Wednesday, October 10, 2012

The Prodigal Book


This month I went insane. And then I found a missing library book. I tell you that in advance because things get pretty intense between the two and I didn’t know if you could handle the suspense.

 
Isn’t it amazing how the little things can chip away at the fragile and misguided mass we call our sanity? It’s like all the worries in the world are made of an adhesive and they stick to our psyche. We then rip them off, one at a time trying to deal with each one, successively peeling away layer after layer of ideals, experiences, values and assumptions of who we think we are leaving a quivering, jellied lump of pure emotion and instinct behind.

This month was a record in a string of bad months. I overdrew my account by mistake – twice. A client yelled at me for something I couldn’t control, another employee loudly voiced her negative opinions for our website which she didn’t know I had created, an employee continually called out while another consistently showed up late. Eventually, this all culminated in me quitting my job, which is terrifying. I have another job lined up, but still. Stressful.

To make myself feel better I went to the library, a place that always makes things O.K. I hadn’t been there in almost 3 weeks so it was definitely time. I lugged my huge, sturdy library bag full of books to the counter and started checking in books with my friend, Caterpillar-Chihuahua lady (Translation here).  Maybe it’s the luck of the draw, maybe I’m cursed, but every time I check in or out with this lady there’s a problem. Either I have an issue with my card or a certain book or she has an issue with dealing with anyone who is in a better mood than her. Which is everyone.

Anyway, she checked in all of my books, looked at the computer, looked at my stack of books and then looked at me and said, “Youuuuuuuu arreeeeee miiiiiiisiiiiing ooooone boooook.”

So, this was an embarrassing situation, especially since there were people behind me and she had violated the sacred law of libraries by speaking in a very loud voice that everyone could hear, but then she compounded the situation by saying, “Yoooou ooooowe the liiiiiiiibrary fiiiiiftyyy dolllaaarsss iiiiif yooooou cannooooot produuuuuce thaaaat boooook.”
I thought this was curious choice of words. To produce something implies that I must create it. As if I was supposed to create a nest of shredded library cards and pop out the book like an egg. I stared at her imagining this scenario and idly wondering if they had a coop for this sort of thing when she said:
“Iiiiiiiiiiin addiiiiiiiitioooooon, youuuuu maaay noooot cheeeeeeck ooooooutt aaaaany mooooore booooooks untiiiiil youuuuu rettuuuuurn thaaaat oooone oooor paaay fooor iiiit.”

I was barred from the library! My escape! MY SANITY!! I left the library in a blurry haze. Tears threatened but I refused to let them spill. Chihuahua lady would probably lick them from my chin as others’ despair and suffering seemed to be her sustenance and my tears her lifeblood. Let her starve.
I started looking for that book immediately, starting in my car. Everything from the cab got moved to the trunk, and everything from the trunk got moved to the cab. Nothing.

I got home and terrorized my dog with my crazed and energetic display of domesticity, misguidedly believing that cleaning would bring my missing book to light. I started with my usual reading spots. Bathroom was first on the list. I looked through the stack of books, but not with much hope. Given that the book was about hands on sewing, imagining the practical application of the subject matter while in the bathroom was just too brutal.
Next was my reading chair, a green striped behemoth of a chair that my mother-in-law once referred to as “Dr. Seuss’s Throne”. I chose to take it as a compliment. It wasn’t there or in the cushions of the couch or in my sewing corner. It wasn’t at my work desk, in the kitchen or mixed in with my husband’s video games. The book had ceased to be.

The next morning, I received another call from an employee saying they weren’t coming in. The absolute injustice of being called at 6 am and being fed such malarkey on top of all the other crap I’d had to deal with was too much. My brain collapsed like a star and then went super nova. My emotions boiled over and projectile launched, splattering against anyone who was in their way. Other people’s problems were as ants and I was Godzilla, crushing them beneath my clawed feet and breathing fire on their stupidity.

