Counterbalance

Swiftian Sadness

I've finished Graham Swift's latest novel, Wish You Were Here, and it was all that I've missed in the years that I've not read any of his work. Big aches, long-held sadness, hoped-for-solutions that never come. He is a writer who understands the nature of the human soul and reveals our own nature to us patiently, without fanfare, so that his ability to know each of us is not an ah-ha moment mid-novel but a slowly building sense -- and relief -- that our deepest sadnesses and greatest unspoken fears are fully known.

I didn't find myself marking every other sentence for its brilliance or even noting story structure while reading (something I often over-analyze mid-read which makes for a mess of expectations and let downsthat are entirely of my own making). I was simply in the story. In the pain of it. In the character's own lack of awareness and then awareness. In each family member's fumbling attempt to control their own destiny, to claim it in some way, to mark it as something not-inevitable.

It's been a week or so and it has hung around me like a cloak. Swift has a way of illuminating profound loss so exquisitely that it seeps into me and takes hold of me. I've had a hard time shaking it off.

 Stacey D'Erasmo at NYT captures Swift's ability well in her review:

"He has what might be described as an old-­fashioned humanist sensibility; the unearthing of buried emotion, and the consequences of that unearthing, is his métier. Jamesian in sensibility and to some degree in style, he finds tragedy in the most ordinary conversation, redemption in the way one character offers another an umbrella. You forget how piercing this sort of thing can be until you see Swift doing it so well, and with such patience. The depth of field in a Swift novel, thematically and emotionally, is vast. At his best, he suggests that looking intently at the smallest, most mundane thing can yield a glimpse into the meaning of life."

This is a beautiful book. One of Swift's best. Would love to know if you've read it and what you thought.

The Weight of Ink

i got a tattoo (my first. only?) last week
and though i did not expect it
the experience changed me

all the fear of needles
all the fear of blood throughout my life
the fainting at doctor's offices, passing out during violent movies
(i still have not seen the needle to the heart scene in Pulp Fiction without hands covering my eyes)
all the fear of judgement
the concern about what others think of me (the tattoo placed in just the spot where i may be possibly-judged daily so I can learn to let it go)
i embraced that fear and i owned it, if only for a day 
the day of the first tattoo 

and what the poem, its title now inked, means to me
its title and its rally cry now permanently part of me
what it means to me in terms of living
in terms of making this life mean something
in terms of standing up for myself
for those who are not given the same freedoms i enjoy
in terms of shedding all the judgement from my mother
all the fear she instilled in me
in terms of celebrating all those i've lost in my life
the examples they set for me of a better way to live, unencumbered by fear

where it happened also mattered
though i had planned to get the tattoo weeks later in another city entirely

oh the power of place
the power of place as character in my life
getting the tattoo at that shop, in that place, and all the memories tied up for me in san diego
the shedding of what i once was, finally, becoming someone i truly am and not being afraid of someone not liking it, no longer afraid of someone deeming me somehow not enough (or too much)

it felt like the best kind of fuck you
it felt like the best kind of here i am
it felt like the best kind of "it's okay to be happy after everything you've been through"
it felt like the years of not rocking the boat, of avoiding confrontation, of holding together a family of alcoholics had come to an end
it felt like home
and joe, the artist who would mark me
and his galway accent and all we discussed within moments of meeting each other
all the connections to Ireland, to the bar I met my husband in, to the long lost Irish belonging I felt moments off the plane in Dublin
and the solar eclipse, so auspicious on the day of our meeting, of his suggestion, only hours into knowing me, that i might be someone who'd over-think their tattoo and mind-fake themselves into not getting it (oh, really? you don't say...)
appointment for late june cancelled
appointment for two days later noted in the books
joe would mark me on a tuesday

and then

watching that first line of the h
feeling it burn my skin
watching the curve of the s, the arc of the a
then all that excitement and all that fear and all that adrenaline crashing down
upon me, around me, inside me
sweating
cold
dizzy a bit
i had to look away
i had planned to go in there and be a champ
for him
for me
for everyone in the room
that's how i saw it going down in my mind
but i faltered
i was not a champ, but i had wanted to be
and i was there, in that chair
and it was happening
and i had made it happen
there was an inevitability to it that was beautiful
and wasn't that something?

the way he distracted me during the tense moments
reminding me to breathe
asked me about a conversation my brother and i had two days before
during my brother's tattoo
joe was the old lady you don't think is listening, but he is oh he is
he remembered about the wine. i was touched.
had i finally told my brother which bottle it was i forgot to bring?
i had.
and what did my brother think of that, joe asked.
i looked at my brother.
he said it was an amazing bottle i'd left behind. he was sad we could not drink it.
(the 2001 Chateau d'Yquem awaits)
i know, i said. but at least it exists in this world.
and joe repeated it with a laugh and a smile.
at least it exists in this world.

