Time for quiet reflection

March 27, 2006

Gosh. The literary qualities of this photo are endless. This was my apartment in Muncie, Indiana (home of the Ball State University Cardinals and Jim Davis, creater of Garfield) and probably one of my more boring days. I was twenty-three years old. But even out of relative mediocrity you can find the minutiae of beautifully flawed human character.

I mean check it out - this is a girl that's looking off into the near-distance (my computer screen but you don't know that, it could be anything. An art magazine, an ant farm, the cover of an old VHS tape she's thinking about watching but not sure she can take the emotion and awkwardness of a long-ago horse show) and there is a window that seems to lack a curtain and so there hangs instead a blue-and-white throw rug designed with the logo of her high school alma mater.

Inexplicably, Christmas lights. Why? Because. Freshly post-University, one can use that as an excuse.

A hodge-podge of pictures hang on otherwise relatively bare walls. This is a transient space, a place to lay your head but not to call home. Stuffed animals on the bed mark the passage of a childhood that she doesn't want to let go quite yet. The hand-me-down quality of her bedding, the frayed look of her white hoodie, and her pale skin: she's working hard, not getting out much, saving a lot of money to go somewhere. To do something.

Above the window, like the North Star, or a religious totem, is a yellow smiley face on English A4 notebook paper. This is from her significant other, her better half, who she's known for about seven years on the day this picture was taken. Love is obsession is the plan of the spark of life.

And so, in the way of all the great literary stories, her journey begins.

Egypt has disappeared...

At 12:34 AM, apparently Egypt decided to hit the Off switch for the Internet. So now, inexplicably, as share prices in Google steadily plummet, we now imagine perhaps what it was like for ancient Egyptians: life without the Internet. Can you even imagine?

Protesters are trying to end the almost 30-year career of President Mubarak. So the government's decided to turn the entire country into a non-existent country, and their current Internet usage still remains at 0%. I just, I am in shock. If this happened to England, I don't even know what I would do.

How would I know what the weather is going to be like tomorrow? Today? For the next ten days? And! How will I keep up to date on fashion for the coming spring? And how will I spend money on Amazon.co.uk? And find out how old Fred Savage was in The Princess Bride? Ebay. Wouldn't exist. Well, I mean. You might as well just not have any oxygen.

Maybe they will go back to building pyramids and only living to the age of 35 with crippling back injuries. Sounds like a good way of spending your time.

Because the very idea of no Internet hurls me into a spiralling chasm of darkness so deep I could never get out makes me feel lost, only this and ice cream can make me feel better:

Janus-Faced

The playhouse.

This is the aforementioned playhouse. At night, home to ghastly ghost stories and spooky tales. During the daytime, a modest but servicable McDonald's. The drive-thru had just been invented in my part of Indiana when I was a kid and that little window on the side you can see was our, ahem, drive-thru window. The wire mesh screen stapled across the window didn't matter because you had to use your imagination. As you can see we have a small flock of wild ducks waddling their way past it and across the driveway. The little mailbox next to it has black-and-gold stick-on number labels on it, slightly askew, reading 35 1/2, because the address was of the home of my youth was originally 35. This little beloved building was the half that was that little bit extra, you know, justifying the respected dream property distinction that my childhood home deserves.

Above the porch hangs a wooden sign made by our paternal grandpa: NICOLE and VERONICA it reads, so that there is no confusion as to the true ownership of this tidy cottage. Within it was a tiny wooden cracked-with-damp table that wobbled when you sat down to it, along with a couple of school chairs, tattooed that way that old school chairs have (Chris loves Sue and other graffiti created in the throes of excrutiating boredom), and a mirrored medicine cabinet that contained the tools of our child-trade: chalk and bandaids, bunches of dead dandelions, rubber bands dried from the hot-cold-hot-cold seasonal turmoil, and of course, so many spiders you had to kind of hold your breath for fear of inhaling them.

