It’s Endless Until It’s Over
Summer. I keep wanting to photograph it, but my camera disappeared into teen world, where it’s being used to document gravity-defying skateboard tricks. Surely, the looks told me when I asked for it back, a mere peach cannot compete with anti-gravity.
Maybe not. But they are everywhere, these peaches. And even though I know that one day in a month or so from now they’ll be gone, they feel permanent. That’s what the deep middle of summer feels like.
It’s a Toss-Up
Depending on what I plug in, I write like Margaret Atwood, David Foster Wallace, or Douglas Adams. You might want to check it out.
Why I Love the French
far better to have a silver bee land on your tea pot than the real thing
Happy Bastille Day. Bastille Day is not, actually, why I love France and the French. I love France and the French because of our friends P and M, who I met when I was in my twenties. I spent a lot of time in M’s kitchen, drinking un-English tea (it was fruit scented black tea, and I loved it almost as much as I loved her) out of an old silver teapot that had a bee on its lid. I adored that teapot, the way the lid lifted back on a hinge and the bee seemed to be looking around and approving the whole set up. I spent years trying to find one like it, and I never did. I did find the tea, however, on a trip to Paris. You can buy it in the supermarket, as it turns out.
It was a long time ago, but I can still remember how shocked I was to meet someone my age who owned objects with patina. By the time I was twenty-four, this is what I had left from my childhood: my high school yearbooks, a button from a pink robe my grandmother gave me one year for Christmas, the copy of Wuthering Heights the librarian at Hof Army Base in Bavaria gave me when I was in the fourth grade, and a small tin with a silver lid that was engraved with Rembrandt’s Night Watch, which I found on the window sill of the house we rented in Bavaria when my dad was stationed there.
M had, in addition to the aforementioned tea pot, what seemed like hundreds of family pictures, some in very nice frames. She also had marble obelisks on her coffee table along with big wooden balls, whose only function was to be large and interesting, as far as I could see. She had a little bar cart and nice glasses. She was not afraid to have a large purple couch, which was actually more than a little shabby. The pillows on it were made out of something that looked to me a lot like a rug. I imagine these possessions were the tip of the iceberg, given that most of what she owned was back in Paris. She also had a château and a title, both courtesy of her husband, which was news to me because I hadn’t been aware that titles even existed anymore, not after all the heads were chopped off. So, I loved her, because she was One Hundred Percent Not Me. And she was One Hundred Percent Her French Self.
I also loved the way she looked at things. In her dining room, she hung twenty four botanical prints she’d found in a book at a used book store ($1) and framed with frames from the Big Longs Drug Store, where you could buy anything. Those botanical prints looked as good as everything else in her house.
The funny thing is that they loved us too. In their eyes, we had nothing weighing us down. We were “mellow,” we did not worry, we were spontaneous, we weren’t in a hurry. They liked the way we dressed, particularly my husband in his uniform of levi 501s and t-shirts.
But mostly, we loved each other because we had so much in common. M and I were readers. Serious ones. She, of course, had twice as many books available to her for reading purposes than I did because she could read in both English and French. We were also talkers. We liked to discuss why the French see things the way they do and the Americans, well, the Americans don’t see them that way. We talked about taxes, and child rearing and medicine. We talked about our husbands, who were obviously not ever going to talk about us to each other, being so similar themselves. P and my husband were windsurfers, and skiiers and cyclists. Neither of them liked to delve into the emotional. They mostly just liked conquering water, snow, and roads, which they did together for a long time.
Now they live in Belgium, and we see each other sometimes, but not very often. I miss them. I miss seeing myself through their eyes, and I miss that teapot. Happy Bastille Day, P&M.
David Mitchell’s Thousand Autumns of the Dutch Accountant Whose Name I Can’t Remember
Here follows a demonstration of what happens when you write a book review after you’ve both finished the book and managed to misplace it, which is what has happened to me in the last 48 hours with David Mitchell’s Thousand Autumns of Jacob Somebody or Other. Also, this is what happens when you write a book review without even once using the internets to verify your facts. (Why am I not using the internets? I don’t know. I thought it would be fun is the closest I could come to an answer.)
But most likely you, dear reader, have been hearing about this book and don’t need me for facts. It’s certainly easy enough to find the book — just google the phrase “thousand autumns” and bob’s your uncle. (I just now realized that I have no uncles left. It is the one year anniversary of my Uncle Martin’s death. My Uncle Marin was a classic: a basque from Susanville. I have his thermos, the heavy duty one he took to the many construction jobs he worked on, and it reminds me that it’s good to have caffeine when you labor. But goodness, how I digress.)
