thrive in the high moisture and salt environment of a crying jag, so i put him away, if only for his own good.

i have been blogging like mad, reading like they’re getting ready to go Fahrenheit 451 on the library, working out with more regularity than i’ve ever mustered before, and trying to absorb myself in things that tend to focus my considerable attentive powers completely enough to keep me from going completely bonkers. but none of this feel particularly generative and it’s starting to get to me.

so, i’ve decided to take a stab at writing something longer than a blog post. i used to fancy myself quite a writer. i came in second in a poetry contest in 5th grade: a truly atrocious offering about how freedom came with responsibility or some such tripe. the prize was a trip to the opera, my music teacher made me do it. in the wake of which  they sent me to the “Oregon Writers Conference” and told me i was a prodigy. and i was vain enough to believe them. i don’t have any such pretentions anymore, i can write a mean wedding toast, but i’ve read enough miserable novels to know just how easy it is to think you can write something decent, and how much easier it is to be wrong. but i do want to give something fictionish a try.

i have to do something and so, its either this, or sedatives…

whenever that might be.

i used to know. i was pretty damn sure for a really long time. i was going to deliver babies and that was going to rule. i even had a plan: once i had my credentials, i was going to open a LUXURY BIRTHING SPA where families could come and have a 4 star hotel experience, except also, have a baby there. indirect lighting, comfortable spacious private rooms, spa treatments for mom and dad. a family inclusive care model. nutritionist and lactation consultant on site. cause, dude, after having HAD a baby, i can think of no time in my life i needed pampering more.

turns out though, i am BAD AT SCIENCE. no, really. i failed Anatomy & Physiology twice. physics i just curled into a ball crying within the first week of the term all THREE times i tried to take it. and though i managed to muddle through calculus, it was not an experience that really affirmed my faith in myself as a student.

and as it happens, you have to be at least tolerably good at these things for them to want to let you into medical school, or nursing school, or even any decent direct-entry midwifery program. (maybe not physics. everyone knows that stuff’s made up anyway)

so, what with all my academic flailing, it turns out i’m still pretty damn close to a degree. something called a “Bachelors of Science in Social Science” ironic for someone who’s REALLY BAD AT SCIENCE.

and this leaves me with the problem of what the hell does one DO with a social science degree anyway? i’ve thought about teaching, which i think i’d be pretty good at, all things considered, but someone told me i don’t have the temperament for it. which is code for: you swear too much. i could probably go into some sort of non-profit administrative role, but it’s sort of hard to muster a ton of verve over that idea: i’m going to be a mid-level FUNCTIONARY when i grow up!

so, i’m just kinda drifting. it seems like i’m far past the age at which i should have had these things figured out, and the $60K-odd student loan debt i have accrued thusfar is beginning to make me sort of systemically nervous.

and i know i should go talk to an advisor (i have an appointment tomorrow) but i still feel like an informal survey is SUCH A MORE ENTERTAINING WAY to determine one’s fate!!

so, here are some ideas i’ve been kicking around, in no particular order:

1) Rock/Opera Star: I’m pretty sure, if i could read music, the Portland Symphonic Choir would jump on me like the last hot biscuit at the KFC but alas, i cannot. rock stars have no such prerequisite, but anyone who’s heard me sing knows full well there is nothing “rock” about it.

2) Teacher: i actually did this for a job for a couple years (yes after school, and yes only teaching debate, butstill) and i really enjoyed it. i like being the center of attention and talking alot and having people subject to my will, so, really, what could be better? except for the low pay and my problem with epithets…

3) Amateur Humorist, Dilettante, and Book Dork: i already have this job. it doesn’t pay what it might.

4) Trophy Wife: i actually already had this job, and frankly, it sucked. but i suppose if i just found someone who was more deserving of a trophy than the last guy, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad*

5) Crusader for Reproductive Health in a Non-Science-Requisite Role: i can run a front desk like NOBODY! office mange the SHIT out of some place. so, maybe if i did that, but with pregant ladies and babies all over the place, i’d find my career path more rewarding. i think working for planned parenthood could be great if i had the right role. public relations, policy formation, advocacy for the program. and i do enjoy working in a clinical setting. as long as the patients don’t get mouthy.

