friday

Good things:

- Today, dozens of adorable elementary students came in to learn about conservation during Earth Week festivities. In our pod, there were erosion displays hosted by a few of my own students--water runoff and wind erosion complete with dirt and grass and trees and leaves, all blowing about in the pod, reconstructed between each migrating group.

- Finding a website where you can search for berry picking farms. In just a month, we'll be able to take advantage of our first CSA (half share) membership. I am thrilled at the idea of eating something crisp and true. Freshness. Ryan just finished In Defense of Food, and last time we went grocery shopping, and he told me about how we ought to shop from the outer rim of the grocery store as everything else as you draw to the center becomes more and more processed. I think we do a fairly good job, though I have the naughty habit of letting some things rot (asparagus, strawberries) before I think to eat them. Bananas are eaten immediately; they are readily available. Blueberries get shuffled to the back. Both are glorious when fresh.

- It is Friday, and I am grateful. The weeks are jumbled lately. Six weeks left to the school year (not that I'm counting), and every day closer to the weekend is a favorite. I look forward to sleeping in a little tomorrow, but not too much: I have plans for that rascally yard of ours.

- Finding Beth on Flickr. She's a friend from high school (of the herd variety I've mentioned before), and is talented on many levels, including artistic; I have a few bits and pieces of hers tucked away, actually. I especially love this photo and this one.

- Other simple beauties found on Flickr:


1. aging, 2. seedlings, 3. 2, 4. wednesday evening, 5. Hayley Three, 6. Knit, 7. sink, 8. new loaf, 9. Untitled, 10. bulbs, 11. day 11 of 17 (catching up), 12. uprooted

- Molly Peacock's Cornucopia. Donald Hall's Without. Cate Marvin's Fragment on the Head of a Queen. Elizabeth Alexander's American Sublime.

- Listening to the sounds of an empty classroom and writing poetry. Actually seeing the end of the grading tunnel. Actually feeling motivated to grade--this, my friends, is a gift. I shunned grading for so long, would do it oh so grudgingly and while I must admit, I am still not enamored of the piles of essays I must plod through, I will say I do so without wanting to gouge my eyeballs out with a plastic spoon. Indeed, this is how much I hated grading last week. And the week before. And the... well, you know.

- The weather. The crashing thunderstorms, the foggy mist. I heard on the radio we might get up to six inches of snow in northern Minnesota. How can that be? Our grass is green here and in the same state, snow is possibly landing on the ground.

- Two camping trips coming up: Afton with my husband in May, and Jay Cooke with our friends Lane and Angie and Chad in June. Possibly July with Emily and her husband Pat? I am thinking I might add something to that life list (so I must hurry to get one off): camping in every state park in Minnesota at least once.

What about you? What are some of the good things surrounding you this wet weekend?

speaking too soon

It appears my glorying in the evidence of spring may have been a bit premature. Today, winds press against the house, and when our dogs whine to be let out I ask, Do you really have to go, badly? And they return, dripping with murk from the yard--wet pawprints with globs of mud and bits of dry grass. It is messy outdoors, sleety rain, shifting colder, into the threat of snow. Watching an interactive weather map, I see clouds of rain and snow breathing over the Midwest, colored green and gray and white, shifting, smoothing itself over the landscape. We had no snowstorms of substance in our little river town, but it's been relentless nonetheless; snowfalls frequent and small, covering over the salt studded layer before it.

This week I made the official decision not to teach high school part time while pursuing my MFA at the University of Minnesota. I thought I could do it, especially if it were just one class a day, and I'd even gotten approval from the program director to TA classes later in the day, but she expressed a deep rooted concern that it would eat into my writing time. I sincerely doubted I would rise early enough to write as the school buses filled the world, but I realize it's not about that one hour each morning, the mere five hours a week--and it's not even about the planning or the grading, since so much of that I've learned to steam line, especially if I'm teaching a class I've taught before (variation on a theme). It's about the energy it requires to be a good teacher and the energy it would take to approach college courses--both as an instructor and as a student. I need to dedicate myself to this; it's the only chance I'll have.