and we were all there in the moment of my undoing and remaking
we were there to witness it together and each of them in the room had a sense of how big it was for me
they had an idea
but they could not possibly have known how big
i didn't even know until the drilling stopped
until i felt that swipe of the glove and the vaseline applied (that i had seen so many times on my friend's tattoos or on any reality tattoo show, you pick) and i realized the tattoo - and the experience of getting my first - was over.

and i was exhilarated and proud of myself.
and sad.
i had not wanted this moment of personal triumph to be over so soon.
i wanted to luxuriate in it. extend it.
i asked questions. too many.
about tattoo care.
about the next time.
didn't want it to end.
didn't want to break the spell.
he said he was honored to be the first to mark me.
i, as an open wound (literally), took that in and owned it. instead of the usual inner voice that would say "ah, he says that to everyone", i just took it. believed it.
was honored right back.

and then

out on the street, the sun shining, we're in search of a guinness
in search of a way to celebrate
to seal the deal that was already permanently ink-sealed
to celebrate that i had done it
to celebrate that my brother could not believe it
to celebrate all that had come before in san diego
to celebrate and honor all that i was leaving behind, shedding, saying goodbye to
so as to make room for all that lies ahead

and we drank
and we toasted
to tattoos
to firsts
to san diego
to fucked up families
to art
to bravery
to all that lies ahead

it's been a week since i got my tattoo
i don't want this spell to end
this experience - this minor tattoo - holds more in it for me than any gift of any monetary value i could give myself
the gift? permission
to be me, unapologetically
to be imperfect
to be vulnerable
to accept i deserve happiness on my own terms
to know those terms will change and to be fine with it

i'm emboldened now in ways i never had been before
don't like me? fine
don't like this permanent mark on my wrist? also fine
getting to "fine"
getting to "take me as i am and all i'm trying to become"
may sound simple to you, though it is everything to me
i have finally become, in part, the person i'd hoped i would be

this mark on my body may seem like a cliche to you
or misguided or something to future-regret 
to me, it ushers in an entirely new era of possibilities
if i can do this thing i never thought i'd be brave enough to do
what else will i accomplish with my newly found nerve?

I Was Bad at Book Alley

I've waxed poetic about Book Alley before. But they moved. And my life got crazy busy. And I haven't been there in a very long time. On Sunday, though, I woke with Daisy Mint on the brain (so scrumptious) and Book Alley is mere steps away. For a thai-loving book geek, I can't think of a better two-fer in Los Angeles. Daisy Mint for lunch. Book Alley for post-thai browsing.

I spent Sunday afternoon doing exactly this and I came away with some unexpected finds:

• A first edition of Lydia Millet's Omnivores, complete with a loose author photo (from Algonquin Books) tucked just inside the front cover. I've been looking for a hardcover version of this for some time, so I was delighted to find this gem tucked away in the M section.
• The beautifully appointed The Art of East Asia, a two-volume set from Koenemann. Not only are the contents fascinating and creatively invigorating, the way the book has been put together is stunning. The interior covers have a subtly printed paper that I caressed for at least ten minutes. The attention to detail in presenting the book as book -- as a beautiful thing to hold in one's hands and really relish -- reminded me a bit of Craig Mod's recent "Hack the Cover" piece about book design in a digital book world. This collection is worthy of its own post, so expect that forthcoming.
• Four books in the larger (how large?) collection of Masterworks of Ukiyo-e. These are also worthy of their own post.

All the art books will only be with me temporarily as they are gifts for a friend who does amazing traditional Japanese tattoo work and who will, I hope, draw much inspiration from all that is contained within their pages.

And yet. The books are in my care for a few more weeks and I plan to fully soak up all their hard-to-find goodness (I've also set alerts at every out-of-print specialist to wrangle copies of my own). I promise to do them justice by sharing their yumminess with all of you. Stay tuned.

I Was Bad at Vroman's

I went in for Elaine Dundy's Dud Avocado, I left with so much more. Such is a visit to Vroman's on a glorious Sunday in Pasadena. Bookish haul includes:

• The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy
• The Angry Buddhist by Seth Greenland
• Suddenly, A Knock at the Door by Etgar Keret
• A Naked Singularity by Sergio De La Pava
• Wish You Were Here by Graham Swift

I had no idea, when I waxed poetic about Graham Swift recently, that he had a new novel out. Though the title leaves much to be desired (really? there wasn't ANY other title that felt more original?), I am now deciding if I should re-read all that came before or just dive in as I would a chocolate bar after a chocolate fast (which I've never done, mind you, I'm not that crazy)?