This is an old photo taken years after the play house had enjoyed its prime.  I believe my sister snapped this shot back probably in '98 or '99 or 2000. I can't help but be taken aback by the Technicolor green of the lawn. I mean, when you're reading a book (or a short story, or a vignette, or a poem) and the writer describes the grass as Crayola green, well, this is what they're talking about. It's haunting how the little house itself pales in weary juxtaposition with the green, green grass. At this time in its history it hunkered there on the lawn, kind of sullen and forgotten, for that is what happens to childhood things, especially when you're sixteen and your parents are on the brink of divorce. Open great chasm, swan dive in. Live and learn.

I don't know why but I feel like, given the kind of I-want-it-to-be-springtime-but-it's-not-quite-time-yet trying too hard aspect of this photo, like the grass is glowing with energy that it just wants to be alive, god dammit! The backdrop of trees is a nice touch, if a little skeletal, it being the end of winter and all. This is a veritable Janus-face of the past and present, the present and the future - like O'Shaughnessy put it in "Ode":

For each age is a dream that is dying,
or one that is coming to birth.

Ah, the artists of the world. Starving. Misunderstood. Undermedicated.They talk about a muse, and they talk about creative space. For me, that little playhouse were those things. Shame I can't fit inside it now.

More updated photos of it soon - it has since been restored to its previous beauty.

One Hell of a Book

Just thought I'd put it out there, and you have to excuse the slightly obsessive stalker-type photo, this is just a close-up of a previous photo from this post of some of the stuff I got for my birthday, which seems like a long time ago now (really just barely a month ago) but I am still, of course, enjoying these gifts that just keep on giving. Case in point: Audrey Niffenegger's Her Fearful Symmetry. It is, without a doubt, a compelling read. It is, as the title of this post suggests, even asserts: one hell of a book. I couldn't help but forget about the horrible space invader quality of an early morning train commute or the dark and rather miserable return train commute as I read this book. For those who haven't read Her Fearful Symmetry yet - and no worries, I'm not here to spoil it - let it suffice to say that this was very different from The Time Traveller's Wife. In fact it was a whole other realm. It is a clever and deep story, soulful even, at times complex (don't let that discourage you, because after all, Niffenegger works in intricate threads of thought and character the way others work in clay or oil paints; it is her true medium) and it is well worth a read.

I highly recommend it and I hope you take a pure nugget of truth from it too.

"Do you like it? It's Autumn Sunrise"

Primark scarf / Out of Print Clothing tee/  Roxy denim skirt / Primark 'Teal' tights / Primark faux leather shoes

Howdy folks! Just wanted to send a little springtime your way (even though it's winter, maybe this is wishful thinking [yeah, I don't know, it's a very seasonal type of blog post today - and for some reason I have lines from Ghost in my head. Hence the title.]), and show you what I recently acquired from my outing today. This was courtesy of a Christmas gift in the form of a Primark gift card from Mumsie, thank you!

Also, my Brave New World tee made possible by this site. I really love it and how much does it coordinate with everything? I know you don't need to go crazy with the coordination these days, not like when I was a Day-glo neon orange-cycle shorts-and-oversized-white-tee-with-hair-scrunchy bunched-on-the-side-clad kid. Now just about anything goes: circles and stripes, flowers and animals, diamante applique and lace; it's a veritable patchwork quilt of clothing that you can wear at work, at home, or on the go. And the more vintage, the better. I imagine fashion-obsessed people the world over are scrounging around in their grandmother's wardrobes right now, trying to uncover that most prized article of clothing: the actual vintage cardigan (and perhaps delightfully clashing fabric belt).

Which is why I find this one of the more tame outfit choices one can make. Never in a million years did I ever think I would be wearing flowery tights. Or even a gray denim skirt. With a tee shirt. Who knew? 

We are the music makers

Thought I'd start off this post with the first line from one of my favourite poems, "Ode" by Arthur O'Shaughnessy.

We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;—

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.

I discovered it in a stack of books on one of the shelves in my parents' built-in bookcase. Modern British Poetry immediately became one of my prized possessions, and if my parents were really into age-yellowed 1920's ex-Indianapolis Public Library books, then I would have had to fight to the death to keep it in my room. But it turns out I was the only one that seemed to be obsessed with it. And so it sort of migrated its way up to my room and has now come with me to England where it sits, loved and stroked, on my desk in my Cave.