Until then, I will enjoy the quiet of my life, marvel at the energy of my high school students, and read books for pleasure in the waning light of the evening. Currently: Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I wanted to read along with these lovely ladies, and thus far, I am glad. As I've already mentioned, I am reading books I can slide out of my life and into the world without regret or suspicion of re-reading, so much of what I've been reading has been disappointing, in a sense. I'm ready to marvel at a book whose author has a gift for language, for pacing, for character development. How about you: read anything good lately?

the thinly wrapped package

It's Not You, It's Your Books: Article on New York Times about dating and books.

I used to give boys I dated a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. It was successful, to some extent, though there was one boy who stared at me dumbly and said, "I can't read." (Or was it, I don't read? There was a romantic savior-aspect in the illiterate dating the literature-infatuated. Nonetheless, it didn't last.)

I gave Ryan a copy of The Bell Jar. This was an ultimate sort of test he passed--after all, it's more of a cultish classic with young women as opposed to befuddled young men. But he read it, claimed to like it, though I think the Ani Difranco mix tape won him over much more.

If I were to gaze at my husband's nightstand and judge him solely for its contents (significantly frightening dust bunnies, antiquated alarm clock, and usually an escape novel or two), we would not be together now.

I'm of the opinion that it probably doesn't entirely matter that tastes do not converge. I wish we could discuss a good film after watching it, but I do love his smile, I love the way we linger after dinner at the table and talk about things. I don't mind that he will read a poem and smile blankly afterwards.

He'll come with me to a Shakespeare Festival. On Saturday, he's attending a book release party with me. Good company. What more could a gal want?

#11

Alaska called and accepted me into their low-res program. Nice to be able to say, "I was accepted into over half the programs I applied to."

And keep that preposition at the end.

Currently reading: Corelli's Mandolin and The First Indian on the Moon. Vermont College has this lovely poetry reading list, and I am ashamed of how few of those books I've read, so I printed it out and am highlighting as I go. I'm in the A's--Ai, Alexie, Ashbery, Atwood.

My tally (because I always forget one):
U of MN, FSU, Emerson, Bennington, Vermont College, Pacific University, Antioch, Stonecoast, New England College, Alaska, Goddard.

least favorite

What kind of reader are you? Are you the sort that will discard a book if you aren't enjoying it? Or do you plow through to the end?

How do you pick your books? The ones you own? Is there a difference between that and the ones you get from the library? Are you picky about how your books must feel in your hands?

I have always been the kind of reader who rarely gives up on a book.

Those I set down partway through: Moby Dick, which I promise myself I will one day start again. The Name of the Rose, which began to cease making sense as my mind drifted so many times while reading it; I gave up halfway through and several months later, gave it another go, making it a much smoother read, though not quite as good as I had hoped (this is what happens when you see your professor-father reading and expect all that he reads is quality). Will in the World, which I started on our honeymoon and will get back to. Also Poetic Closure, from November, but I think my mind needs to be clear, ready to take on more complicated ideas to successfully read this one.

I'm also still reading The Peppered Moth, which I started yesterday.

Current IRP rankings: me, 4883 and student, 5069.

I've been reading The Peppered Moth in fits and starts, but I can't find a hook, can't find a way to get into the book. This doesn't mean it's a bad book, but I absolutely cannot seem to connect to the plot, the characters, the setting, anything. I want to fling it across the room and start something else, but that nagging I-cannot-really-quit-a-book habit of mine is getting in the way.

What are your least favorite books you have seen all the way through? What about the ones you abandoned? Have you picked anything up again that was better the second time around?

reading race

Do you remember Reading Rainbow? Oh, I loved, loved that show--so magical. And Book It? I had a round purple pin with tiny yellow stars, and I'd get a personal pan pizza for every so-many books. We would writer our names and the number of books we'd read on a slip of paper, tie it to a balloon and release it into the wild. My mother baked me book-shaped cakes to congratulate me on reading a hundred or so books for the project.

I've been keeping a list in a notebook of all the books I've read for many years now. (I can tell you 2003 and 2004 were my best years for reading--about 150--and since I've started full time teaching, it generally is around 80, a number I am trying to break for 2008.) And the notebook list makes its way onto Good Reads, for the most part.

