Book: BitchFest

ed. by Lisa Jervis & Andi Zeisler, 2006.

300-plus pages of inspiration, critique, hope, and, of course, some bitching. I accidentally lost my back issues of Bitch, which I started reading in college, but thanks to this anthology, I can reread some of the best pieces any time I want. I can also dip into the list of resources at the end of the book for further feminist-y goodness.

Special favorite story status goes to "Full Frontal Offense: Bringing Abortion Rights to the Ts" by my college advisor and favorite professor, Dr. Rebecca Hyman.

Film: Slither

Gross out! This movie was totally disgusting and really funny. I could pretty much watch Nathan Fillion all day long. Plus it was full of trashy people cussing in Southern accents.

Me: "Where do you think this movie is set?"
Jenny: "West fucking Virginia."


Slither
dir. by James Gunn, 2006

Happy 100th Post!

In honor of reaching triple digits, this post is devoted to a few of the Heroines and Female Role Models in my personal pop culture lexicon.

The entire Bitch Magazine crew: I never feel smarter or more inspired than I do after reading an issue of Bitch.

Neko Case: Her voice is enough to buoy me up when I'm feeling small or weak.

Martha Gellhorn: Fearless.

Veronica Mars: I have this love letter in my head to Veronica, which might appear here someday soon. She's the barometer against which I measure most decisions.

Rose Tyler: She breaks my heart every time. A world-saver.

Film: Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End

This was definitely the weirdest movie I've seen in the past six months (and I think that's saying a lot considering the things I'm likely to watch). But it was also huge and fun and hot, with sexy thigh-kissing and dirty pirate sweet-talking. And hottie Naomie Harris on top of all that. Not a bad way to kick off the summer movie season, I'd say. And way, way better than the previous Pirates movie.


Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End
dir. by Gore Verbinski, 2007

On Heroes

The city is smothered in smoke today, and even inside my eyes are watering. Perfect time, I think, to write a little bit about this season of Heroes, which ended last night.

I saw a version of the pilot months in advance--it generated enough buzz around our house to turn heads. I waited, in anticipation, for the season to start, hoping against hope that what seemed like a fairly complicated show, with a definite geek bias, could survive on network TV.

The premiere aired on NBC differed slightly from the pilot, mostly dropping difficult or unwieldy plot threads (Isaac cutting off his hand), and it was for the best. Even so, the story was slow to start--hanging on in those first few weeks was a bit difficult, but the premise pretty much guaranteed that things would kick into gear eventualy.

And when it did, boy, was it crazy. No other show made us shriek with excitment in quite the same way. Frequently, the only thing to be said at the end of an episode was, "WTF?!?" (Hiro and the dinosaur painting, remember?) Heroes plowed through enough plot to keep most writers churning out scripts for seasons. The show tossed about a thousand balls in the air, and out of that thousand, managed to only drop one or two (Hana "Wireless" Gitelman). The plotlines were all distinct, easy to remember from one week to the next, and the insane numbers of characters never got confusing. How do you have a show with 20 main characters and not confuse the average TV viewer? It's a feat, to be sure.

Maybe in retrospect (or in a marathon DVD viewing), the various plot twists and turns won't make as much sense. I know the constant bitching about saving the world and destiny and responsibility have the potential to be redundant and annoying--they were to a certain extent even when watching weekly.

But I can only speak for myself, and I know that the first season of Heroes is going to be forever burned into my brain as one of the TV events of a lifetime. I'll be referencing the show in conversation years from now, I'm sure, the same way we reference the Avengers and old issues of X-Men while watching it now.

That geek bias gives a story deep roots to pull from, and Heroes made the most of it, without doubt.

From the Pitchfork archives

I just discovered a short but neat Pitchfork column on Cloak & Dagger, my favorite cameo-making superheroes in the Marvel universe.

This totally renews my desire to go to DragonCon as Dagger this year. Anybody got a tap on a cheap source of white spandex?

Today's reading

I feel bad for my library copy of The Thin Place, because I just haven't been able to get into it. This is not the book's fault. Undoubtedly it is the fault of my schedule, which has been bordering on criminally insane in recent weeks.

I'll get to it eventually.

But today I'm too busy sneaking pages of Alan DeNiro while I'm supposed to be working. Thanks to the Litblog Co-Op, I now have a fun-sized version of 5 stories from Skinny Dipping in the Lake of the Dead, plus a few extras.

Plus storySouth has posted their Million Writers Awards Notable Stories of 2006. I'm thinking my best bet would be to print a bunch out and take them with me on vacation this weekend. Because, you know, I do have to do some actual work in this workday.

Comics: Buffy season 8

"The Long Way Home" by Joss Whedon et al (2007).

Read as monthly single issues. Some story stuff in this arc didn't track for me, didn't quite make sense, but I trust and I'm willing to go with it to see where it leads. The rest of it, the stuff that did make sense, I loved.

From the OA archives

I just got my copy of Oxford American's 2007 Southern Movie Issue in the mail, and I am in love already. Super-smart film writing, an entire article devoted to Dick Powell, a DVD mixtape, plus tons and tons of movies mentioned that I've never seen.

And speaking of, they've posted an article they ran in the first Southern Movie Issue they did, back in 2002, listing
13 Essential Southern Documentaries.

A (small) compendium of beautiful things

Davis, Kathryn. The Thin Place. "The world was strange from day one. Let there be light, God said, and there was light. There is probably nothing more beautiful and implausible than the world, nothing that makes less sense, the gray bud of the willow, silky and soft, the silk-white throat of the cobra, the wish of nature or humans to subsume all living matter in fire and flood. I will hurt you, hurt you, hurt you, says the world, and then a meadow arches its back and golden pollen sprays forth."

Landakotskirkja, Reykjavik. Catholic cathedral.

Pedalturista. London to Paris by bike.

Book: The End of Mr. Y

by Scarlett Thomas (2006).