6) Your answer here: come on. whaddaya got? what career path seems right for a moderately lazy smartass with lopsided people skills and a penchant for unnecessarily flowery speech?

*this is my mother’s choice for me. no, really.

Last week I asked what was the most popular book in your library- this week I’m going to ask about the most unpopular books you own. Do you have any unique books in your library- books only you have on LT? How many? Did you find cataloging information on your unique books, or did you hand-enter them? Do they fall into a particular category or categories, or are they a mix of different things? Have you ever looked at the “You and none other” feature on your statistics page, which shows books owned by only you and one other user? Ever made an LT friend by seeing what you share with only one other user?

I have 2 books that no one else has on LT. One is a bodice ripper i read as a teenager called The Captain’s Doxy” which i haven’t even been able to find a cover image for. i remember it mostly because it had pirates. and i, being lazy-eyed, must frequently wear an eyepatch for my vision therapy and am thus moderately obsessed with all things pirate.

the other book i am the only person with is actually a humorous and well-written non-fiction book about Oregon’s social history written by a former professor of mine. i wrote a review a while back which you can read here if you’re curious.

it never occurred to me to contact anyone else who shared my obscure taste in books, mostly because my tastes aren’t generally that obscure. i think it’d be worth doing though…

i have only been intermittently successful with the not crying.

it hurts knowing i am only a memory

by Marisha Pessl

I can bestow on this book the highest compliment I have: I want to own it so I can write all over it. I borrowed it from friend Lyza after reading her review and inhaled it. At 500 pages, it was well under 24 hours in my hands.

Written from the perspective of a precocious book-wise teenager, I found her voice resonant and familiar (though in possession of an infinitely better education). Her narrative is self-aware and liberally dosed with quotations and references from books, magazine articles, and movies. And any child this scholarly and still relatively sane and down to earth has my admiration, if not, perhaps, my unmitigated credulity.

Our narrator Blue VanMeer clearly and unabashedly orbits her brilliant and eccentric father both intellectually and emotionally. Gareth VanMeer, who seems to have no compunction about carting his young daughter all over the landscape, still never fails to see to her instruction during countless hours of auto rides and semi-ritualized moments in places scattered from coast to coast. Having decided to finally settle in North Carolina so Blue can complete her senior year at the exclusive St Gallway, the VanMeers begin to feel the gravity of other bodies in the wider universe. Blue is drawn into a clique of privileged students who seat themselves as acolytes to one Hannah Schneider, the film studies teacher at the school. Though they seem initially resistant to her inclusion in the select group, eventually these people begin to influence Blue in ways both subtle and overt: her frame of reference widens in tandem with her wardrobe.

But the appearance of normalcy in this group is fleeting indeed. Ultimately a custom of secrecy and deception begins to reveal itself from beneath the veneer of benign mentorship in Blue’s relationship with Hannah and the others. Inexplicable and bizarre stories swirl between the students about their teacher, as well as tales told by Hannah about her disciples. And disciples are just how these adolescents are portrayed: dazzled by Hannah’s allure and deeply possessive of the intimacy she has afforded them despite the misgivings they frequently recount to one other in her absence. The conflicting stories, coincidences, bizarre behavior, spying and conflict that brews within the group creates a sense of mounting tension and a deepening mystery as the novel progresses. And to Blue’s increasing confusion and dismay there seem to be strange concordances even from within her own unorthodox life that make some elements of these mysteries seem to mean something more to her than to the other teens in the circle.

Eventually a schismatic event completely dismantles any relationship between Blue and her compatriots. When she discovers Hannah’s lifeless corpse, the momentum built in the novel to that point is unleashed in pursuit of answers that become increasingly personal for Blue as the truth begins to out.

Though there were some mechanisms in the story I found a little too pat for complete conviction, overall I found this a compelling and enjoyable read. I found the rhythm of the narrative woven with the citation of sources from classic literature to pop culture rich and satisfying, even if many of said references flew right over my wee little head.

Recommended.
Penguin (Non-Classics) (2007), Paperback, 528 pages

By david rakoff.