Now, I've received a new challenge. Each quarter, my students read 500 pages (at my old school it was 600) of prose for an independent reading project. I usually keep track of my own pages and put them up on the board. I have been proud of mine thus far (4883), though it makes sense this is the highest they've been since I'm no longer involved in the drama program. I've recently had a student challenge me, and she's at 4666; her name and numbers have gone up on the board too.

Between now and a week from Friday, I'm going to be reading furiously. I told her my goal was 6000 by the end of the quarter; she's agreed to the same.

Currently: The Peppered Moth by Margaret Drabble, a put-down-able book, which isn't making matters easier, especially since I'm trying to read a book a day this week. Whew.

The Ghost Orchid

Book clubbers: Kelly :: Chris :: Michelle :: Angie

The rules for picking are as follows: we rotate, and the person who picks the book also hosts the gathering.

Our first pick was The Year of Yes, but we all spent so much time between the actual reading and the meeting that we didn't discuss as much as we snacked, exchanged knitting tips, and were fascinated by Chris's yellow and gray bird.

Our second pick was The Ghost Orchid. I'm going to order a set of these and bring them along in hopes of boosting book-related conversation.

I read Goodman's The Lake of Dead Languages after being compelled at the concept, but was miserable reading it--the convoluted plot, the desire to edit the writing. The Ghost Orchid was a bit better, in that I asked myself, "What is this book trying to accomplish?" No, not a literary book by any means, but still one that is a bit more interesting than your average mass market paperback. This story involves a haunted artists' retreat, just the sort of environment I day dream about on these winter afternoons and is a frame tale, but one that ping pongs in narrative by chapter. Goodman does a better job keeping the reader curious about the next venture, the plot a bit thicker, which is good for this sort of book.

Now reading: Absolute Friends by John le Carre. Still working on emptying a bookcase. It is slow going, when you plan to read much of what you are pushing out. I've been able to pass along books to girl friends who've come over recently, and I am thankful for that. I'd rather know the books will be read as opposed to donated in a box that is just as likely to be recycled.

Some websites of interest involving passing along books (beyond the library): bookcrossing, book mooch, and paperback swap.

more of the same; waiting for spring

Today: more of the same. Still that brown-edged ice piles that once was winter snow. I am disappointed that we never truly had a snow storm, nothing that felt like freedom, like me leaping in piles with my sneakers. Nothing that kept anyone home for a day, bundled in blankets, shoveling the sidewalk in shifts. And now we're nearing mid-March, and I'm afraid this winter, it just won't happen. We maintained snow from just before the holidays, no bare ground, but we weren't walloped like Wisconsin, our baleful neighbor.

Currently reading: Fanny by Erica Jong. I read Fear of Flying too late, without guidance to appreciate it, and passed it along short thereafter. Groundbreaking then, it wasn't surprising to me, this Women's Studies minor, this girl who loved her GLBT Lit classes, this girl whose favorite poet is the visceral Sharon Olds. But I can appreciate what she's trying to do, can admire the rollicking adventure of her heroine. I can also brace myself as she capitalizes all the nouns in some kind of farce of 18th century Literature, though when she gets to listing, my eyes start to swim a bit.

Currently dreaming: A few nights ago, I dreamed I had my heart removed during surgery. I could get up, walk around, with an empty chest cavity, and though I felt woozy, I knew I had some time before it needed to be replaced. I was in some kind of gray skyscraper, and my principal and my mother were to help me back from the lobby to the operating room, but there was some distraction, and a low level panic began to rise up, flush my cheeks.

My spring soundtrack: Regina Spektor. I don't know why, but last spring, just as the snow melted, just as the world became nubby trees and bulbs pushing up through loam, I would listen to her CD over and over again, hopeful for the future. I also think so much about good educational memories: high school English classes, workshopping in college, that first semester at the U of MN and how good it was and how free I felt, independent of that safe apparatus that is family and childhood friends. There's something about her songs that reminds me of reading. I wish I could explain, but I think of those summer reading lists, of thick Russian novels, of reading belly down in the grass, of the sun shining on the page.

bookbinding for beginners

Last night was the first bookbinding class, and while I felt a bit like I was in high school art class again, I really did love it. So much that I was making "books" out of extra construction paper in the corner of my classroom while my students worked on their introduction to The Odyssey notes. Springy little accordion books. And I learned about the grain of paper, similar to the grain of fabric, the way in which to orient your book (though I probably mucked it up a bit) in order to have the best turn of page, the least abuse to the decorative papers, etc.