Intense mystery story with lots of really good bits, lots of awkwardly written bits, and enough Heidegger to make me want to recommend it to all my friends with philosophy degrees. The end more than made up for any sagging in the middle.

***

Bookslut has a review of the book, and an interview with mild spoilers.

In case you wondered

Yes, my life currently is a song by The Hold Steady. Nights at the bar now involve nicknames and practical jokes about STDs, twin sister strippers who make out with each other and everyone else, beers poured without asking, boys who fawn over my tattoos, and still no one I'd want to wake up to in the morning finally a boy who calls when he says he will.

He likes the warm feeling but he's tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights were crystal clear but tonite it's like we're stuck between stations
--The Hold Steady

Book: Blue Noon

Midnighters vol. 3--by Scott Westerfeld (2006).

Sometimes I get stuck in a comic book rut. You know, when you read too many comic books all in a row, and then your brain can only think in those picture panels and snippets of dialogue. Happens to me all the time.

I usually start to ache for a novel pretty badly, once I've run through my comic book supply. The problem is, most novels are too long, too stodgy-sounding, too dull for my brain at this point. It also doesn't help if I've been gorging on good tv...

Enter the Midnighters series. These books always come to my rescue in moments like this. I wandered around the library aimlessly a few days ago, until I spotted book number three of this trilogy, and knew it would be perfect for digging my way out of the comic book rut.

This book was just as amazing as the rest of the series, plus bonus points for the ending. These characters absolutely live inside me now. I wish there were more books on the way. I don't want this world to end.

Graphic Novel: Runaways Vol. 2

by Brian K. Vaughan, Adrian Alphona, et al. (2006)

Would you be surprised if I said I breezed through this volume in one morning? I was never a tights and cape kind of girl, but now I'm finding myself strangely addicted to superhero fights and battle cries ("Try not to die"). And this volume left me wanting to know what happens next pretty badly.

Graphic Novel: Pride of Baghdad

by Brian K. Vaughan and Niko Henrichon (2006).

Gorgeous, stunning art. The story is little, I don't know, heavy-handed in its allusions. But it still broke my heart at the end.

Prayers tonight to the hockey gods

Book: New Orleans, Mon Amour

by Andrei Codrescu (2006).

This book collects twenty years of Codrescu's writings on New Orleans, starting in 1985 and taking us all the way up to the present. Only four short pieces focus on the city after Katrina (and they are, I think, the weakest of the bunch).

Codrescu, who contributes every once in a while to NPR, turns a poetic eye on his adopted city, and it suits the myth of NOLA well. Those of us who never saw the city before the big storm will never really know if things were the way he presents them. But it's fun to imagine that they were.

Hottie of the Day

As a joke, at the Thrashers' last regular season game against Tampa Bay, I started yelling at the ice, "Shut up, Lacavalier! Don't be such a hottie!" It might be one of those you-had-to-be-there things, but the phrase has become a common refrain now. Frequent targets include: all the boys on Smallville, Sydney Crosby, our favorite bartender at the pub, and absolutely NO ONE playing for the Rangers.

Tonight's the Thrashers first playoff game. Like first ever. I've got great tickets, friends who are being honored (or laughed at) on the Jumbotron, posters to make, and lots of celebrating to do.

And the target of today's "Don't be such a hottie!" refrain? Kari Lehtonen, of course. Word is he had blue hair at yesterday's practice, but it's gone tonight for the game. Wouldn't want to give Sean Avery anything to make fun of our boys about.

Jenny says I'm fully allowed to start a fight with a Rangers fan after the game. I almost got kicked out of the pub last night for talking trash to the owner, who grew up with the Rangers. Apparently the amount of serious that people think I am is directly proportional to the amount of F-words I use. Got to watch out for that in the future.

Book: Tapping the Dream Tree

by Charles de Lint (2003).

This collection was nowhere near as consistent as Dreams Underfoot, the first book of Newford stories that I read (and loved). Still, de Lint hits a lot of notes that resonate with me. I'd already read the last story presented here, "Seven Wild Sisters" (my library had a copy of the version illustrated by Charles Vess); it's a fun romp through Appalachian storytelling. Plus I love any mention of fiddlers. That's probably why my favorite story out of this book was "Ten for the Devil," which also got bonus points for featuring Robert Johnson.

Really? Hockey again?

Yeah. It's just about the only thing I can concentrate on at the moment. Jenny and I watched the Sabres pretty much help themselves to the Eastern conference title last night--but really we were only tuned in for Sydney Crosby. Well, and Jordan Staal.

Actually we were watching with one eye on the other score listings. Last night could have been great for the Thrashers, but unfortunately Tampa Bay beat Carolina. This means Atlanta can't clinch the division title tonight against Washington.

My guess? It's going to be down to the wire for the Southeast division title. I'd love to see us clinch it before Saturday, but really, I'd also like to see us battle it out with Tampa Bay for that third slot in the playoffs. Those are the kinds of games that go down in history. Those are the kinds of games that cause fights on Marta on the way home.

Unleash the f-ing fury

The big news today is that the Thrashers have clinched the playoffs, thanks to Toronto's loss to the Rangers yesterday.

I've already got tickets to one of the first-round games. I couldn't be more excited.

These last three regular season games are going to be a big deal--the division title is still up in the air, with Tampa Bay only three points behind us at the moment.

What a freaking awesome first season to be a fan.

Book: This Is Not Chick Lit

edited by Elizabeth Merrick (2006).

Pretty good on the whole, though I outright skipped some stories in the second half.

Favorites:
"Documents of Passion Love" by Carolyn Ferrell
"Joan, Jeanne, La Pucelle, Maid of Orleans" by Judy Budnitz
"An Open Letter to Doctor X" by Francine Prose
"Selling the General" by Jennifer Egan
"The Epiphany Branch" by Mary Gordon
"The Seventy-two Ounce Steak Challenge" by Dika Lam

Book: Special Topics in Calamity Physics

by Marisha Pessl (2006).