Also: I finished Ben Lerner's Leaving the Atocha Station last night. Holy hell. I love, love, loved it. So beautiful. So spare and yet expansive. So full of all the things we think but never say. So full of all the contradiction we hold within and yet try so hard to pretend we have polished. Still thinking over this one. I don't want to start anything else until I've savored this one a bit longer. Have you read it? Do tell.

Reader-Writer Moment #515

I've been reading Steve Erickson's These Dreams of You in fits and starts. It's been a crazy week of work, so this novel has become a strange respite (mostly because it is in no way a respite) from work madness. The novel has its own internal madness going on, so it has made for an odd reading week.

Two bits have stayed with me, though, and I keep thinking back on them when I'm on six back to back conference calls day after day (and if you can be on my mind during all of that, that's something, no?):

 "This is prosperity, he bays at them beneath montana nights, calculated as much by what's polluted, what's killed, what's secured and incarcerated, but never by a child's delight, a poem's spell, the immutable power of a kept promise. It's a prosperity that measures everything that means nothing and nothing that means everything. It tells all of us, he concludes to the crowds, everything about our country except why it's ours."

                                                   

 "I don't know how much time I have," he says, "to become the person that I hope I am."

 

Neither of these passages give you any idea - in a tangible way - what this novel is about. And yet, they do. I'm not yet at the point where I'm clear how I even feel about the book. I was very much into it early on, lost some steam during the Kennedy stuff, now I'm in a haze that might be more related to too much work than a failing of the novel.

I'll circle back on this one though, as Erickson is attempting to do something interesting that I admire whether he succeeds fully or not.

Post-Read Reviews

I hide my eyes from all reviews about a book until I've read it. Then, particularly if I had a strong reaction to a book, I'll take my time thinking about it for a week or two and then curiosity gets the best of me. What did others think? Am I the only one who liked it/hated it? If we agree, did we agree on the same things? If we disagreed, do I agree with the ways in which we disagree? I have to know.

And so, almost a week to the day that I finished The Vanishers by Heidi Julavits (a book I really dug and thought was a lot of fun and didn't take itself too seriously), I'm peeking around to see what others thought.

• The Rumpus found the novel "provocative and full of hefty, even academic ideas--at its best, a nouveau feminist manifesto."
• Salon/The Barnes & Noble Review finds that "Julavits avoids the form’s faux flavor by hewing carefully to emotional truth."
• SF Weekly thinks "Like everything in Julavits' fiction, this grows more fascinating — and mysterious — the more you read. That's also true for the fiction itself — here is a novelist whose audacity is matched only by her inventiveness and power. And, shit, she's funny, too."
• The Globe and Mail liked it, but of course had to mention that goddamn Believer manifesto from eons ago and then swirl it into a smarmy closing point that was nothing if not forced. Julavits must be equally tired of that same song being played every time she does press. So she wrote a manifesto. Years ago. Let it go.
• NYT is less impressed and I agree with their plot critique and where it gets too mired in detail for its own good. To wit: "While the language remains vivid, its satisfactions are overwhelmed by the confusion of the overdetermined plot."

So, there you have it. Seems I'm not entirely crazy for digging this book as much as I do. Always nice to know. I'm often way out there on my own, loving something that everyone thinks is rubbish. Or, most often, really not liking the novel everyone is swooning about. Ah, well. The fun games we play post-read.

Lit Bits & A Bit About The Vanishers

Several writers I admire have recently written pieces I enjoyed quite a bit:

• Walter Kirn's GQ piece explores the requisite (or not) empathy a presidential candidate must exude in order to win hearts and minds. Money quote: "My theory is that in the Oprah-haunted '90s, when self-help had supplanted public-policy as the preferred path to widespread human betterment, the press needed an apolitical way to talk about politics. They made it about feelings. They made it about identifying, relating. They forgot about Harvard and Yale, the will-to-power, the ruthlessness that is ambition's twin, and finally they forgot about us. They forgot that we want to salute, not share a hug, and that we don't mind a little remoteness if its offset by wisdom, strength, and intellect." Indeed.
• Jim Hanas interviews Douglas Rushkoff over at Co.Create and they get into an interesting conversation about the role reversal of artists & technologists. And branding. Since I spend the majority of my days working with clients on branding and being authentic in their digital communications with customers, this struck me as spot-on: "[But] it’s not about creating a mythology around the way a product was created, so it’s no longer 'these were cookies made by elves in a hollow tree.' That’s not the value of the brand. The value of the brand is where did this actually come from? What’s in this cookie? Who made it? Are Malaysian children losing their fingers in the cookie press or is this being made by happy cookie culture people?"
• Roger Boylan at Boston Review offers a considered look at The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes in the context of the Barnes back list. Appropriate because I just mooned over Barnes yesterday? Perhaps. But also: "Stylistically, Barnes’s stock-in-trade is quotidian realism, leavened with mild satire and total recall of the feel of the past, frequently of that moment when adolescence becomes adulthood and youthful hope yields to reality." Could this be why I uber-pine for that time when I discovered Barnes? Certainly.