I found the most recent cover of The New Yorker, which arrived yesterday afternoon, most fitting for this new adventure--the complete production of a book, all the way to its destruction. It seems so brief, but in truth, the whole process is frustratingly long (at least, those first five panels). And only one owner, implying the rapidity of its disgrace.

words

There are post-its around my computer, and every time I find a word I love, I write it down.

plume :: window pane :: alloy :: tatter :: hull :: unfurl :: lichen :: socketed :: shushing :: swill :: bread :: winnow :: silt :: heron

A blog I discovered today and am wondering where it has been all this time: materials for a time machine.

I am thinking more about writing, about the process, about community. I am thinking about alternatives to MFA programs, or complimentary work, about the way in which I can turn myself on as a writer, a light switch, when I am in a room full of writing, when an instructor tells me to go.

I am thinking about the places where I leave evidence of myself--the post-its and marginalia, the evidence of reading--the community of reading and readers.

Active Reading

Three of my favorite nearby girls and I are getting together to form a book club. (Angie, when you move to the Twin Cities area, do you want to join?) I've never been in a book club before; I always thought they were an excuse to get together and gossip.

Perhaps this is so. I enjoy the company of these ladies so much; it will be a nice reason to have regular get togethers.

But my hope is to talk about books, about reading with some intelligent companions as well. I love talking about literature with my Brit Lit class and my colleagues, but it's different when there isn't the professional aura surrounding... different when there isn't the pressure of formal discussion, of grades, of reading a "smart book" in the hallway as kids are passing. (Would it be such a crime to read an escape novel? Once in a while I have... Heck, we're human.)

Chris, Michelle, Kelly, and I will gather in a few weeks to discuss The Year of Yes by Maria Dahvana Headley, selected by Miss Chris. Each month, we'll rotate--pick a book, pick a location, run the discussion--I'm glad someone else stepped up. :) It's a lot of pressure to dictate what other people read.

Irony: I pick out stories for students to read all the time.

Response: Often it's part of the curriculum. But it's different picking something you want to teach. It's another thing to pick something you think might enrich the lives of friends.

Something fun: I found these cards I might order from a favorite bookstore Husband's mother initially pointed out.

Something else fun: Saint Paul Library's 125 Top Books of the Past 125 Years.

Next school year is a big question mark for me. It could be called wonderful or frightening. I know there was a time when I might have panicked at the timeline of my current position at Local High School, the expiration that is quickly approaching. There has been discussion of shifting at this school, and I have a feeling there will be openings in the next few years, perhaps ones in which I can easily slip into once the time is right. And I have my list of applications I've been working through for graduate school.

But there are things I do know for certain: there are ways we can always continue learning, if we choose. I am lucky, with Intermedia, with The Loft, with the Anderson Center. I am lucky, with good friends who teach me new things all of the time.

book reviews: when you need to escape but love literature

This autumn, my reading exploits have varied, as always, but there is a returning point: William Shakespeare. Every season, a new poet, or maybe simply a new author, but my life, divided into three month skirmishes, I will invest myself in as much reading as sanely possible, exploring the intricacies of an author--their life, their words, their criticism.

And escaping with them as well. There are two books represented here: Will by Grace Tiffany, a novelization of his life, and Interred With Their Bones, a mystery whose victims mimic the deaths of famous Shakespeare characters and whose protagonist is speeding about the globe in search of Cardenio, a much referenced "Lost Play" of Shakespeare (I believe Jasper Fforde also utilizes this mythic production in his Thursday Next series, another lovely little escape gem involving much of the literary canon).

Both reads were fine--I enjoyed them. Will on the honeymoon, with the vast mountains of Alaska at the horizon, and the just-completed Interred With Their Bones, written by a Shakespeare scholar and Harvard professor.