I started throwing things to alleviate excess agitation, as I seemed to have an abundance of it, and it didn’t stop when I got to my car. I tossed the contents like a salad. Looking in through the windows must have been like looking at a blender. I was a whirling dervish and everything else was helplessly sucked into my vortex.
Finally I exhausted myself and collapsed against the steering wheel sobbing. Papers floated down around me, released from my frenetic energy.  One landed on my shoulder and I jerked away from it, brushing it off. It landed on the floor. Next to a book.    The. Book.

 I stared at the book on the floor. Apparently my strenuous efforts to sake the car apart had dislodged it from beneath the seat. I hesitantly reached for it, fearing I was hallucinating. I picked it up and all of my stress and anxiety evaporated. It was like finding the Holy Grail. Nothing else mattered, all of my problems were solved, and I would never have to worry again because I had found my missing library book.
I drove to work still basking in the glow of relief. It was like being reborn as a new and better person in a new and better situation. All because of this one book. Yes, I was still on my way to a terrible job, but I was on my way to a terrible job with my book that once was lost and now was found, and that made it the most valuable book on Earth.


And then I locked my keys in my car when I got to work.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Writer's Block

I’ve been having some pretty serious issues trying to come up with a blog post. It’s been what, a month and half since I last posted?

  To be honest, I’ve been purposely ignoring this whole writing nonsense. I’ve been filling my time reading. Thank God there are people out there who can stick to writing in order to actually finish a book so that I have something to read. I could never write an entire book. All of my writings together might make a nice little pamphlet…

But now my reading has taken on a vengeful edge.

 It started as me justifying my reduced output of writing with, “Eh. This book is boring. They don’t want to hear about this.”

 Then it became, “Man that book was great! Let’s not ruin the experience with a freakin’ book report.”

 Now it’s progressed to me scrunching up on my reading chair, screwing my face into a child’s pout and whining,  “But I don’t WANNA DO IT!!!! And I’m going to read this book and not write about and I’m going to ENJOY IT, JUST SEE IF I DON’T!!!”

 At that point my husband avoids eye contact and backs away slowly.
 
The problem is now I’m starting to feel guilty about not doing what I set out to do. Like when I think I’ll get up early to work out and instead oversleep by 30 minutes. Except worse ‘cause who cares about exercise, am I right?

  I decided to take some advice to jumpstart my writing from the people who actually possess patience, perseverance and discipline and I stumbled across this little gem that illustrates the crux of my problem;

“Have something to say and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret.” - Matthew Arnold

Matthew Arnold was an 18th century British poet and critic. He was very respected and admired, but I’m not sure if it’s because of his writing or his fabulous mutton chops.

  His quote made me realize the reason I’ve been having so much trouble coming up with a post recently; I haven’t had a thing to say. The books I’ve been reading have been if not great then at least adequate, none of my library books are overdue and I’ve had plenty of free time for reading.

 So since there’s been nothing unfortunate or bizarre happening in my reading life, I haven’t had anything to write about. I could have just written about how hunky dory things have been, but that would have been the most God-awful, G-rated, Mayberry read ever.
 As another great, Maxwell Anderson said;

“The story must be a conflict.”

So, I’m sorry to break it to you, but my life’s been just fine lately. So I’m basically writing this post to tell you I have nothing to write about. If I want some respect and admiration I’m going to have to grow some mutton chops.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

You're the limit

There’s a term in fishing called “Limiting Out”. It refers to catching the full amount allowed by law of any particular fish. Having been fishing on a number of occasions, I doubt anyone ever actually reaches them, so I am forced to assume that these limits are printed strictly as a comedic element in the fishing manuals, which are pretty dry reads otherwise.

Anyway, I was at the library recently and I brought my most recent pile of new finds to the check-out counter. The lady at the counter (who always makes me think of the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland because she elongates her vowels), ran my card and said,

“I’m sooooorryyy, youuuuuu seem to haaave reaaaached your limiiiit.”

This woman also has the unfortunate habit of blinking rapidly as she speaks, creating a completely contradictory effect to her slow pattern of speech. All of these things together are very distracting, so for minute I didn’t even hear what she said, imagining instead her as an excitable chihuahua whose speech has been impeded by a stroke.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Your cheeeeeeck oooout limit. Youuuuu haaaaave reached iiiiit.”