This might go on record as my favorite book read in 2007. I plowed through its 500+ pages in three days, sneaking in time to read during lunch, when I should have been asleep, even while I was at work.

There are few things I love more than a good mystery, with a wise-beyond-her-years girl detective ferreting out clues and piecing together theories (see Veronica Mars, seasons 1 and 2). Add to that copious literary and film references, a sometimes hysterical send-up of academia, and tiny mentions of towns I've been to (or been near), and you have a book I'm practically guaranteed to love.

It's funny to me that I keep finding books with these elements, reading and loving them (see King Dork, Frank Portman; Him Her Him Again The End of Him, Patricia Marx). Is there something in the water right now?

Anyway, I fully recommend this book, and I can't wait to see what Pessl comes out with next.

***

Number of books I've read from Blue's "Required Reading" list: 8 (out of 36)

Percentage of references I understood: 85 (rough estimate)

Date of Bookslut interview with Marisha Pessl, which contains a few spoilers, so be careful: September 2006

Official book website's coolness points: 10 (out of 10)

Poem of the day

Barbara Hamby's "Ode to My Wasted Youth" (4th one down). The others on the page are good too.

Book: A Curtain of Green and Other Stories

by Eudora Welty (1941).

A truly great collection of short stories by one of my new favorite writers. I'm on this whole Southern lit kick right now, and Miss Eudora is the queen of my world. I honestly can't believe she wasn't taught in any of the writing classes I've taken.

Her stories are intensely Southern in this great tway--a tonal quality that made my whole body slow down while reading them. They're funny and sad, usually at the same time, and obsessed with ruin, despair, the slow rot that happens here in the land of infernal heatwaves. "Why I Live at the P.O." is a classic, of course. Other favorites of mine included "The Petrified Man," "Death of Traveling Salesman" (her first published story), "A Piece of News," and "A Worn Path," along with a bunch of others whose titles I can't remember off the top of my head. Every story in this collection, really.

Hiking at Sweetwater Creek

Record hot day yesterday, and of course I had already decided to go hiking out at Sweetwater Creek. What I thought was a sunburn by the time I got home turned out to be nothing more than a flush from the extreme heat.

But everything about the day and the place was beautiful. The creek is more like a river, with rocky shoals that cause the water to rush and divert into pools and side streams. I assume it's granite under the water--there's a very large vein that runs through Atlanta--but I'm not entirely sure.

The highlight of the hike, of course, was the Civil War era ruins of the New Manchester Manufacturing Company. During the war, this mill was one of the two largest suppliers of textiles to the Confederate forces in the area (the other mill was on Vickery Creek, and its ruins still stand as well). When Union troops marched on Atlanta, they arrested the workers at both mills and imprisoned them, then burned the mills. Of course, since most men of working age were fighting in the war, this meant the women and children were working the mills. The prisoners were taken north, made to pledge allegiance to the United States and promise not to return to the South until the war was over. If they refused, they remained imprisoned for the rest of the war. Amazingly enough, historical sources report that most of the workers made it back to Georgia after the war.

Book: Best of the Oxford American

edited by Marc Smirnoff (2002).

I love OA so much it's unreal. When I was in Arkansas, I visited the campus of UA in Conway, where it's published, and I had to physically restrain myself from storming the offices and professing my love for everyone there. Sometimes I actually wish I lived closer to Arkansas, so I could go to the events they put on and whatnot.

This book did not disappoint. It includes a few selections of the best writing from a broad range of sections: fiction, poetry, music, religion, eats, book views, first person, etc. All of the articles were interesting, even if I had no idea who or what they were about. I especially loved Barry Hannah piece from the religion section, and Rosanne Cash's first person article. Seriously, who knew Rosanne Cash could write so well?

Also completely awesome are the three previously unpublished stories by more famous Southern authors: William Faulkner, Zora Neale Hurston, and Walker Percy.

I think the only piece in the whole book I didn't like, and we all knew I wouldn't no matter what, was the stupid poem by John Updike. I won't even type what it's about. It's disgraceful.

Flowering trees everywhere

Did I mention it's spring in the South? Seriously, I never remembering loving Florida springs like I am loving this one. Today on the way home from lunch, my boss and I identified all the flowering trees that we could. Atlanta is thick with them!

The cherry trees are probably my favorites of the moment, but only because the Bradford pear trees are a few days past the all white stage, heading into the green stage. It happens so fast. I barely had time to get a picture before the leafs started unfurling. The tulip magnolias are also a few days past their spring prime--the flower petals are starting to drop off in earnest--but I love them because blossoms always sit upright, like teacups. The dogwoods have only just started to flower. I'm sure in the next month they'll look even more beautiful as they fill out, while the cherry trees snow all over the place.

The last cold snap

This past week has been the last cold snap we'll likely have before spring begins in earnest. March always teases us in Georgia with a handful of 72 degree days in a row, before dropping back down into what we here consider "cold." From here on out, it should be 75 degrees right up until the day it jumps to 90 with no warning.

Yesterday I couldn't stand to stay inside when the sun was shining so brightly, but the air had too much bite for me to want to walk. So I split the difference and went for a long drive instead. All the way up to Dahlonega, to where the Chestatee River follows the roads, rushing over rocks and looking so tempting. I couldn't help a big grin from breaking out when I saw those first Appalachian mountains rise in the distance. From certain points on the road, they spread out all around, all the way out to my periphery.

And then I turned right around in the Dahlonega town square, stereo turned up, singing my way back down the foothills and into the north edge of the city. Back into my basement apartment, with the back deck I can sit on and read, provided I have on a thick enough sweater, with the dozens of books to read, taxes to do, journal entries to write.

Miss Eudora

Exploring Southern Literary Journals

Like Hattiesburg, Mississippi hasn't surprised me enough, today I discovered that they publish The Mississippi Review, which has some pretty good online content.

Black Warrior Review has less stuff online, but I'm partial to anything artistic coming out of Alabama. I'd like to see if someplace like Borders or the library carries this, so I could sit and read through it.