I am still reading Will in the World, which is beautifully written, but needs weekend attention. Then, I begin re-reading the plays and sonnets.

dreams and reading

This morning I woke up from a strange dream: a student of mine was driving me to school every day, and he said, "Let's stop at my house. We'll make breakfast, lunch, and dinner." We pulled into a pink house with a pink detached garage. "Why?" I asked. He said, "Every morning you are always burping. I think you need to have something decent to eat." I told the student, "That's because every morning I have language for breakfast. It's delicious." I grinned, and he took me inside to make spaghetti-o's, which we put into sandwich bags to eat later.

I go through these phases where I become completely obsessed with something, but it generally runs in cycles: reading (and nothing but) and mostly contemporary literature, living the writing life and leaving little room for anything else, devouring and exploring and studying canonical literature (and supplementing that with DVDs and CDs to listen to in the car), and not as often, there are periods where I read escape fiction and knit in front of the television.

Speaking of television, Husband and I are watching a series called Planet Earth done by the BBC. We're borrowing it from the library, and it's wonderful. I was unbearably sad yesterday, trying to pull myself out of the muck, reading on the sofa, our dogs leaping around, licking at our hands, and the sight of such beauty in nature (it all started with the polar bears, which I thought had similar appeal to Penelope) really brought me back into myself. (The swing of the slow pendulum.)

We picked out animals that our pets would be, if they could be wild. Our golden retriever Penelope is like a gazelle, an antelope, an impala--she is wispy thin and graceful when she is running (though not always when she is aiming for something). She moves unbelievably fast and has that streaky brown look. Our black lab mix Zephyr is like a hippo, I think, though Husband said this was mean. He's stout, thick barreled. (My parents' pure lab, Lanie, always reminded me of a pot bellied pig. Zephyr isn't quite like that though.) He's sweet tempered, but like a hippo, he can surprise you. Gatsby, our Siamese mutt of a cat, has always been a monkey, to me, one much like that little yellow monkey you always see in the zoo (squirrel monkey?). And Libby, our orange tabby, reminded us of the leopard in the film, which seems unoriginal, but he isn't a lion (like our friends' cat Simon) and he really is incredibly big-cat like, glaring, mean (he reminds us of a snake when he bites, twisting his head and rapidly nipping you)--to most people, that is. He is a sweet snuggler with me and Husband, but he is definitely not friendly to others!

~*~

What I mean to say is this: I had been writing furiously for quite some time (and see, this swing often gets me into trouble: when I am writing furiously, I am looking forward to an MFA program, and when I am reading furiously, I am thinking I'd prefer an MA first), and now I am back into the hermit life of a reader. I daydream about getting home, curling up on the sofa, and reading in the waning afternoon light.

I spend my study hall hour adding books to my Good Reads page. (Angie, you really should join. So should you, Chris.) I love the idea of a community of readers, and keeping these books lined up on a virtual shelf. I hope this will motivate me to find more time for reading and writing--for finding that space for myself.

Today: a good friend has his photograph in the local paper from the program in which Husband graduated.

This afternoon: doctor's appointment (I had been so pleased to not have been since July, but I have two appointments coming up--so it begins again). Maybe a purchase of a new bookcase; we are beginning to be overrun by stacks again.

Tomorrow evening: The first official night of the mentorship. Intermedia Arts--this time, I will find it with no trouble, knowing the detours, the traffic, the construction. I hope to stop at MN Center for the Book Arts beforehand. I love driving in to the city. I love the city at night, the way the lights glow.

Review: Truth & Beauty

A few weeks ago, surrounded by blankets and spent Kleenex, I read Autobiography of a Face.

This is the famed MEA break weekend--the one in which teachers and students leap about in joy with two extra days tacked on to the weekend. We are supposed to be conferencing in the Twin Cities, picking up samples and looking at teaching manuals, but really, most of us are taking advantage: be it hiking up north (my principal), catching up on graduate work (my dear Emily), or reading & traveling (me!), we are most certainly not thinking about teaching or school or anything of the sort.

We are surrounded with blankets and reading books like candy. This is my intent.

I finished Truth and Beauty in nearly one sitting--not because it was an incredible page turner but because I was that hungry to read. I have the memory of gnat on a good day, so I decided reading this shortly after the Grealy book would be wise; I might forget the voice of the autobiography, the story that didn't have a triumphant ending.