This was news to me. Sure there was a plethora of books in the backseat of my car and on the tank of my toilet, but most of those books I had only read once. The ones in the bathroom I hadn’t even finished yet, but short of resorting to medicinal inducement I’m not obliged to spend as much time in the bathroom as I do in my car.

“What is my limit?”

“Youuuuu are alloooooted 50 booooks at any oooone tiiime.” Blinkblinkblink.

I had limited out! And at 50 books! Rather than be chagrined I was elated! Surely this was a rarity! I should be in the paper! Maybe not front page, but at least under “Notable Achievements”, my name and a picture of me surrounded by all 50 of my books.
“No!” people would gasp “50 books all at once? And you tried to check out more? Inspirational.”
My visits to the library would change drastically. Red carpets and private access to an exclusive room where only the best and brightest books were held. Library staff would whisper to the other patrons “Do you know who that is? That’s Tiffany, she Limits Out!”

I would be a kind and benevolent ruler of the library. Allowing everyone access in the next 2 years or so. However long it took to finish reading all the books without having to wait for transfers or languishing on a waiting list for some despot to return a book I wanted to read.

“Aaaaand it appeaaaars a feeeew of theeeem are ooooverduuuue.”


I’ve worked out an extension program for my overdue books, but it’s only for a week. I hope my husband can hold it that long.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

I've read it to tatters

The book “Caravan” by Dorothy Gilman, is by far, one of the greatest books I’ve ever read. I found it on my mom’s bookshelf and promptly stole it outright. (I’m still not sorry.) I have read that book until the cover is cracked, the spine is boiled-noodle soft and the entire middle section, pages 37-114, have gone AWOL like renegade soldiers. I’ve started storing it in a manila envelope instead of trusting it to hold together on the bookshelf.

Dorothy Gilman in general was an incredible story teller (she died earlier this year). She came up with original and hilarious concepts, but the thing that I love about her books is the characters. Each of them is so strong, in a lot of different ways.

One is a perky, elderly woman who, fed up with geraniums and volunteering, applies for a job as a secret agent…and gets it. But instead of being kitschy and stodgy (Lookin’ at you Miss Marple), Mrs. Pollifax reveals great depths of ingenuity, humor and enormous emotion. Despite the impossible situations she finds herself in, she is incredibly human and relatable. I daresay I find myself loving her like a grandma sometimes.

But of all the Dorothy Gilman books I’ve read (14) my absolute favorite is Caravan. Following the life of a 16 year old girl in the early 1920’s, this book is about A LOT more than just growing up. The main character, Caressa, marries an older man and very quickly is whisked away to Africa with her linguistics studying husband. Very soon, she finds herself stranded in the desert, captured by native tribes, sold as a slave, pursued by bandits, even the object of affection.
This story is touching on so many levels. The things that Caressa faces are terrifying, but she accepts and deals with them with such charisma and even humor that it makes me ashamed when I get pissy over the grocery store being out of wasabi flavored seaweed wraps.
It isn’t just Caressa that I love. The entire story is rich in the history and culture of Africa and humanity in general. It’s a striking tale, spun beautifully and timed so perfectly that it seems like a poem each time I read it.

It’s become something of a routine for me. I’ll go 2 or 3 months, just boppin’ along, living life and then I’ll have the Terrible Week. The Terrible Week consists of a series of incidents ranging from slightly annoying events (flat hair) to full blown anger inducing rage-makers (flat tire). Overall it makes for a soul-shattering, energy-sapping bad week, where the only thing keeping me from a triple shotgun homicide is my daily Frappuccino.

When I get like that I head instinctively for my bookshelves. I run my finger along the familiar titles, looking very studious indeed, searching for that perfect book, a mixture of humor, adventure and romance. A reflection of my own flaws and an example of what I should strive to. An elegant, beautiful, soulful book that will calm and center me. Eventually, I stop pretending to look and reach for what I wanted all along; a tattered manila envelope holding 256 pages of the best story I’ve ever read.

In this manner, another triple shotgun homicide is avoided.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Titanic is a verb

I just read the most heinous book. Just really, really bad.