Also, storySouth has a bunch of stuff posted that I'd like to read.

And, in the most exciting news of the day, I finally treated myself to a subscription of The Oxford American.

How much do I fucking love Southern girls?

Maria Taylor: Lost Time

Rising Appalachia: Nobody's Fault

Book: Love is a Mix Tape

by Rob Sheffield (2007).

Normally I wouldn't get all excited for hipster navel-gazing. But the elements of this book--love, marriage, and a big-hipped Appalachian rocker girl--sounded good enough to give it a try. And let me tell you, it was worth it.

Rob Sheffield broke my heart with this book. The story of his wild Southern bride, and how she died, got right to the core of me. Of course it helped that Rob is a great writer. And that he and Renee weren't cooler-than-thou rock writers, but rather fun and pop culture-obsessed lovers of country music, indie circa 1991, and top 40 radio. The kind of people I'd love to drink with. The kind of people I thought Jonathon and I would be. See why it broke my heart?

Anyway, now this book has me listening to Pavement, going back through my old mixes, cursing the fact that I know longer own a tape deck, and creating new ones for myself on my iPod. Oh, and dreaming that I can maybe still have this kind of crazy Southern life and love.

Thank you, Mr. Sheffield.

Film: Pan's Labyrinth

I think perhaps I waited to long to see this movie, and learned to much about it beforehand. I loved it, but nothing in it truly surprised me. Of course, it was a fairy tale, so maybe that's part of the point--this story is kind of timeless, kind of the same as all the other stories we know so well. The visuals were beautiful, totally mesmerizing, and then also sometimes so gross I covered my eyes.

I have no doubt that this movie will stay with me for a long time. Still, I enjoyed The Devil's Backbone more.


Pan's Labyrinth
dir. by Guillermo del Toro, 2006

Book: Prayer: A History

by Carol Zaleski and Philip Zaleski (2006).

One of the most interesting and readable non-fiction books I've tackled in a long time. I don't even know if I can express what about this book was so wonderful to me. I loved the attitude they took in discussing prayer--never sarcastic, always considerate.

I most enjoyed the sections on types of prayers and people who pray, though of course I learned a lot from the whole book, even the sections I was less interested in. I even learned some new prayers, and learned about some new writers, mystics, and saints.

Theatre: Karibu

created and performed by Teatro del Milenio

I don't usually see shows at 7 Stages, because I'm too busy working, or because I've been burned in the past. But Karibu was one of those shows I just couldn't pass up. An Afro-Peruvian piece of dance theatre, comparable to Stomp but performed in Spanish--how do you say no to that?

The first fifteen minutes or so had me worried that I was about to get burned again. But the cheesy, showboating quality of a show-within-a-show put on in a Peruvian restaurant (think Telemundo, really) only served to make the rest of the performance that much more transcendent. The waitstaff/performers became still, stared off into the distance behind the audience, and the real heart of the piece began.

This heart consisted of traditional dancing, something like what I imagine Peruvian ritual dance to have been like, before the Spaniards arrived. The dancers pounded out the rhythm with bamboo poles, whirling dangerously close to the front row. They shook palm fronds, which shed dust and dry leaf bits all over the stage.

Watching all this from the second row, close enough to smell the plant material, to breathe in the dust kicked up, I couldn't help but think about the movements in relation to the book I'm currently reading, Prayer: A History. This dance had a ritual quality to it; but more than than, it served to move me in a way other spectator events have not. The smell, the taste of the dust, the dangerous and messy quality to the whole thing--it all served to reinforce not only the idea of the dance as a demonstration of prayer, but as a very real form of praying going on at that moment. It's hard to write about, and I'm feeling tripped up in my sentences, but I'll lay it out as simply as I can: those dancers were praying for all of us in the audience, and I prayed right there with them.

My concentration was drawn mostly to the principal female dancer, who had the kind of radiant beauty that makes me think of divinity. She shone like the goddesses. And then she left the stage, reemerging in a traditional shaman outfit with a goat (?) mask. I've never seen a shamanistic dance like that in person--it absolutely blew me away. Tears, joy, the whole range of emotions, all with my heart straining towards something bigger, something beyond.

Monastic blogs

Monastery of St. Gertrude

Experiences at St. Gregory's Abbey

A View from the Monastery Kitchen

St. David's Day

Waverly Fitzgerald has a great post over at the Living in Season blog about the daffodil and St. David's Day, which is today.

The mention of daffodils reminded me (as I commented on Waverly's post) of spring on campus. Daffodils bloom all along the hills--I have several memories of walking to and from class, just astounded by how beautiful they make everything look. This is the first spring in four years that I'm not walking to class and getting to revel in that beauty. I miss school sometimes more than I like to admit. I miss having a sense of community firmly rooted in a physical location (and an enchantingly beautiful one at that).

For now, I'm lucky that I can go back and blend in fairly easily, or run into friends and chat. Maybe when it stops raining here, I'll go spend a few peaceful hours in my favorite spots on campus.

Book: Mariana

by Katherine Vaz (2004).

I love you. I love you still. I love you always. I esteem every joy and every sorrow that your love bestows upon me.

Katherine Vaz is a favorite, and her writing never fails to make me cry. The depth of my love for her work is such that I can't even write about why I feel it. She weaves together grand ideas and tiny everyday details, creates ritual out of every movement, and always touches something unnameable inside me.

This was the first novel of hers I've read. Her short stories are so well-crafted they open out like full-length works in my mind. Here, Vaz has much more going on, and for the most part she manages it well. The book lagged a bit in the middle, but picked back up and packed quite a punch at the end.

I also loved the authors note at the end, about Vaz's research and her belief that Mariana herself wrote the famous letters. I had never heard of Mariana Alcoforado before, but if time allows in the future, I would love to learn more about her and monastic life in Portugal.

***
Spark has an interesting interview with Vaz.

Margin profiles Vaz (including links to excerpts from her writing).