Not this version of the tale, anyway. I mentioned before that Lucy Grealy was a poet who, at the age of nine, had a third of her jaw removed due to cancer and chemotherapy took much else--development, her teeth, etc. She met Ann Patchett in college; Patchett's memoir is a story of their friendship. (I must mention right now that I loved her novel Bel Canto and have saved her other books to insert into really awful reading sprees... sometimes I pick up the worst books on a whim.)

This book was fine, written much better than Grealy's book, though it's not fair to compare them. They were telling very different stories, and Patchett clearly is more comfortable and confident in the prose voice. Theirs was a shocking friendship, one in which the dynamic was off kilter, sometimes uncomfortably so. Grealy was needy and Patchett would give in to that need. And I wanted to love Grealy more when I read Patchett's book, but I wasn't entirely convinced that I would love her, not through this book's lens.

Of course, she wrote the book in the short years after her best friend's death. I could not imagine facing such a traumatic event in this way when it felt so immediate.

All in all, a fine book. If you are to read anything by Patchett, I would go with her novels, but this book can certainly fit a need for certain people facing certain kinds of grief. Or friendship. After I read it, I sat down and wrote a letter to my best friend, missing her.

The website blurb:

"The author of Bel Canto -- winner of the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Orange Prize and long-running New York Times bestseller -- turns to nonfiction in a moving chronicle of her decades-long friendship with the critically acclaimed and recently deceased author, Lucy Grealy.

What happens when the person who is your family is someone you aren't bound to by blood? What happens when that person is not your lover, but your best friend? In her frank and startlingly intimate first work of nonfiction, Truth & Beauty, Ann Patchett shines light on the little-explored world of women's friendships and shows us what it means to stand together.

Ann Patchett and Lucy Grealy met in college in 1981, and after enrolling in the Iowa Writer's Workshop began a friendship that would be as defining to both of their lives as their work. In her critically acclaimed memoir, Autobiography of a Face, Lucy Grealy wrote about the first half of her life. In Truth & Beauty, the story isn't Lucy's life or Ann's life but the parts of their lives they shared together. This is a portrait of unwavering commitment that spans 20 years, from the long cold winters of the Midwest to surgical wards to book parties in New York. Through love, fame, drugs and despair, this is what it means to be part of two lives that are intertwined.

This is a tender, brutal book about loving the person we cannot save. It is about loyalty and about being lifted up by the sheer effervescence of someone who knew how to live life to the fullest."

Review: Autobiography of a Face

It's been a quiet weekend--Saturday and Sunday--one spent in bed, surrounded by spent Kleenex. I am beginning to feel like a faucet; I cannot think straight either. So I read and relax and hope energy returns for Monday because Francisco Aragon, a poet on a residency at the Anderson Center, is coming into my ALC class and I don't want any sick days anyway. I know I won't be a champion or win a trophy if I never call in sick this school year, but I want this, I want to be there each day, to make each day meaningful.

One of the books I've recently finished is Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy. I've since requested the Ann Patchett book at the library--the one which puts Grealy in a different light, through a different lens.

This was the story of a woman who had cancer at the age of nine, had surgery and chemotherapy, which removed a third of her jaw, and facing reconstructive surgery after reconstructive surgery. It is told in precise prose, without a great deal of sentimentality or "Poor me," but instead looks at the meaning of beauty and the ways in which we regard ourselves in the mirror.

Next: Chelsea Whistle by the author of Valencia, which I read for my Queer Lit course and thoroughly enjoyed the style, bumping up against your conscious. I think this is a good read after the Ani Difranco concert--the sort of riot of words and visceral language pushing up from the page, asking no forgiveness.

I also wanted to add something about the concert: Ani is, of course, a storyteller, and I love that she'll chat with the audience between songs. She's recently become a mother, and she said, "Well, I've always had a 'tude with Christianity, but now... well, I just think it's interesting that they call the Father the creator, which is bullshit."

HP7

Well, all, I have survived the seven books of Harry Potter, and I must say, my fiance and his mother certainly beat me as far as length of "fanship" goes... she, in fact, is a young adult book lover, which means she purchased the books as they first came out. It was The Fiance who convinced me (standing in the aisles of a classy used book store, me with my arms full of Proust and poetry, telling me I ought to read what I amounted to an Oprah book club craze) to finally delve in myself, just before the fourth installment was released.