This collection of essays are the offering of a compatriot of the laudable “this American life” crew. After hearing him read on the show a few weeks ago I felt it likely worth my while to grab his book if he was anywhere near as thoughtful and entertaining as his fellows david Sedaris & Sarah vowell; lucky me, he is.

Unabashedly intellectual and fiercely opinionated, this author has a facility of language somewhat rare in the ranks of the modern humorist. Not since twain and wilde has such a fierce wit been paired with such keen nuance of the written communique. Highly educated and ruthlessly self deprecating rakoff leads us into a series of fascinating excursions to places no less far flung than Tokyo, reykjavik, & new jersey,

narrating with his distinctly wicked but undeniably compelling perspective. While not more than occasionally laugh out loud funny, this book felt somehow less trivial than most of the humor reading I do. Peppered with words and phrases I had to look up (she admits to her chagrin) I walked away from this one feeling edified; not just because I felt safer armed with my dictionary, but because of the amusing yet nonetheless consistently thought provoking observations of this transparently erudite author. Well worth it, recommended.

By Mark Twain

generally a fan of Twain, i didn’t really enjoy this one as much as i expected to. i had read selected excerpts of this book as a child in a book of short stories and remembered enjoying them, but as an adult i have a vantage that makes the hyjinx of this child less than amusing.

i attribute it somewhat to the cultural divide between myself and the post-civil war south. the behavior seen as customary or appropriate for a pre-adolescent boy at that time and place seems appallingly bad to my mind. what’s more, the tolerant attitude displayed toward Tom by his aunt serves to reinforce the behavior she rails against. self-assured and cocky, i fail to sympathize with this child on almost any level. the callous way he regards (or fails to regard) the feelings of others is not charming in the least. and when i cannot identify with my hero, i’m left fairly cold.

i also felt certain elements of the plot were not only fantastic, but repetitive. a child can only disappear so many times and muster the panic of the town, yet it seems Tom can go missing again and again and warrant the despair of all around him every time anew. as far as it goes, i enjoyed the casual language and the cadence of the story shows the deftness of Twain in his element, but i simply failed to find anything endearing about his portrayal of a child he meant to paint as a scamp but whom i can only see as a wretched brat.

Penguin Classics (2006), Paperback, 272 pages
tags: middle reader, literature, southern culture

i realize that most people probably have strange or irrational fears. i mean, you can only watch your friend assiduously avoid coming too close to the pool filter so many times before it becomes apparent this is no coincidence, and wonder to yourself “what the hell am i doing hanging around with someone who’s afraid of a bloody pool filter?” but these are deeper questions than i hope to address here today.

of course there are also the grander, more fantastic yet still utterly groundless fears. my best friend in high school was absolutely convinced that mothman was haunting greater Gresham and its environs. apart from pointing out that mothman was an east coast spook if ever i had heard of one, there didn’t seem a tactful way of expressing my skepticism, so i mostly kept quiet. even when she would suggest taking a walk in the woods in the pitch dark and work herself into a shrieking head-ducking frenzy when the slightest shiver of wind should pass. good times!

and i held my tongue, not only because i am a natural diplomat (HA!) but also because, when it comes to random irrational fears, i have no room to talk.

to be fair, at least in the case of one of these uncommon phobias, there is a clear definable moment to which i can point and say: yep, that’s when i started being afraid of birds. all i can say in my own defense is that i defy anyone to remain unflustered after having a parrot LAND ON THEIR FACE AND HOLD ON WITH ITS BEAK. yeah.

the fish thing i have a slightly harder time justifying. i can only point to the following two things: they have murder in their cold little hearts. they would eat you if only you held still long enough and, sturgeon. seriously, that species alone is enough to send me into the hills with the screaming me-mes vowing never to put my toes in anything deeper than a washtub ever again.

the crowd fear makes sense to pretty much everybody. no one seems inclined to argue that humanity en masse can be scary. not everyone is driven to elbow jabbing panic, but they don’t look at me like i’m a looney. likewise, being creeped out by moths (the lightbulb humping kind, not the 6ft mythical rooftop landing kind) also seems reasonable to most folks. but for some reason, i just can’t help feeling like i have to explain to people that i am not crazy or weird just because i’m afraid of birds and fishes.

so there.