Google Books presents a full copy of The Letters of a Portuguese Nun, translated by Edgar Prestage.

Myriam Cyr has written a non-fiction book arguing that Mariana did indeed write the famous letters.

Book: Transcreation of the Bhagavad Gita

by Ashok Kumar Malhorta (1999).

Read as part of my current inquiries into spirituality. This is the version I read freshman year of college--I really didn't understand it then, but I did take some pretty good notes. It's better now that I read it as scripture, and not as literature as our professor had us do. I appreciate that there are clear directions here, and not all of the vagueness that leads to conflicting interpretation. It would be hard to imagine a fundamentalism springing forth from the Gita. I'm not saying it's impossible, but I do think it would be less likely to occur.

And I'm glad this little paperback is sturdy, as I suspect it's going to get quite the workout in the next few weeks, as I continue to study it using Ram Dass's book Paths to God: Living the Bhagavad Gita.

Graphic Novel: Runaways vol. 3: The Good Die Young

by Brian K. Vaughan et al (2004).

My landlord bought me both fullsize hardback volumes of Runaways, which is the coolest thing ever, because they are not cheap and I never would have gotten them myself.

So I read the last third of the first series, and it was awesome. I always feel like the completion of a story is never as exciting as the beginning of one, so you have to judge them by different standards (unless we're talking about the movie Serenity--it's the only exception to the rule I can think of). That's the case here--the final third wasn't quite as exciting as the opening, but there were some fantastic moments. I am totally in love with Chase, like I want one of my own. I didn't the twist coming, until I did, but even then it was still fun.

Also, the art looks way better on a full page, with room to breathe. I can't wait to break into my other hardback volume.

Book: New Seeds of Contemplation

by Thomas Merton

Didn't get to finish this before I had to return it to the library. But I love Merton. Someday when I have the time, I'll devote myself to reading more of his work.

***
The Spirit of Things and Speaking of Faith both have terrific podcasts that deal, in part, with Merton.

Book: Him Her Him Again The End of Him

by Patricia Marx (2007).

Read my review over at venuszine.com.

Film: Smokin' Aces

This honestly might go down in history as one of my favorite action movies. I love pulp, I love over-the-top violence, I love irony, I love mohawked rednecks in skinny jeans and wifebeaters. I especially love tenderly and oddly sexy murder scenes between two men.

And yet, the best thing about this movie was how it took all that and blended it together with a whole shitload of other totally weird and random stuff, and then still managed to have moments that were completely fucking heartbreaking. Ryan Reynolds broke my heart. Jeremy Piven broke my heart and grossed me out all at the same time. Alicia Keyes and Common and Taraji P. Henson broke my heart.


Smokin' Aces
dir. by Joe Carnahan, 2007

Graphic Novel: Runaways vol.2: Teenage Wasteland

by Brian K. Vaughan et al (2004).

I tore through the middle section of this trilogy, giggling loudly from pure fucking glee. I love love love the dialogue here. The vampire plot struck me as a little silly, but ultimately yielded some good moments ("Whedon got it wrong!"). But, in true comic book geek fashion, I got unnecessarily excited when Cloak and Dagger showed up. I'm starting to jump on the bandwagon of superhero-trainspotting. It's fun!

Anyway, I consider myself now totally hooked on this series, and I'll probably go ahead and invest in the big hardbacks at some point. If I could catch up fast enough, I'd love to start reading monthly, especially now that Joss Whedon is taking over writing duties.

Recipe for a perfect Sunday:

one best friend

an endless stream of YouTube videos (Ryan Hansen's appearance on That's So Raven is a must)

Two Shots for Poe

several episodes of Smallville

two Publix salads

a six-pack of Valentine's Day cupcakes, chocolate with bright pink frosting

very loud laughter

Graphic Novel: Runaways vol. 1: Pride & Joy

by Brian K. Vaughan and Adrian Alphona (2003).

The love for Mr. Vaughan continues. I don't usually read Marvel books. I don't usually even read superhero books. But I cracked this one open on several recommendations and now I am hooked. The dialogue is fun; it reminds me of some of my favorite tv writing (think Buffy and Veronica Mars). The characters are awesome--a perfect cross-section of teenage cool and comics geeky (which still somehow loops back around to cool).

Plus, in my head, Chase is played by my tv crush du jour, Chris Lowell.

Graphic Novel: Y, The Last Man vol. 6: Girl on Girl

by Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra (2005).

I wish desparately that I could catch all the way up on this series, but I never have the money to pick up these trades. This one was a surprise present from my landlord. Just two more to go, and by the time I get to those, they'll have released another.

Anyway, this arc felt very filmic, and I really enjoyed that. I responded outloud and in my body to what was happening--you know that means something's pretty freaking good. That said, I felt a bit like this story was more of a set piece, an interlude between bigger plot points. And that's fine. Girl pirates are hot; they could have done much worse. But my favorite part of this arc was the final issue, when we see Beth in Australia and all the PTSD crap she's going through. Yorick needs to find that poor girl already.

Today on NPR

Holy crap, this song makes me happy. Why has Canada been hiding Jon-Rae and the River from me for so long?

Film: A Simple Curve

A quiet little film about a father and son in the great big landscape of Canada. Um. It was okay, but I was much more interested in the short film by the same director, Lucky, about the unlikely friendship of a little Zulu boy and an old Indian woman. Also, bonus points for it being a free showing at the library. And extra bonus points for BSG's Colonel Tigh.


A Simple Curve
dir. by Aubrey Nealon, 2005

Book: Buddha

by Karen Armstrong (2001).

A terrific entry in the Penguin Lives series. Armstrong takes a man and spiritual leader whom we know little about, and uses this precious little information as a foundation to both explain his basic teachings and their place within historical context. I learned more about Buddhism from this book than from any other I've read.

***

Speaking of Faith has a great interview with Karen Armstrong, plus web extras.

Today on NPR

A few lovely discoveries from the archives:

Moments like this are why I want to study world religions. The last line really got me--the kind of recognition that feels like a physical blow.