I'm glad I finally gave in.

I worked at a bookstore during the release of Goblet of Fire, Order of the Phoenix, and I worked the release party with Kelly during The Half Blood Prince (where I have a photograph of Kelly hugging a unicorn). Like Emily was saying in her Potter post, we can now say we've survived and been a part of the Harry Potter craze. It's over now, in a sense, though the films will leave lingering excitement, but I don't know if we will ever see a series of books as much anticipated and as much celebrated as these... it will be a while, certainly, if ever in our lifetimes. I have fond memories of debating future plot lines with fellow booksellers behind the information desk--did Dumbledore really [blank]? Is Snape really evil? Will Harry die in the end? We talked odds, evidence, read excerpts, and spoke of how Joseph Campbell might be pleased at these archetypes and mythological allusions are living on in new generations.

There is some relief to not have experienced the sweaty, sardines-in-a-tin, dragging-with-boredom feeling of waiting for the release to occur, trying to avoid the smear of make-up from all the wee ones. Kelly and Michelle, however, opted to be patrons this year, and their pictures express exactly how I felt as a bookseller that night, many years ago (which, by the way, happened to be The Fiance and my six year anniversary).

I won't ruin a thing, since some are somehow even slower at finishing than I, but I will say this: some of the major debates, I chose correctly on, which pleases me, because I feel it would have been cheap, too easy, not fitting if those things would have happened otherwise. I will admit to a few things: I cried during one particular chapter towards the end and I hated the epilogue (that felt formulaic and cheap).

Other books I've read recently:

The Conscious Bride: This was lent to me by Emily and came in handy as reading material while I stayed at my parents' house, teaching gifted kids about theatre, and my mother, working on that dress above me, the sewing machine whirring me to sleep. I think it re-established a sense of OK-ness about The Fiance--how we are indeed ready to get married, how we're in a very good place for it, and how many of those transitions shouldn't be too terribly difficult on anyone--us, our parents, our friends. I think being together for eight years and owning a house together for two will do that to a couple--stabilize and establish them. My friend Nikki told me of her confidence in our match, which meant a lot, and recently, some of my bridesmaids showered our house with a thousand paper cranes for luck.

Plainwater by Anne Carson. I don't want to write about this one right now as I am finishing The Autobiography of Red and want to write about both at the same time. Just know that this slim-but-hefty volume has been on my mind.

Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer. Many have read his Into the Wild, and this reads much like it--zippy quick, fascinating, and disturbing. It is his account of the Mount Everest disaster, which lost so many people, and also includes some startling tales of survival. I passed it on to Chris as I finished, but I thought this was a good read, and kept me grateful to be sticky in the humidity of the Carolinas.

book review: plan b

I've read Bird by Bird and I've read Traveling Mercies, and I don't know if it's because I was in a different place in my life, or if this book simply was different, but I didn't feel wrapped up in it, happily following along Lamott's thoughts and observations. Much of this book surprised me, her frustration with her son (which I can understand, though not yet relate to) and her railing against the president. In teacher mode, I wanted her to back up her irritations--give us evidence, especially if she wants to have her book to have a longer shelf life then our memory of a bad president. I've read her novels (Blue Shoe and Hard Laughter) and enjoyed those first two nonfiction books to a greater degree; I am afraid I might maintain those two are her best and the rest I've read aren't worth it.

book review: glass menagerie

My mother and I have been teaching a series of canonical plays with our theatre course, and this was one of the new ones for me. I read Streetcar Named Desire when I was in high school, and loved it, and though Glass Menagerie was also quite good, it lacked the richness of setting and the violence of situation that seemed to make Streetcar so explosive as a text and as a visual experience. Part of the difficulty for me reading this text is that there were elements I kept connecting to personal experiences, things that felt a little too familiar. The same happened when The Fiance watched Death of a Salesman; it moved him in ways unfamiliar because the dementia was something so present in his own life, in his own loved one. Good literature does this, moves us in surprising ways.