Heidi Julavits has written a new novel, The Vanishers, which kicked so much ass it's crazy:

• I've read three novels since. Can't stop thinking about The Vanishers.
• It was sly and silly and smart and sad all at once - my favorite kind of novel.
• It reminded me of the most exhilarating bits of The End of Mr. Y  by Scarlett Thomas. (They are not so similar, really, but my experience reading both novels was similar. Another world that I could perhaps not relate to, but that I some how could entirely. Giddy all the while.)
• I was fully immersed in the other-worldly world she created but loved, loved, loved how she managed to weave in some rather naked truths about our relationships with others and ourselves in a way that felt honest and true and revelatory.
• It is very possible I dug this novel so much because it accessed some of my own hidden truths about my relationship with my mother (before and after her death) and the relationship others willed me to have with my mother (mostly after she passed) not to help me in any way but to help themselves grieve.
• It could also be that I've hated every novel I've picked up this year that wasn't in some way related to Murakami and so I may simply be glad to have my book loving vibe back again or it may be that Murakami has altered my perspective in such a way that I simply cannot love a novel that is entirely of this world.
• And so. There is much more to say here and though I intentionally shy away from "proper book reviews" I may well write a separate post on The Vanishers once I've had time to digest it all.
• Then again, I may not, so consider this firm praise and a "buy" recommendation. Please read it. Would love to have a chat with you after you're finished.

Formative Reads

I've had the same conversation several times over the past few weeks at various bookish events. It never starts the same way, but it invariably gets to the same spot: a few novelists I discovered in college and in the years just after that I find myself wanting to revisit.

I believe it began with Muriel Spark which led to Jeanette Winterson which somehow led to Graham Swift. Julian Barnes was required reading for my french film studies (the film: Madame Bovary, the required book: Flaubert's Parrot) and Barnes somehow led me to Banville.

I'm strangely possessive of these writers because they gave me so much to think about and seemed to "get" me and the kinds of things I'd hoped to write at the precise time in my life when I needed to be gotten, so confused was I about my own talents and aspirations and dreams in the literary scene. (Working for a not-so-lovely lit agent did not help matters, but I digress.)

I've never re-read their work because I've somehow relegated their novels and essays to that time in my life, that period of grasping onto ideas and devouring them whole, keeping whatever literary nutrients I could to propel me forward. There was also, of course, my near total obsession with Vintage International books at that time. It didn't hurt that many of these books were issued by Vintage with their delectable and infinitely collectible color-coded spines. (Another digression, worthy of many posts.)

It may be that I'm nostalgic for all that grasping and hoping. Or perhaps I'm just tired of the new new new novel that has become de riguer reading in many literary parts. These writers and the works I read back then are calling to me in a way I can't ignore. Just thinking of Swift's Waterland brightens me up. Spark's Loitering With Intent is a classic I'd like to be steeped in again. Winterson's Art & Lies is begging to be rediscovered. A re-read of Banville's Book of Evidence sounds like home.

Read More, Write More, Share More, Learn More Redux

Remember this? It's a go. Finally.

First up: Broadcastr.

Stay tuned.

Reader-Writer Moment #511

Though I often preface a reader-writer moment with detail about how and why a certain passage resonates with me, I offer this without comment as all is contained within:

"It's one of the most curious sensations that can be granted us by the chance of meetings and absences: that of being alone in an ordinarily full, noisy, or belonging-to-someone-else house. We suddenly have a sensation of absolute possession, of easy, long control, of amplitude -- as I said -- of relief and tranquility.

How good it is to be alone for a long time! To be able to talk out loud to ourselves, walk around without the bother of being seen, rest after a divagation without calls! Any house turns into a field, any room is as big as an estate.

All noises are alien, as if they belonged to a nearby but independent universe. We are, finally, kings."

                            -Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, #137