I had chosen it because it was about the Titanic. It ended up being nearly as disastrous as the ill-fated boat itself. It sank so bad it “Titanic-ed”. Boom. I just turned one of the worst maritime disasters into a verb. Too soon?
I should have been tipped off in the beginning, when there was a startling lack of contractions and an overabundance of manners from the main character; A young girl in the 3rd or 4th grade.

The main plot was something along the lines of the girl’s distant relative who died on the titanic and was now haunting the girl in an effort to solve some mystery. I stopped paying attention to the story itself about ¼ of the way through and started counting the number of snacks the characters indulged in. Seriously, every chapter at least one character would say “Hey! That big plot point you’re in the middle of? Let’s stick a pin in that and have a small but highly nutritious, low calorie snack.” I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how the line was written. This book was obsessed with reinforcing the importance of a solid meal schedule.

And speaking of reinforcing, anytime something happened and a new character came in, the whole scene would be recounted in full detail. THE. WHOLE. THING. A full 20% of the book was just a copy and paste of the opening scene being retold to different characters.

Ashamed as I am to admit it, I read the whole thing. Every boring sentence of it. It was apparent that the book was intended for a much younger audience, but I read through doggedly out of spite. Or masochism, I’m not sure which.
The fact that it was intended for a younger audience didn’t make me feel better though. 70 years ago kids were reading Little Women and Freckles in 4th grade! Not this watered down, meaningless dreck! Maybe the reason people get all the way through school without learning how to think for themselves is because they don’t have to anymore. Books have been diluted to a politically-correct, curriculum – approved, formulaic imposters of what literature used to be.

Needless to say, the best part of the book was clicking “Delete From my Device”.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

B and V

A few days ago I got an awesome package from my sister in Germany. Inside was a Betty and Veronica comic.

Oh yes.

I read those.

Really they’re a throwback to childhood. My sisters and I had hundreds of Archie books that we literally read to pieces.
Probably a great deal of my naiveté comes from those comics. In Riverdale there aren’t drugs, alcohol or sex. The sauciest thing that happens is some heavy kissing between Archie and whichever girl he’s with at any given moment. Every episode Archie bounces between his two main squeezes Betty and Veronica, and every episode there’s a huge blowout about it. But then, in the next episode everyone’s cool.

There’s either a steady stream of weed coming in or a rampant lobotomist running around Riverdale, despite its squeaky clean rep.

If you’ve never read a Betty & Veronica or Archie comic, let me fill you in on the characters:

Betty – Volunteering, honor roll, goody two shoes who is so head over heels for Archie it borders on neurotic obsession.

Veronica – Insufferable rich snob with no grip on reality who, for some reason, attends a public high school despite her father’s apparent quad-tri-double google-nair status. (Imagine Kim Kardashian if she was into Gingers.)

Archie – Red haired bumbler who somehow has snagged 2 insanely hot chicks despite his proclivity for the words “gosh” and “swell”.

Jughead – A gluttonous woman disdainer whose binge eating habits are interrupted only when he is giving Archie advice. Given his penchant for handing out philosophic advice and feverishly eating everything in sight, there’s a good chance he’s the one handing out dimebags at the end of every episode.

Reggie – A self-centered, self-obsessed chauvinist who chases Veronica but never really catches her, unless she’s using him to make Archie jealous.

I realize I’ve made them sound like the worst examples of humankind, but stuff like that sells. Just watch an episode of Seinfeld.

Anyway, my sisters and I ate those things up. When we were assigned to cleaning the bathroom we would fan out a series of comics on the tank of the toilet for any guests. We considered it just an extension of our hospitality, not realizing it advertised us as unabashed bathroom readers to our friends and family.

I’m not sure what the draw was either. The artwork was subpar at best and the jokes were Clorox clean. But every road trip was accompanied by a stack of them. I think it’s because the comics became nostalgia the moment were read them. The characters and responses were so predictable it became funny. Think Mel Brooks humor, but in cheaper paper form.