book review: the glass castle

The thing that kept me engaged was the surprise, the horrifying details of this childhood. Told in a plain way, this memoir recounts from earliest memory to recent past one woman's experiences in an extraordinarily eccentric father. She begins in medeas res, where we learn her parents are homeless and she is not, and we are whisked back to when she burned herself cooking hot dogs at the age of something like four. There is the standard formula: alcoholic father, abject poverty, a little crazy mother. I kept going because I was curious as to what would happen next, not because of the poetry of her language. Toward the end, we learn Walls is a journalist, and her paired down language makes sense--her matter of fact tone and even pacing. I would much rather return to Cherry or Liar's Club or Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight.

review: cowboys are my weakness & more on these three weeks

Last night I was the one that stayed back at class, so I was able to finish up this slim volume. Since I have been in Green Bay, pretty much all I have done is: go to class, sleep, eat, plan class, read (oh, and break my elbow) (and pet the dogs). I haven't managed to work on any of the crafty projects I brought along (and I have several that need immediate finishing), but somehow, churning out these books makes me feel a little better.

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This collection of stories was more satisfying than her non-fiction piece. I particularly liked her intense analyzing of relationships between men and women--the way it was all so quiet, so delicate, and could be so violent and cruel too. There was an incredibly tender story about a married couple who are enduring the wife's mother's visit. Clever lines, the perfect details, and all unfolding like a tulip warming.

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I did not read the edition with a cover like this, by the way. I probably would not have wanted to touch the book, felt shameful, with what looks like a chick lit cover. Instead, it was the wild again, great big mountains, beautiful colors. And all her stories had a little bit of her in them--stories I recognized from her memoir.

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Now reading: Plan B by Anne Lamott.

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Tomorrow I get to go home, and I'm very excited. Emily has asked me to take photos at her rehearsal dinner, and she doesn't seem to mind how lopsided they might be. I am a bit more mobile, though I still have to keep my arm in a sling. It doesn't hurt to unfurl it, though I can't manage it terribly far, as the swelling and soreness is still there. I can get through the night, save the dogs thwapping their wet noses against my hands, and Penelope nestling at my feet.

Emily's wedding is on Friday night, and on Saturday, we meet with our reception coordinator to discuss the menu. Indeed, I have sent out invitations indicating our patrons have the option of beef, chicken, or vegetarian, but we have no idea how those meals would be served and with what spectacular garnishes. We do, however, know the cake will be chocolate with chocolate mousse and is very rich... buttercream frosting, three tiers, with flowers as our flourish and top. The cake, you see, is the most important of all things we will ingest, except maybe some tasty wine or beer. Also important.

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In other news: The Fiance's sister has just bought a house with her husband, and The Fiance's brother has returned from being evacuated from his home in Lake Tahoe. The word is that the wind is shifting and he may need to leave again, so he has not unpacked his bags apparently; their home is covered in ash and he mentioned an old residence may no longer be there! It is so warm and muggy here that it is hard to imagine the dry crackling of a forest fire.

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Classes are wonderful... I think I am being spoiled by these kids, who are willing to do so much and say such brilliant things. They wonder about just the right stuff and can discuss for hours. This is what I thought teaching was like when I took my education classes--how it was described in the textbooks. We did a hot seat activity with The Glass Menagerie where one student gets in the center and is interviewed by the other students to find out character motivation. This went on smoothly and each person was willing to get into the center. One girl even played the part of the father who is only mentioned in the play! We spent the other hour this afternoon fighting food comas by playing improv games, all of which were hilarious and joyous, all filling the room with laughter. The morning three hours were spent in general discussion, in learning pantomime, in acting out a scene from the play in which pantomime becomes important. I look forward to being with these kids, am not afraid any more of being not smart enough, because they will stumble onto the right topics. There is no lazy teaching here, though, no busy work at all. They are too eager for that--when they socialize, they are talking about class, about acting, about performance, about getting into character. They are complimenting each other and encouraging each other. So far, so good.

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I am going to resist the nap I am wishing to take... pry my eyes open with toothpicks, send the dogs flailing upstairs, licking me awake. It is afternoon, warm, and I am full of mediocre food and literature. And I don't have an alarm to wake me up, so I will be here, for now.

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Pictures, soon.