In Modern British Poetry you can find other beautifully melancholic poems: "When I was One and Twenty" by A. E. Housman and "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley and many, many others that I methodically marked, tearing up little pink While You Were Out papers from our telephone table and nudging them in between the pages. It positively bristles with place markers. I believe I found myself in that book somewhere, and marked it.

Come to think of it, that top-to-bottom bookcase at my parents' was the first instance of a library I ever had. Now that I am older I can't believe I didn't really take it seriously and see this giant wall of shelves for what it was - a separate world where I could quietly escape. There were other books on it, like an entire Encyclopedia Britannica, and some Stephen Kings and Heather Grahams (so my mother was into genre fiction, not always a bad thing).

Here are a few of my favourite books from my own (ever growing but still not as massive) library.

My dream is to have my own entire room as a library. So far I do have my Cave, aka thinking space. James Dickey (of Deliverance creation fame), called it his Cave of Making.


This was James Dickey's Cave of Making.


I will post a picture of my own thinking space shortly. One thing I can say it has a big desk that faces a window, where I can watch the sea gulls wheeling around in the sky.

Nothing stirs the imagination like seagulls wheeling.

Happy Wednesday!

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

As this gentleman told us, Doncaster has its very own town crier. And it's Henry Cryer, living up to his namesake!

My better half and some friends and I had the pleasant experience of going on a ghost walk around spooky Doncaster just recently. Home of ancient Romans back int day, Doncaster was one major stop on the Great North Road going all the way from London up to Edinburgh, Scotland. And it is brimming with the ghostly tales that follow such a long and established history. Imagine: Friday night, around about quarter to eight, a little bit of English mist hugging the corners of Tudor-style pubs, when we embarked on a journey filled with, well, complimentary Costa coffee and chattering teeth.

It was cold.

We started at the Barley Twist, that uber suave restaurant that forms part of the Premiere Inn. And across the cobblestones we went, our happy little ghost-obsessed group, trailing along behind Mr. Cryer to the Mason's Arms pub and down to the Doncaster Free Press office (ghosts with which I am very familiar), and further on down past the butter-cross at the crossroads of the darkened, after-hours Masserollis hot dog stand and Primark. Then, on further down to the High Street, a few early-night drunks leaning against the wall and shouting their own profanities as we passed, and dear Mr. Cryer professionally continued with his abundant sixteenth/seventeenth/eighteenth century ghost stories and the whip-happy history of Doncaster.

We may not have heard any spooks, or witnessed any apparitions, but we did get several detailed accounts of old pubs that featured dead boxers, dead dignitaries, dead architects and, yes, even dead dogs.

Which brings me to one of my favorite books on the face of the planet, Alvin Schwartz's terrifying ghost story book Scary Stories To Tell in the Dark. As you can see from the battered-ness of my battered copy, it was in constant use in my childhood. Many a night, my sister and our friends and I sat around in the attic of our play house (yes, a full-sized playhouse built by our father, with an upstairs and everything, every child should have one), and with flashlight in hand, we read out the stories and edged in closer, and closer yet, because there was so much scare-factor in that darkness in the roof beams and spidery corners of our little room. I have not opened this book since I was probably ten or eleven, and this is because the pictures are so well drawn I can barely glance at them without having horrifying flashbacks of screaming and running to my mother somewhat frightful. Even to this day I kind of look at this book and, well, shiver.

 This is one of the more tame pictures. You'll have to get the book to see the real crackers.

But I have heard it said somewhere that our fears can give rise to our greatest strengths. Or, what most repulses us can become our finest obsession. It's so complicated. And from that complication we can search, explore, unpack, and discover the truths at the very core of us.

It is because of this book that I love ghosts.

It's amazing what can affect us in our more impressionable years, isn't it?