All in all, those characters had really great lives. Incredible weather, awesome teachers, an old time soda shop, even the odd adventure or two. I wouldn’t mind dropping by for a while and living there. I’d just have to visit Jughead a few times to appreciate a lot of Riverdale humor….

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Nicole's Promise

“I, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

This is the oath that my little sister took just over a year ago. It is also the oath that she will be fulfilling in 5 days when she ships out on deployment. When I first heard this oath it was at her basic training graduation and I was so proud I could hardly stand it. These were the most eloquent, powerful words I had ever heard because she was saying them.

Now they are the most difficult, damning words I’ve ever seen for the same reason: she has said them and now she will honor them.

I’ve discovered a different kind of pride in her. At first it was a nebulous sort of pride; sure I was proud of her for enlisting, but it didn’t extend to all the unknowns that come along with military life. I was just proud that she made it through basic.

Now my pride is extending to the fact that her strength runs deeper than just surviving pushups and sleep deprivation. She’s approaching this deployment with much more coolness than anyone else in our family. She’s so nonchalant about it that it’s had a sort of numbing effect on the rest of us. Sort of like “Yeah I’m deploying, and…?”  She talks about it like it’s a brief business trip she’ll be taking instead of active duty in a rather hostile country. It’s made the rest of us stop freaking out before we even get to start. (If you had met my mom you’d realize how big of a deal that is.) Instead of reaching out to everyone else for strength she seems to have an excess of her own. She’s even lending it to the rest of us.

She isn’t facing her deployment with brash over confidence, just courage. The kind of courage that doesn’t know what’s coming, but knows that it will be faced head on according to duty. She is doing this because she must, it’s as simple as that.

So I will endure knowing that my sister is very far away in possible danger for the same reason: because I must. I take too much pride in my sister’s strength to tarnish it with my fears. The original giddy pride I had for my sister is changing into something much more substantial and intense: Respect.

Read through the Airman’s Oath again and realize the meaning behind the words and promises in it and realize the kind of person it takes to agree to this oath and then uphold it. More people than just my sister have taken that oath and more than just she deserve the respect that should go hand in hand with it.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Reader's Wrist

I have trouble falling asleep. It's not uncommon for me to stay awake long enough to count down my alarm clock's set time like I'm ringing in the new year.

When I was younger, I'm sure my mom thought I had massive digestive issues, but really all those long late night bathroom sessions we me sitting on the floor reading until  I got tired enough to drop right off to sleep. Otherwise I would lay in the dark of my room with a thousand thoughts trying to be heard all at once. Growing up hasn't changed it either. If anything it's compounded the issue because now I have a job, bills, a dog ( a blog....) and a husband to think about.

Many's the time when my husband will wake up to me reading a book very, very late at night. I probably look normal, but I feel like my eyes are bulging from my skull, dry and irritated with Einstein like white hair sticking up all over my head. I usually imagine a tick involved somehow, but it manifests itself differently each time. But always I am clutching a book like I think he's going to snatch it away from me. He hasn't yet. He's probably afraid I'll bite.

I'm rapidly developing Reader's Wrist. My term for the mind boggling-ly painful condition that comes from laying on my side while holding my book upright with only the strength in my wrist. This demands that I hold my wrist at a nearly 90 degree angle away from the bed so as not to bend the pages, but also make it amenable to page turning. It should be an Olympic sport. Or at least demand its own branch of medicinal study.

Reading myself to sleep has become my version of drinking until I pass out. I can feel the relaxation creep up my spine as the dialogues in the book replace the one in my head. My head gets droopy, my movements are sloppy and my speech is slurred. My eyes burn and it becomes a physical chore to keep them raised. Finally, finally, I can slip off into empty, think-free, reading induced sleep.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Gene Stratton Porter - An author you need to acquaint yourself with