Radio Expeditions takes listeners to the streets of Vrindavan, a holy Hindu city.

From tonight's meditation

Om Kali Ma, Namo Namah.

Also, the sensation of hands cupping my head, right at either temple, gently yet firmly.

Book: Eat, Pray, Love

by Elizabeth Gilbert (2006).

I really just have to say thank you to the universe for conspiring to send such comforting books my way recently. And thank you to Elizabeth Gilbert for the four spirit brothers, and Wayan's cure for broken heart, and everything else inspiring about her and her book.

I'm going to go meditate now.

Today on ABC Radio National

Have I mentioned that I am totally in love with Australian public broadcasting? They have an amazing amount of content, and all of it is thought-provoking and just generally awesome.

Today I found the show The Rhythm Divine, which is "a musical journey through the world of belief." I'm listening to the episodes on chanting today while I work.

Also, For The God Who Sings. I'll probably give these a listen tonight at home.

Book: It's Kind of a Funny Story

by Ned Vizzini (2006).

My reactions to this book ranged a great deal as I (quickly) made my way through its almost 450 pages. First my reaction was eh. Then hmm. Then thank you, Ned, for writing this, it is very comforting to know. Then yeah okay. Then yes, yes. Then (big sigh). Then, at the very end, OH.

I very much appreciate the warmth, the humor, and the steady pace of the story once it gets going. It felt to me much like how Craig, the main character, describes being in the pysch hospital. The path is set out and you just keep walking along. No surprise forks or twists (well, except for the tranny). It isn't hard to read this book. And that felt really great.

***

Largehearted Boy features Ned's edition Book Notes, in which an author creates a soundtrack to his or her book.

Bookslut got him to guestblog while Jessa was on vacation.

Ned himself blogs here.

Film: Children of Men

I don't even have words for what this movie did to me. I let myself go so far into it, that by the last scene I was hugging myself, halfway to a panic attack in the theatre. And the quiet moment (you'll know what I mean) felt so much like grace, or divinity; I found myself wishing that reverance existed in our real lives, as much as I dread the possibility of the situation that created it.

This might have been the most valuable movie I've ever seen. And I'll probably never see it again--it was that visceral and horrible and real to me.

***

NPR talks to Cuarón about filming the extended scene towards the end of the film. Be aware that this is kind of spoiler-ish.

At Google Video you can watch Alfonso Cuarón, along with Guillermo del Toro and Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, on The Charlie Rose Show. I'd recommend watching it after you've seen the film--to cheer yourself up.

***

Children of Men
dir. by Alfonso Cuarón, 2006

Graphic Novel: Loveless

by Brian Azzarello and Marcelo Frusin (2006).

A dangerously fun and filmic read. This was probably the first time I've read a graphic novel or comic book and really picked up on the visual tricks and transitions. Part of it had to do with confusion--many characters look similar enough to make it difficult to keep track. But I'm glad I had to pay such close attention; the art has a quality I can only describe as badass.

Azzarello throws a bunch of plots into the air and then proceeds to juggle them fairly well. There really is a lot going on here, considering. The present for Wes and Ruth; the past as they remember it, both together and apart; the present for the townspeople, Danny Boyd, the Feds, the newly-freed black people, Atticus. I have no clue where any of it will go, and it's a little frustrating to end a trade with so many loose ends, but I'm on board with Wes and Ruth. I'll come back to the story for the two of them.

I do have a complaint about the writing and art, but I wonder if it's too early in the story for me to make this judgement. All the black characters seem dangerously exaggerated--thick lips, slack mouths, bugged-out eyes--and none of them have come across in a particularly favorable light. I'm not exactly crying racism--and the book is, after all, from the perspective of a white Southerner who fought in the war--but I find it a little unsettling.

Today on NPR

I am so fucking in love with The Dresden Dolls.

Also, Portastatic. Mac McCaughan has my favorite boy singer voice, hands down.

And speaking of voices, Peter O'Toole makes me weak in the knees. I wasn't sure I'd make it out to see Venus in the theatres, and that voice reciting Shakespeare sonnets is tempting--but after hearing the NPR review of the film, I'm at least going to wait until it's out on DVD.

Book: Adverbs

by Daniel Handler (2006).



"Grant me this, this brief murdered moment, and then I will bury it sadly and go on with my game."




I feel incredibly fortunate that in a very delicate post-breakup state, even though I'm reading a book where the word "love" appears on almost every page, it is not the kind of book that induces crying fits. Daniel Handler's novel (novel?) resonates, touches even, but with a distance that makes me feel safe. (I'm imagining now a novel version of The Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs, and am amazed with myself that I don't own the whole thing.)

There's a lovely quality to the interwoven bits of this book, which are not the kind a reader has to catalogue or even pay attention to. The most freeing moment while reading was the moment I realized that I didn't have to try to wring sense out of the recurring images, names, and phrases. I could just let them wash over me. It's comforting.

Comforting also are the story about Handler and his wife, the fight they had in the subway, which ends with the two of them laughing and the fight forgotten; and the chapter "Barely," which is totally my fucking indie pop dream life, pretty but sad, and that much more possible now that I'm boyfriend-less.

Also the book design is beautiful, with jacket art by Daniel Clowes, which is another thing like comfort. Thank you, Daniel Handler, I needed this.

***

The Bat Segundo Show makes Daniel Handler sound friendly and fun.

On NPR he sounds a little less friendly, but still quite fun, talking about and performing songs from A Tragic Treasury, with Stephin Merritt.

Powell's has an original essay by Handler entitled "What's Love?"

Sale!

Khepri Comics has a couple exciting things on sale this month:

Channel Zero: Jennie One by Brian Wood and Becky Cloonan
and
Fables Vol. 1: Legends in Exile by Bill Willingham and Lan Medina

are both only $4.98 until January 31.