The Catcher in the Rye

Outofprint.com sweatshirt / Venice jeans / Primark boots

This is the fabeled sweatshirt I mentioned in an earlier post. It is from outofprintclothing.com, probably one of the best websites out there for bibliophiles and fashionistas alike. Their clothes have kind of a vintage look and feel to them. I can't get over this sweatshirt because it's so soft inside - it's like being in a cloud. A cloud that says The Catcher in the Rye. I have a feeling that if J. D. Salinger were alive today, he would be pleased to see people wearing clothes with his book cover printed on.

If you haven't yet had the chance to read it, I highly, highly recommend it. It is conversational and smart, and kind of raw and definitely real. For a novel written in 1951 it was controvercial, and still is, considering how ambiguous a lot of the headier moments are in the text. Holden Caulfield tells us how it is in a kind of misguided, rebellious, and ultimately powerful way.

If I had a shirt for every single one of my favorite novels, my entire house would be so full of clothes I would not be able to move, and maybe my better half would have to move out.

There probably wouldn't even be room for coffee mugs or a refrigerator.

The Things We Do to Get in Shape

This is my tale - The Odyssey can take a back seat because this one is going to be epic.

How did the swimming go, you ask? Let me tell you. It was, well, blurry because I couldn't see anything because like so many people out there, I suffer from myopia, and I am extremely near-sighted. So I can only see things clearly when they are a Chapstick's length from my face. Without my glasses, the world is a foggy haze. And so was the swimming pool.

I have been through this before, what with having been on the good ol' Mt. Vernon Swim Team in middle school (back in the day). Only then I at least maybe had a gaggle of fellow thirteen-year-olds to follow. This time, unfortunately, I was on my own.

I get to the locker room. Once I wrestle with a couple lockers and find one that works, Ponds Forge Competition Pool in Sheffield just cannot stop me. I am an unstoppable force. Because I want to go back to maybe not this:

(July 2004 - lifting an extraordinarily heavy backpack in the Egyptian exhibit at the British Museum - could there be a mummy in that or what?)

but maybe this...

(August 2007, my new haircut, and me generally looking how I look)

I walk out to the massive 50-meter Olympic-sized pool. There could be a thousand people splashing around and sauntering at the edge of the pool, there could be millions, I don't know because I can't see. It is a cathedral, almost holy, with such high ceilings, and the diving pool at the back has a springboard that Olympic hopefuls have jumped off in perfect arc form. All I know is I may be the only one wearing a swim cap. Am I the sole person who doesn't want to get their hair wetter than it really, really has to be?

Having squinted hard enough to discover one of the six lanes that has the least amount of people in it, I, the fabeled Butterfly Queen of the Mt. Vernon Middle School Swim Team plonk myself into the water, not realising it must be fifty feet deep. I sink under like a rock, tepid chlorine water shooting up my nose, and come up sputtering, just as a disembodied voice somewhere above me says, Excuse me!

So I look up. My goggles (old) disintegrate off my face, apparently deciding they've already had enough.

There's a woman (I can tell by the voice and the long brown fuzz that is her hair) asking me to get out of the water, that this lane - nay, all four lanes here - are for the Super Swimmers (I could have this wrong because I was too busy choking on water to properly hear her, and if I am, you must forgive me), who seem to be children that are kicking idly, towed behind kick board floaties. There are about two Super Swimmers in each of these four lanes, as best I can tell.

"What are super swimmers?"

"They're the ones that are here seven or eight times a week. You lane swimming?"

"Yes."

She points to the far end of the lanes. The two that are chock-full of people going a mile-an-hour breast stroke. Right. "You can use either of those two lanes. Those are for lane swimmers. One goes clockwise, one goes anti-clockwise. Stick to those ones."

I release a watery drivel of apologies, saying I can't see and didn't know who to ask, yadda yadda yadda.

"They do make prescription goggles, you know."

Yes well that's not going to help me right now is it? I keep my thoughts to myself. My head is swimming, even if I am not.

So I repair my goggles with a very temporary solution (tie it on one side). I slip into the water where, gathering my courage and what's left of my dignity, I paddle in a slow, easy breast-stroke, as this seems to be the dominant stroke of this lane. I get stuck behind a hefty woman.