In the last week I have finished 3 Gene Stratton Porter books and started a 4th. I can't stop reading stuff from this author.
For a woman who started her professional writing career in secret (she didn't even show her husband her writings until they were published in a magazine) her books have been published in 7 languages and distributed all over the world.
Her book are primarily about the beauty and secrets of nature. She tempers that with love stories, sometimes unorthodox ones, that magnify the absolute best in humankind. The characters she's created are so pure and so tremendous that they're almost impossible. Despite the character's luminosity, they don't display an unattainable sort of sainthood. They are just regular people who choose to be respectable, kind human beings.
The only blot I found was her book "Her Father's Daughter". The story itself was wonderful, but there were so many intense and clearly racially prejudiced sermons it was almost out of touch with anything in the current world. But the determination and tenacity of the main character was so strong it creates a blueprint to reaching one's goals, making it worth the read.
I think what draws me most to these books is the fact that even though the characters seem snow white and unattainable, they are still struggling and real and they stay positive through their problems. With so many books that insist that life is terrible and always will be, it's refreshing and inspiring to find an author who recognizes that there is good in the world and shows us that it is possible to be decent too.
If you want to read a book written by a strong woman who stuck to her guns and wrote what she believed in, you want to read Gene Stratton Porter.

"To deny that wrong and pitiful things exist in life is folly, but to believe that these things are made better by promiscuous discussion at the hands of writers who fail to prove by their books that their viewpoint is either right, clean, or helpful, is close to insanity. If there is to be any error on either side in a book, then God knows it is far better that it should be upon the side of pure sentiment and high ideals than upon that of a too loose discussion of subjects which often open to a large part of the world their first knowledge of such forms of sin, profligate expenditure, and waste of life's best opportunities. There is one great beauty in idealized romance: reading it can make no one worse than he is, while it may help thousands to a cleaner life and higher inspiration than they ever before have known." - Gene Stratton Porter

Friday, January 20, 2012

The Big Flush

This may be a sensitive question given that you and I have just started this relationship and all, but I feel like this is something that everyone can relate to, in one way or another.
So;
Do you read on the toilet?
Given that the toilet is a place of relief and the deepest kind of satisfaction, it makes sense that it be used as a place of concentration. Plus, lets face it, it gets a little boring when things are, ahem, backed up.

To set your curiosity at rest I'll answer my own question. Yes; I read in the bathroom. Books, magazines, my kindle, sometimes I'm reduced to reading the backs of shampoo bottles (you've done it.). I don't know why this seems to be a taboo thing to admit, but we potty-readers are a shunned party.

My dad was totally a toilet reader. I don't think he knew that we were aware of it either. But every night before dinner he would disappear. By the closed door and absolute silence emitting from the bathroom we knew exactly what was going on in there.He always sounded completely surprised when we called him too. Like he was sitting there minding (and doing) his business and he had somehow time traveled to an hour in the future without his knowledge. We all knew to steer clear of that side of the house for a while after one of those sessions.
I don't see what the big deal is. My husband says it's gross, but I told him it isn't any grosser that what he's already doing in there. I get some of my best reading done there. I'm relaxed, it's quiet and interruption free. People might say you get the same qualities from a library, but just try and relieve yourself at a library and see how that goes.

So I say read on potty-readers! Read until your legs are asleep and people forget that you're even home. Wear the red ring around your butt as a badge of honor! Install a cushiony seat and never leave the bathroom again!

Monday, January 16, 2012

Martin Luther King Jr. "I have a dream"

This is an important thing for your to read on today of all days. My guess is that most people have never heard or read the whole thing, just the last 16 stanzas. Change that.


I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But 100 years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men -- yes, black men as well as white men -- would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check that has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and security of justice. We have also come to his hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. 1963 is not an end but a beginning. Those who hoped that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. ****

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating "for whites only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back toGeorgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today my friends -- so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day, this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning "My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my father's died, land of the Pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring!"

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado. Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi -- from every mountainside.

Let freedom ring. And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring -- when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children -- black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics -- will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Hunger Games 2 and 3

I finished the series. Then I read it again. I really struggled with the review for this one because I wanted to like the series so bad, but something held me back from saying I do. Plus I got a little lazy and didn't want to write.

At the very least, I appreciated the name of the trilogy. The Hunger Games. There are times when the reader is left salivating after more of the book, but there are also deeper and baser themes of raw, consuming, needy hunger. Unfortunately, the ending leaves me with the empty feeling of a hunger not sated.

