Tag Archives: reading

Carnival

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someday we'll wrap something with those ribbons

First of all, I’m aware we’re supposed to be in the ashes-on-the-forehead part of the Lenten season, if you’re one of the people who participates in that particular religious season.  But I don’t have any ash pictures to festoon this post, and also I believe in festooning, and ashes just don’t do that.  Ever.   But there is the bowl full of Christmas ribbons and the masks a kid brought home from a trip, so what better festoon-ish thing than THAT, I ask?

Second of all, I’d also like to say that I’m not very fond of the ashes-on-the-forehead anyway.  Probably this is because my mother never took us to the Wednesday mass where they rubbed the ashes into your forehead.  This wasn’t because Wednesdays were inconvenient either.  After all, she took us to everything else, being a woman who totally touched all the bases as she hit the grand slam homer that is the Catholic mother who gets five children to church ever single Sunday of their childhood.  Plus, a couple of us were confirmed, even though I’m pretty sure we weren’t really feeling it.   My small act of confirmation rebellion was to give myself a boy’s name (I believe I chose Nathan), just so I could bug the bishop who was there to confirm us.  My friend, Margaret Daheim was, I believe, Nicholas.

I’m pretty sure my mom didn’t like the ashes because they were a downer.  Lent’s enough of a downer, what with all the fish and the giving up of chocolate.  This Lent, I figure it’s enough to plunk the bowl of ribbons and the mask right in the middle of the living room, so we can all remember that life’s a silly enough affair, and we should never take anything too seriously, and never so seriously that we smudge burnt up things on our foreheads.

Which brings me to Montaigne (a book!  yes!  a book!  It’s like I’m sneaking ground up carrots into your jello or something.)  I recently read Sarah Bakewell’s really terrific biography of Montaigne (Michel, de). And one thing I wrote down, because I liked it so much (and I ended up liking HIM so much) was this thing he said, which is directly applicable to not taking oneself too seriously:

“If others examined themselves attentively, as I do, they would find themselves, as I do, full of inanity and nonsense.  Get rid of it, I cannot without getting rid of myself.  We are all steeped in it, one as much as another, but those who are aware of it are a little better off — though I don’t know.”  -Montaigne

So:  Don’t take yourself too seriously.   Change your mind every once in a while (“though I don’t know”).  And eat some chocolate.

Have a fabulous weekend.

More Summer 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

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.

Spies of the BalkansI 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!