Now, you have to understand. Exercise is for everyone. But I used to be the Butterfly Queen. Coach Mueller told me so, all those years ago. And without knowing the rules of this place (what is proper ettiquette? Can I swim past someone or am I not allowed?) I lag behind, doggie paddling, for about 46 meters. I am reminded of Stephen King's Carrie:

Calls and catcalls snapped and flickered like billiard balls after a hard break.

And finally, I am past her! Horray! I try freestyle (front crawl to my UK readers) and inexplicably, the water is not breathable. I have lost my endurance after all these land-lubbing years. And so it is me, deep breaths, water rhythm, hand out and stroke the water, kick the water, water, water everywhere.

All goes swimmingly until, after 30 or 40 minutes, the other side of my goggle strap snaps. And I am lost on this sea of exertion.

So I climb out and nearly fall over. The water has sucked the life out of me.

The things we do to get in shape, probably easier to lay off the chocolate fudge brownies at Starbucks on Monday and Friday mornings, really.

See y'all at the pool next week.

Red Red Wine

(Republic red dress by Miso / Primark tights / Primark boots)

I don't actually like red wine, but I do like Bob Marley. And this dress. This dress is like the red, red wine that feels so fine...

Red red wine I love you right from the start
Right from the start with all of my heart

This dress was a kind birthday gift from my team at work (thanks guys, you know just what I like). I plan on getting right in the ribs of my better half to see if he might take me out nice somewhere so I can wear it. McDonald's, anyone?

I have received in the post a brand new TYR swimsuit (which I will not model for anyone on this occasion because frankly, well, I just won't). Today I will don my swimsuit for the first time in absolutely way too long a while, and I plan on tearing up the lanes at Ponds Forge pool in Sheffield!  I was a butterfly pro back on the old school swim team many, many moons ago and I plan on seeing how these muscles fare today. Just like our minds, our bodies need a little exercising too, and these dark mornings and afternoons have gotten my quasi-Seasonal Affective Disorder out of whack. It's time to do something about it. Release those endorphins and bring on that chlorine!

Wish me luck everybody!

Train Etiquette

I would just like to say that, like so many people out there, as a daily commuter I feel like I have crossed the threshold into a savage way of living. I mean, you would imagine using the rail would be like, say, crossing the Atlantic on a plane, but it is not. You get general respect on planes, because for most people a journey by air is not so everyday. Travelling on the train has unleashed a new me, and getting back to my ancient roots as a means of survival, like elbowing people to get into the train first and find a nice couple of seats on my own like a hunter and gatherer in the cave times of old has awakened my senses into that kill-or-be-killed mentality.

So I would like for it to be said that we need some train etiquette in our time. It is unwelcomingly intimate enough being shoved up next to a complete stranger that smells like BO someone and having a very sweaty man breathing down my neck for forty-six minutes in the morning and then twenty-six minutes in the afternoon, however! Our daily commute can be saved and perhaps even enjoyable. Here are my ideas:

1. Please do not save a seat just for your laptop. I am not arguing the fact that your laptop is your lifeblood and so important that you cannot imagine losing it. But do I have to draw the line at you sighing in that resigned kind of way when I (very politely) ask you to move your computer so I can sit down.
2. Please do not be a space invader. I do not appreciate having to be smooshed against the window when you feel that you might be, I don't know, taking up too much space? Let's all enact the Personal Space Rule: Like in an elevator, you don't crowd someone into the corner if the whole rest of it is empty.
3. Please do not try to talk to me when I am trying to read. Especially in the morning. I do not talk before I've consumed any caffeine. It is not personal. It is just a fact of life.
4. Please wear deodorant.
5. Please keep children and animals under control.
6. Please keep yourself under control.
7. Please keep your voice (while on the phone to your mate about Friday night plans ad infinitum) under control.

All of these very simple steps can really help make the experience, I don't know, maybe pleasurable? Maybe at least bearable?

I am just thankful I don't need to talk about the Tube. That would have to be a whole other blog post.

Now that we've gotten this out of the way, let me talk about a few of the things I've gotten for my birthday recently and how they have and will change my life! These are the things that make me happy!