Catching Fire

In Catching Fire, the second book, Katniss and Peeta find themselves to be the faces of a budding rebellion in the Districts. With the Capitol's threat of their families' lives, they must tour the country trying to quell these uprisings, but they are unsuccessful. So, be it a result of this failure, or pure accident, they are both sent back to the arena in a game against the Victors from all the Districts.

This Hunger Game, a reminder that "...even the strongest among you may not survive..."is a strain on Katniss's already precarious grip on her life. She has been feigning her love for Peeta to retain the public's favor, but is still fiddling with feelings of love for Gale, he best friend. Unfortunately there is so little of Gale in this book and even less of him in the first, that it isn't clear why Katniss feels like she loves him, We haven however, had time, reason and opportunity to root for Peeta, who despite his awareness of Katniss's indecision, still loves her and still works to protect her always.

Unfortunately parts of this book are a tedious re run of the first one. We are launched into a second round of preparation, training and waiting for the games to begin. We do get introduced to a few new and interesting characters though. All of which are Victors from other years who will be joining Katniss and Peeta in the arena, making this year particularly deadly with a  combination of experienced tributes and dangerous surprises that the game makers have planned.

There's a terrible lot of angst on the part of Katniss as Peeta and the other candidates get themselves wounded and killed off to protect her. The about face of the contestants helping Katniss rather than trying to kill each other off is curious considering the object of the games. This obvious shift tips us off that something different is happening this year.

The end of the book is a little expected since it's really the only explanation for the way the characters have been acting and the prior events of the series. I have to say the only reason that I read on to the third book is because the second one ends with such an obviously unfinished story. All in all, the second book struck me as the necessary and slow moving link to the third book.


Mockingjay


The third and decidedly final Hunger Games book is Mockingjay. We've reached the ending where the groundwork for the real themes of this series finally develop themselves.

The final book finds Katniss working with the rebels in the long underground (and previously assumed destroyed) District 13. Peeta has been taken by the Capitol and Katniss is the reluctant figurehead to the now full-fledged rebellion. She is still in recovery when she begins to visit other districts and encourage them or even lend a hand in the fighting. Through all of this she is pining for Peeta, who is shown on televised broadcasts deteriorating under torture.

It takes a while for the action to get going in this book. Finally about halfway through a rescue mission is mounted for Peeta. It's successful in that they rescue him, but the Capitol has altered his memories making him perceive Katniss as a threat. So Peeta is lost to Katniss, even though he is in the next room.

The story line in this final book was pretty good. There were a few false starts and it dragged in places. Katniss is reluctant to do just about anything and we're still playing around with that weird Gale/Peeta love conflict. The presented relationship with Gale is so under developed that it leaves the reader wondering why she's bothering with him at all.

But Gale's isn't the only malnourished relationship. Prim, the sister that Katniss was willing to sacrifice herself for, makes very few appearances in this, or any of the other books. She's always tucked away working with their mother. All in all, we've spent more time with Katniss's stylists than with her sister. Through the whole series there are very few moments that make us feel attached to this character, which backfires and makes a major event in the series much less of an impact than it should be.

However, the overall theme of games is entrenched through the whole series, which I seriously appreciated. The arena has extended past an annual televised event. It's now a full time occupation that every person is involved in. The contenders for this final Hunger Games are more than just the rebels and the Capitol. It ranges to a series of showdowns between individuals who battle for control. The weapons they use are just as devastating as any in the arena and the strategies are aimed at the same goal: To be the Victor.

The motivation of these games is the same as it's ever been: Hunger. Hunger for justice, hunger for vengeance, hunger for control, hunger for relieve, and even Katniss's hunger for Peeta. Gale boils down the theme of the series; "She's choose whichever on of us she can't survive without." Survival and choices are dictated by the strength of hunger. The games the districts are playing now are as much about these two things as they every where in the arena. Survival goes hand in hand with hunger. It always has.

I call the ending of this series anticlimactic because the lead character is left mourning for things we never related to. There are aspects of a happy and victorious ending, but there are undertones of melancholy that don't feel justified. So it makes the payoff of the happy parts much less poignant.