Anyway, back to David Mitchell. First, I’ll say that without question the most tedious (both to write and to read) part of a book review is the plot summary. For years, I’ve been trying to get away with not doing these in the reviews I write on this blog. I know, I hardly ever write reviews. And the ones I do write are so slim on plot details as to be maybe useless. Which is why it is a constant source of amusement to me that publicists send me emails every week or so asking me to review what look to me like very, very good books. Every once in a while I ask for them to send me one, but then I don’t review it because, well, there’s the plot summary hurdle. I can’t get over it. That’s why I’ve been yammering on about my uncle and the people who want to send me free books. I’m procrastinating. (I would like to add, however, that I would review those books, except I’ve never received one I really loved.)
In a few words, David Mitchell’s book is about a red haired Dutch accountant who finds himself in a Dutch trading outpost, a little no man’s land of an outpost, outside of Nagasaki, which the Dutch aren’t allowed to enter. Not much anyway. It is set in the 18th century. Naturally, the red haired Dutch accountant falls in love with a Japanese woman. In a Shogun-like plot development, he woos her, and in a further Shogun-like plot development, this wooing leads him to a greater understanding of Asian culture. Also, things go wrong, as they do in novels. Is that enough plot description? I hope so because it’s all I have the strength for.
Did I like it? I did indeed. I wasn’t so crazy about the bad guy, whose badness credibility is established by (a) his ability to kill people with mysterious hand waving and (b) his leadership of a weird (shinto, it is said) cult, which spirits women away to be brood mares, and worse. Really, I could have gone all summer without weird sexual rituals popping up in the books I read.
Other than that, and the occasional overwrought writing you kind of expect in books about Europeans going to Japan in the 18th century and falling in love with women who’re midwives, and scarred but still beautiful, it’s a totally captivating book. I will not go on and on about how Mitchell is an up and coming literary writer, because I did not read Cloud Atlas (not liking to have to handle six different narrative voices at once) and because I don’t think it’s necessary. Worse than plot summary is too much yammering on about the author’s (a) age, (b) book jacket picture, and (c) fights with Oprah, which, I’m fairly certain, Mitchell has never had, being English, and looking quite young and sort of sweet in his book jacket picture.
It’s a good summer book.
And that’s what a review that skimps on plot summary and is written without internet assistance looks like.
on waiting for the bus
we waited 20 minutes -- and this wasn't actually our bus. I was too excited when our bus arrived to take its picture.
I’ve spent roughly 620 hours of my life waiting for buses, and at least 375 of those hours involved waiting for the number 51 bus in Berkeley, CA. I took that bus all through grad school and law school at Cal — the stop is right across the street from a fraternity, which provided either an entertaining way to while away time while waiting for the 51, or excrutiating, depending on the day of the week, the level of drunkenness at the frat, and how late the bus was running that particular day. I’ll let you guess how many hours fell into each category.
One clue: I’ve never longed for the time when I could go back to using the bus for all my transportation needs.
It turns out I’ve become less impatient, and apparently I’ve seen so much public drunkenness that I don’t even notice it anymore. As a result, when we were in Seattle, and had all the time in the world, waiting for the bus that took us from downtown Seattle to the Fauntleroy ferry terminal was not a problem. In fact, because it was the day of the gay pride parade, it was pretty entertaining. Although really, I think the S&M contingent could have toned it down some. The guy with the multi-color painted penis? Needed to stay home. Ditto the ladies with the targets painted on their breasts. After William and I walked away from that, and I said I didn’t think I’d be able to scrub those images out of my head, he advised me to think about ballerinas. Apparently, it works every time.
We waited a long time for that bus. And even though I’ve become mellower about waiting, I still love that moment when the bus comes into view.
Carless in Seattle
ferry! light rail! bus! feet!
I’m aware that most of the world gets around without a car and it’s not news to anyone that we should be driving way less, but we seem to have gotten around to this realization only recently in any kind of serious way. I can see how ingrained the car culture is by the fact that I assumed I’d rent a car to get around this weekend when I’m up in Seattle for my brother’s wedding party.
But, really, why do that? Oil is gushing into the Gulf. The least I can do is print out some transit schedules and figure out how to get from SeaTac to downtown Seattle, to Vashon Island to see my friend Karen, and then to the airport. We have everything we need: a lot of transit schedules, small wheeled suitcases and something to read while we’re waiting for the light rail/ferry/bus.
Oh, and the other things we need we already have: plenty of time and our own two feet.
Mazel tov!