Upcoming Events: 1.18.2007 - 1.24.2007

1.18.2007: Atlanta Thrashers vs. Montreal Canadiens. This is an OU Young Alumni thing. Cheap tickets are great, but I don't really care about seeing fellow alumni. I just want to watch some hockey. (Speaking of, I caught our victory against the L.A. Kings last night on TV. Awesome.)

1.19.2007: Adam's Apples at the High Museum of Art. Part of the High's Danish Film Festival. Skipped this to go see Children of Men.

1.20.2007: Puppet Slam at Dad's Garage. Featuring my friend Beau Brown, and probably a bunch of other totally hot puppeteers.

1.21.2007: Battlestar Galactica returns from hiatus. This means Jacob's recaps return as well, and that's the part that really excites me.

1.22.2007: Heroes returns from hiatus. Hiro hopefully finds that sword. Plus Chris Eccleston! Eventually!

1.23.2007: Veronica Mars returns from hiatus. I'm likely to pee on myself in the excitement. I might not even be able to stand after the 3-day TV trifecta of awesomeness.

1.24.2007: DMZ #15 hits the shelves. I'll probably try to score a copy of Local #7 at the same time, if it still exists. It'll be Brian Wood Day!

Graphic Novel: DMZ Vol. 1: On the Ground

by Brian Wood and Riccardo Burchielli (2006).

I make no attempt to conceal the fact that I am a HUGE Brian Wood fan. He is pretty much the only person making comics today that I feel are worth keeping up with monthly.

Unfortunately, I missed the boat on DMZ when it first started. I've since hopped on board (assuming my landlord doesn't stop picking up new issues for me, as I am the worst at getting to the comic book shop regularly). I know a lot about the series, but all without being spoiled, and so it's a lot of fun to go back and start from the beginning. To really see what's happening the pages.

The story is intensely compelling in all these ways that I geek out about: urban warfare, anarchy, radical communities, living off the grid. But it's also dark in a way that makes all those things more realistic. The kids at CrimethInc should pay attention...

The art is also worth mentioning. Burchielli has a drawing style I really enjoy, and that's rare for me to find in comics. Also, Wood's pages stand out awesomely--he has a very distinct way of interpreting tableaux.

I'm anxious for the next trade to be published, so I'll be caught up to where I'm reading monthly.

***

Check out preview art on Brian's Flickr page.

Book: The Collected Stories

by Amy Hempel (2006).

I feel privileged to be someone who can say, I've been a fan of Amy Hempel since way back.

By "way back," I of course do not mean way back in 1985 when she published her first book. I mean way back in 2001, when I was a senior in high school taking a short fiction class I'll never forget. We read "In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried." I didn't even know who Al Jolson was. It didn't matter. Amy Hempel made that class memorable.

Reading her, for the first time I had one of those moments, in which I fancied that I had suddenly and completely learned everything I needed to know about writing short fiction. And, because I love to brag, I'm going to say that it kind of worked: the Hempel-ish story I wrote for class was the piece I chose to workshop at our annual writers' festival, when Amy Hempel turned us down and the head of our department secured Bobbie Louise Hawkins instead. She loved my story. She demanded I go to Naropa, where she taught, after graduation. Months later she saw my teacher out in Colorado and mentioned me. "I hope she's doing something meaningful with her life," is what she said.

Well, I am and I'm not. I'm not writing fiction anymore. I'm still reading Hempel, though, and loving every moment of it.

Some favorites in this book: "Tumble Home," which felt like another revelation when I read it the first time, way back when; "Jesus is Waiting;" "Offertory."

***

Chuck Palahniuk has a great essay on what makes Hempel's writing so damn good.

Wired For Books has audio of Hempel reading two stories at Ohio University.

Ian McEwan on The Charlie Rose Show

I'm endlessly thrilled that Google Video has made all these Charlie Rose episodes available--especially his interview with Ian McEwan (about 25:00) focusing on the book Atonement, a book whose last fifty pages I nearly couldn't read because I really was crying that hard.

But I'm afraid my youthful illusions about the awesomeness of Charlie Rose have been permanently shattered. Why have I never noticed these weaknesses in his interviews? I feel guilty in the general direction of my former roommate, who got me watching Rose when I should have been doing classwork.

Anyway, watch McEwan. He responds like he can't believe the dumbness issuing out of Rose's mouth. It's great. I love you, Ian, and I forgive you for all the tepid reviews Saturday got. I'm not going to read it now, or anything, but you have redeemed yourself a bit.

Graphic Novel: Fun Home

by Alison Bechdel (2006).

I think this book appeals because of its tiny recurring details: maps, dictionary pages, diaries, scripts and plays, letters, books with notes scrawled in, photos, type, matching narrative to life, anxiety and compulsion.

Those last two struck me the most. My favorite chapter was by far "In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower." But, I don't know, something held me back, away from this story. I appreciate the project, its importance, and the skill with which Bechdel mapped her story onto several classic books, themselves an intergral part of her life. It just didn't spark anything particularly epiphanic in me.

(The title link takes you to The Bat Segundo Show podcast with Bechdel.)

"Radio is sexy"

I just found out that an old friend from undergrad, Erin, now has her own radio show at her new school. I'm v. excited to listen in.

THURS 1 - 4 PM CST

Listen Here : http://ktrm.truman.edu/listen.php

Call 660-785-KTRM or IM djktrm to make a request.

Book: King Dork

by Frank Portman (2006).

I don't even remember where I read that this book was awesome, or how I decided that I needed to read it right this second. But I did, and I requested it from the library, and I was more than halfway through before I flipped to Portman's bio in the back and discovered he was the guy from The Mr. T Experience. And suddenly it all made a lot more sense.

I loved the book for the first half as well; my love is in no way contingent on the identity of its author. But I loved MTX first, though briefly--my boyfriend played me The Mr. T Experience... And the Women Who Love Them during a roadtrip across southern Mississippi. We were driving to Natchez, if I remember correctly. And he was especially excited to for me to hear the song "King Dork," with its reference to Doctor Who. (Side note: Jon's mom loves to hear him play "Even Hitler had a Girlfriend." I just think that's funny.)