All in all the series is worth reading. Exciting and action packed for the most part and downright bloody at times. A good series that, believe it or not, I actually think will make a better trilogy of movies than books.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Hunger Games

So last night I read the first book in the Hunger Games Series, by Suzanne Collins. It was absorbing definitely. I literally read 6 hours straight.
The feel of the book reminded me of Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, while the concept itself harkens the Running Man by Stephen King. Don't get the wrong idea, there wasn't a whiff of plagarism, it was an excellent and original story only reflecting  the best and most terrifying themes of those two books.
Set far into the future atop the land that once was named North America, the Capitol is in grim control of its 12 outer lying districts. There was once 13 but the final one was obliterated when the districts rose against the Capitol in civil war. Now, to maintain complete control and remind the poor providences of their utter defeat and humiliation, the Capitol demands annual tributes, in the form of children aged 12 to 18. These tributes are sent to an arena and made to kill one another off down to the last person standing, who is then emulated at a hero, and in charge of training next year's tributes.
Katniss, the main character is not supposed to be a Tribute, she has volunteered to take her very young sister's spot. She is a huntress for her family so her skill with a bow and arrow make her deadly, while her ability to scavenge for roots and other edibles make her a survivor. Despite this, Katniss knows she doesn't stand a chance against the other district's Tributes, who have been reared with a Sparten like mentality that to die fighting is to die with honor. The only help she will get in the arena, although she often doesn't know it, is from the second District 12 Tribute, Peeta. Peeta makes no secret of the fact that he's been in love with Katniss for years and has always gone out of his way to help her, which doesn't stop now.
This book is gruesome and terrifying. These are kids pitted against one another gladiator style while it is televised to cheering crowds who inanely see it as sport. The slaughter extends past the physical and into the emotional as even the very young and innocent are picked off in all manner of gory deaths. The Capitol fights dirty, changing the rules and inventing new ways to drive up viewer ratings and enflame desperation in the remaining Tributes.
To me this book felt a little fast paced to the point of rushing the story, but then again it's only the first installment in  a series. The story is obviously about much more than just survival and I predict another huge uprising of the Districts. By the end you are completely aware that winning the games is paltry. Death would really be the best way out, while living would demand that you constantly replay the games every single day over and over in your head. The system is broken and a fire of anarchy is in Katniss.

Excellent read and I will be getting the others soon.

There. I wrote about a book. I earned the right to read another.

Friday, January 6, 2012

Resolution or Restitution?

I don't like blogs.
 And I'm a little incredulous that anyone will actually read something that is written by me, about me and the things I do. I don't read about you and the things you do.

I guess I don't really mind blogs in general, but I don't relish the idea of being committed to one myself. Theres daily updates, essays and the endless demand for fresh ideas. Why sign up for that? ( Insert snarky Facebook comparison here)

The answer is that as much as I dislike writing, I am fanatical about reading. A blog is a valid, semi-easy, FREE excuse to read all the time and then talk about it. If I could throw sushi and Disneyland into that mix somehow I'd be set.
So there it is. a blog not only about book reviews, but everything reading. There will be reviews, book lists, reading goals and discussion. All of this sounds great and makes me look very studious indeed when really I'm being sneaky about feeding a really terrible addiction.

Really, it's bad. The dog goes unwalked, my husband unfed and even "calls of nature" unanswered. I'll sit in agony vaguely wondering why I can't empty my bladder by remote control so I can finish the chapter I'm on.

The great love that I have for reading is matched only by the great dislike I harbor for writing. I find it tedious and treacherous, filled with pitfalls like grammar and spelling.
To check the growth of my increasing book shelves, I have resolved to write about the books I read over the course of a year. It seems appropriate and self fulfilling that the cost of reading my beloved books be writing about them, since writing is obviously what brought them here in the first place. Experiencing the agonies of the labor will make the value of the book more poignant.

So just like in school when fun things required an educational penance, this year I will atone for my copious reading by writing about it.

Happy reading. At least one of us gets to have fun.


P.S - It took me all day and several drafts just to write this. Which means I only got to read 6 chapters in my book.