More Summer Reading
Filed under: Gwendolyn Brooks, Poetry | Tags: books, poetry, reading
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It was a less than perfect day today. Maybe it’s the sudden turn from sun to gray here in San Francisco. Could be the work I’m staying late tonight to finish contains, at its core, a story of people who seem to have not only no hope, but no hope of hope.
Who knows what it is, but all day I’ve been hearing the phrase “grayed in and gray” in my head and so I went to see where it comes from, which means you plug that into the internets and you will find out, as I did, that it comes from a Gwendolyn Brooks poem called The Kitchenette Building. When I read it again I realized it was about circumscribed lives in which hope occasionally breaks out, even if not for long. And that seemed like a good thing to have in one’s head on a not so great summer’s day. Just one poem — that counts as summer reading too.
Kitchenette Building
We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” mate, a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent”, “feeding a wife”, “satisfying a man”.
But could a dream sent up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms,
Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?
We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.
Gwendolyn Brooks
Sweet Pea
from C & J's garden
A day spent working at a friend’s still, calm house. The ideal working conditions: No internet. No phone. The only procrastination task was making tea. So, I made a lot of tea. And stayed wide awake.
The garden was full of sweet peas and I cut some to bring inside. There was even a diced tomato can in the recycling bin to put them in. I stayed until 9 and rode my bike home across Berkeley in the dark. I have two lights and they blinked and shone all the way home. My own house was full of boys, computer on, television on. While I was gone, a lamp met with an “accident.” And they were all so happy — because it is summer and, really, who cares if a lamp has an accident?
Let Me Count the Ways
#28 on the 50 Things List
1. Nothing ever comes off the car
2. You give people rides to school, even though you wish they’d bike
3. Our yard would have died a long time ago without you
4. I realize this doesn’t look like Archie, but you know he loves you for the nighttime walks.
5. There you are at your desk, where you work hard and treat people well.
6. Four more people ski because of your efforts.
7. You rock in the lighting department.
8. 6,367,422 cups of tea, and counting
9. Media Generosity: Even though Glee doesn’t row your boat
10. Three more people in the world windsurf because of you
11. Few grill with the panache and confidence you do.
12. We would follow you up any peak you asked us to. But we would spend a lot of time complaining.
13. Volcanoes may erupt all around you, but you never lose your head.
Father’s Day 2010
Summer Reading
Filed under: Book Review, Books, Summer | Tags: books, reading, summer, summer reading
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charlie + skating + summer = happiness
Summer’s arrived here at the bloglily household. There is general happiness, and a movement spearheaded by the non-parents to suspend all routines, including the one that gets everyone into bed before the sun rises. So far the adolescents and the ten year old who’s actually 40 are winning that one.
If you’re surly enough, and I’ll admit that this describes my general demeanor about half the time, you might trudge through summer without acknowledging its wonderfulness because you, after all, don’t get to suspend all routines. But at least you get to read summer books, which is way, way better than going to see summer movies. Summer books, at their best, leave you satisfied. Summer movies, even at their best, make you feel like you’ve eaten at McDonalds, and although maybe it was okay at the time, you really wish you hadn’t.
So. Summer books — for me — mean spy books. I love spy books. I like the whole noirish atmosphere of a good spy book. I love the lone operative, the hero who behaves well, but somehow all the odds are against him. (Why can’t I think of any spy books where there’s a decent woman spy?) A couple of days ago I spent the whole day reading, which meant that we had frozen costco lasagne for dinner (here in Berkeley, that’s when they send the child protective services to your house). What kept me from whipping up an organic, vegetable-filled dinner was Alan Furst.
I really like Alan Furst’s books. They’re all set in dark, rainy corners of Europe, on the eve of the second world war. There aren’t any Americans in these books, or hardly any. The most recent one is called Spies of the Balkans. I will not tell you what happens in it because you could probably guess. Okay, I’ll tell you some things. Is there a spy who’s a Greek police officer, who’s ethical, but not above trickery when it’s necessary to protect the innocent? Check. The occasional furling and unfurling of an umbrella because it’s always raining in the countries Hitler’s about to invade? Check. Sex? Check. Daring rescues? Check. A general atmosphere of a world going to hell, during which tremendous acts of courage occur? Check.
Like I said, I read the whole thing in one day. I never do that. Happy Summer!