Out of this pleasant mish-mash of thoughtful gifts (beautiful fuzzy duck feather cushion included, set of four, so cushy I just can't believe it) I have received Auddrey Niffenegger's latest novel Her Fearful Symmetry and The Writer's Handbook 2011. Both of these are informative and inspiring for anyone who loves to read and write. Niffenegger's known for her very ultra-famous The Time Traveler's Wife and this book has been the most widely sought-after novel after publishing houses found out she was working on it. I am about halfway through it now and it is, of course, eye-opening and moving.

And with the help of The Writer's Handbook, I have all the latest updated information for publishing houses, literary agencies, and such that are all UK based but also publish in the US. There are very useful articles about how to develop your work and help you find the right place to publish and generally make your craft the best it can be. Good stuff!

And so, for those of you who do have to commute daily, remember, a good book can help you get away when you need it most. Whew!

The Bluest Eye

This is something I have found on my aunt-by-proxy’s front porch, and in our step-brother’s house, and in other various locations around our friends and family. It is the Turkish Eye, also called the Nazar boncugu, the blue bead that, in ancient Anatolian belief, had lots of power (yes, really, this idea is thousands of years old!). It helps ward off the evil presumed to spread by the glance of others. It is believed to be a good omen that will protect you and yours from bad things like the Evil Eye.  And generally looks rather inspiring. And so, unlike Toni Morrison’s novel about racial and social inequality, this bluest eye is a good thing.  You can get it from Turkey where they have them in gift shops , hotels and bars, suspended from just about every possible hook and wall and taxi rear view mirrors, and it can be a big one like this or something as small as a charm on a bracelet, that way you have it with you always.

It reminds me in a distant way of The Bluest Eye, Morrison’s amazing novel that she wrote while working, studying and bringing up two small children.  The glance of others was of course a key element to this story, because this is what Pecola was trying to negotiate. And it in a strange way reminds me of Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes were Watching God. I still have never been able to get over this story (well, either of them really) even though I read it back when I was in middle school or high school, something like fifteen years ago, because they are so haunting. It is as if we must always feel the eye of someone or something on us. This can be a looming threat in the shape of an abandoned billboard over a forgotten valley.

Or, as the Turkish Eye suggests, it can be good luck.

I wish you all good luck in your endeavours! I think we could all use a good omen every now and then.

Sunday Frame of Mind

Hello everybody, and welcome to my new blog!

Today's a Sunday, which normally means get up late, drink a lot of coffee, and watch a movie or two on TV, meander around Morrisons and buy too many items (for example, we only went in for a loaf of bread and ended up spending almost £30 on everything from four-cheese tortellini to frozen pizzas to baked beans) and feel generally restless. However today I have been rather productive. Dave and I have replaced the hinges on our living room and dining room windows and he has also put up our new blinds in our bathroom! Our house is so much more snug and comfortable now. I can actually feel it smiling.

Also I have already made some new gift tags for Christmas. It only goes to show you can never prepare for Christmas too early. Even almost a year ahead of time! Speaking of Christmas, this is one of the purchases I made with Christmas money (never thought I'd ever buy a corset)...

(Next corset top/Venice jeans/Primark shoes)

Two great birthday gifts my beloved has gotten for me: a t-shirt and a sweatshirt from one of the best websites ever, outofprint.com! Each has the original cover of two of my absolutely most fave books on this planet, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, and the sweatshirt has Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. Not only can I read two of the best books ever penned, but I can also wear them! Truly remarkable.

And I have created this! I look forward to providing you, my loyal readers, edifying and entertaining things, and most of all, very readerly and writerly moments.

This is for art lovers, avid readers.

This is for people who are trying to find music in the chaos.

I would like you to get happily lost in this, my Reading Room - this is the best room in the library. It is the quiet, private corner that somehow always stays warm, far away from the elevator and the stairwell doors that slam shut. It's for solitude. Only in here you are allowed as much food and coffee (or maybe something stronger) as you want. When  you've run out of an easily accessible bottle of your favourite white zinfandel and have to make do with a glass of Coke you are fed up with the hum-drum of everyday life, visit here and be pleasantly entertained. 

Happy Sunday, everyone!