The Poor Fictionist
Trollope invented the pillar box when he was not busy fictioning
The poor fictionist very frequently finds himself to have been wrong in his description of things in general, and is told so, roughly by the critics, and tenderly by the friends of his bosom. He is moved to tell of things of which he omits to learn the nature before he tells of them — as should be done by a strictly honest fictionist. He catches salmon in October; or shoots his partridges in March. His dahlias bloom in June, and his birds sing in the autumn. He opens the opera-houses before Easter, and makes Parliament sit on a Wednesday evening. And then those terrible meshes of the Law!
There’s no hope for me. I’ll never be a “perfectly honest fictionist.” But what a relief to discover that Trollope wasn’t either.
Ill Fares the Land
Today’s post has no picture, because I couldn’t bear to look again at the images of the oil spill in the Gulf. Today’s post is also a book review — of sorts — because, although it might appear my interests are confined to bicycles and lighting, I am actually still interested in words and books.
The best thing I’ve read this year (well, I did love Parrot and Olivier too)was a book by the historian Tony Judt called Ill Fares the Land.
One of Judt’s significant points – that we’re in a bad way because we have abandoned our belief in the idea that the government can actually perform functions that private enterprise cannot — is tragically and aptly illustrated by the BP oil spill. Every answer to the question how did this happen? leads to this answer: because we thought a private company like BP, acting with little public oversight, would keep our coastline safe. Paul Krugman is good on this subject too. (“We need politicians who believe in good government, because there are some jobs only the government can do.”)
It’s a short book, one that reviewers have pointed out reads like a great commencement speech. That’s not a criticism though. The book is rousing, intelligent, and uses the past to illuminate the present, which happens all too seldom. And, for me, it turned out to be just what was needed to fend off the despair that comes with tragedies like this oil spill.
Let There Be Better Light
it's landed -- well, more like it's hovering
Who knew I’d spend so much time considering lights while on my little break? Stuff like that matters, though. The way I feel at home is all about my physical surroundings. That is why I’m certain the old light in the dining room was 50% of the reason for all the shouting at dinner. Once we’ve put a proper bulb in the spaceship, I’ll let you know if it fills us with a mid-century sense that anything is possible in this world, even a peaceful dinner.
Can you see why there was so much uneasiness at the table?
would you like some mead with your unhappy meal?
Fifty Things
so far anyway
1. teach the boys to make brownies
2. eat dinner in the Mission
3. sell a book
4. rescue mother in law’s books, the ones in boxes in the garage
5. use my sewing machine
6. read the Three Musketeers
7. great retro green cloth binders – use them
8. run out of pencils
9. make a table from reclaimed wood
10. get the perfect tattoo
11. recover those chairs, the 1950s chairs from the Kaiser Building I got for free
12. re-read Pudd’nhead Wilson
13. sell something on craigslist; maybe more than one
14. spend an afternoon in North Beach
15. commute by ferry and bike — in July, September, or October, when that would be beautiful
16. figure out what to do with all that great flannel fabric
17. grow some herbs
18. attach the pencil sharpener and use it (see 8 above)
19. write a short story
20. thank David Marshall for being such a great professor in college
21. ditto Drew Clark
22. have another Little House on the Prairie month
23. use that doctor’s bag Jack carried in the Wizard of Oz
24. honor Helen, our neighbor who died last year, by planting a rose bush
25. write an episode of a television show
26. plant a fruit tree
27. send a postcard to my parents; maybe more than one
28. make a series of drawings of family life
29. spend a month out of the car
30. walk the Berkeley Pathways
31. have a picnic
32. put up a canopy
33. make margaritas
34. play board games under the canopy
35. make sweetbreads
36. take the boys to the café at Chez Panisse
37. learn how to change a bike tire
38. play mini golf
39. use a grommet
40. help an orchid come back to life
41. watch It Happened One Night
42. ditto Easy Living
43. have a 30s screwball comedy film festival under the canopy
44. wear more hats
45. use a staple gun
46. paint some furniture
47. figure out how many pairs of shoes I really need
48. eat in Oakland’s Chinatown
49. have one of those huge mission burritos
50. thank my parents
Tools
pencils: japantown, san francisco
I have too many pencils. So many, that they’re not tools anymore. They’re little writing fetishes. I googled “fetish” by the way, just be sure I’m using that word right. Indeed: ”A fetish (from the French fétiche; which comes from the Portuguese feitiço; and this in turn from Latin facticius, “artificial” and facere, “to make”) is an object believed to have supernatural powers, or in particular, a man-made object that has power over others. Essentially, fetishism is the attribution of inherent value or powers to an object.”
I’ve never understood why wikipedia links to words like “French.” Do we really need a definition of “French”? Not any more than I need a dozen beautiful black Japanese pencils sitting around in a glass vase, looking like good writing, and not being used to produce it.