So putting two and two together, as it were, was really satisfying for me. Kind of like in this book, how the narrator has to put a bunch of disparate details together and comes up with a pretty strange story by the end. I loved all the 70s rock-geek stuff, and the mystery stuff, though I did wish there was a bit more of that (I'm in Veronica Mars winter hiatus withdrawl at the moment). I also wished for a bit less interior monologue rambling, only because it became hard to follow after a while.

But overall, I really really really enjoyed this book, and I definitely recommend it. (The title of this post is a link to the book trailer. It is fun.)

Book: Ghostwritten

by David Mitchell (1999).

I love Mitchell's writing, and I loved this book. There is so much complexity, so many references and hints and themes and recurring images, how could I not love that. It suffers a bit from being his first novel--it diesn't really compare to Cloud Atlas, but how could it?--though I love seeing a writer start at A and end up at B with some things intact and some things so good it seems unthinkable. Which is very much what Mitchell's novels have been like. But I have to say, so many things went poorly for so many characters, it really did a number on me. I found myself longing for the sweet, fairytale-esque ending of number9dream.

Also, The Bat Segundo Show. I love it.

Trappist monks in rural Georgia

I don't even think it's sad that the excitement of my Saturday night has been finding this podcast by the Trappist monks from the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, GA. I love to visit the monastery and its shop (fudge made by monks! saints medallions! coffee picked by Venezulan nuns!), and I've seriously considered participating in one of the retreats they offer. I'm a bit too much of a wuss for the retreats, at least just now, but finding that they have a podcast is twenty million times better.

As a side note, I am fairly swimming in awesome podcasts right now. Did you know that Australian public broadcasting is hella great? Today I listened to a concert of temple music from the time of Jesus. How neat is that?

The frustrating film world

How is it that I haven't deigned to see a movie for the wellbeing of my intellect and emotional balance for, like, months, and now all of a sudden there's this glut of them in theatres that I don't want to miss?

This summer I saw exactly two movies in theatres: X-Men 3 and Pirates 2. Neither of those scratched that itch for me, you know the one I mean, but I am a good girlfriend and casual geek, so I went. Before that, I don't even remember. Maybe the last movie I saw in the theatre before that was Good Night and Good Luck (George Clooney in black & white, I'm telling you).

I'm sad that I missed The Fountain, but I'll definitely rent it. I'm sad that I missed a few things out this summer (Shortbus, Little Miss Sunshine), but at the time they just didn't seem important. And I still haven't rented them.

But now, there's an absolute deluge. With The Good German under my belt, I'm dying to get in viewings of Children of Men, Volver, Pan's Labyrinth (okay, I've been excited about this one for awhile), and Perfume. And who even knows what's waiting in the wings that I haven't heard of yet.

I'd love to be able to space these things out (and my bank account would love it even more), but these movies just aren't going to spend enough weeks in the theatres. Drat.

Film: The Good German

It's like I've made a habit of taking myself to the art cinema in North Atlanta to see George Clooney in black & white. I'm not complaining--it's compelling cinema--but I do think it's funny.

What was not at all funny was this film, and I mean that in the best way possible. It's Soderbergh's take on the studio films of the 40s, but with all the things directors and writers and actors wished they could do back then but couldn't because of the Hayes Code. Cussing, sex, violence. All the good stuff.

Thanks to my current film diet, I picked up on a lot of noir and neonoir aspects to the film: George Clooney's detective-ish character getting beat up/knocked out no less than three times; the exquisite lighting; Cate Blanchett's face, especially with that dark lipstick; disillusionment with a world turned rotten; place as state of mind/plague. But what I thought was brilliant about this film was the way it took those tropes and wrenched them inside out simply based on the time and setting. Instead of giving us the traditional noir narrative about an America racked by post-war anxiety and corruption, the place which is a state of mind/plague is Berlin. After the war. Racked by anxiety and corruption. And thus, intensely bigger moral issues get tossed into the mix. America as a place was largely untouched by the war (though not untouched as a state of mind, I'll concede). Berlin was devastated. And even this stands as a noir element, background that is way more important than background: the piles of bricks, the staircase that is impassible in one direction, the shocking amount of debris, rubble, destruction, everywhere.

My only complaint was the heavy-handed Casablanca reframing at the end of the film. Yeah, it's cool that even the loud-talking crapface in the row behind me "got" it. But was it necessary?

And in an attempt to end on a more positive note, because I really did like the movie, here's a link to a KCRW podcast with Steven Soderbergh.


The Good German
dir. by Steven Soderbergh, 2006

What it's like in Arkansas

There are mountains. They are mostly flat on top. There are rocky bluffs, and rocky paths, and rocky streams that flow from waterfalls.

There is farmland. There are WPA projects, like dams and amphitheatres. There are little cafes that serve really good dessert. There are Mexican restaurants that also serve really good dessert.

There's a Benedictine abbey in a little town called Subiaco, and you can walk all around it, even in the cloister garden. The abbey sits up on a hill and it looks tremendous.

Most of all, though, and this is really dorky, I know, but there's this boy who's there right now, and I love him, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I think I might get to.

Book: The Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories

by Susanna Clarke (2006).

Clarke was on my list of authors to read in the new year, but spending hours in the Atlanta airport this holiday season made me crave short stories. I wanted the sense of repeated accomplishment, of finishing quickly, of not being interrupted and losing the thread.

I haven't read Clarke's breakout debut, but these stories certainly whetted my appetite. None of them were life-changing, but all of them were pretty fun. I have the feeling I'll enjoy her novel immensely, once I get around to it.

My favorite story by far in the collection was "Antickes and Frets," mostly because I've had a lifelong love of Mary Queen of Scots. I also enjoyed "The Duke of Wellington Misplaces His Horse," because it's always fun to read stories set in other people's worlds, and goodness knows there aren't many worlds I love more or know better than Neil Gaiman's.

I also have to mention Charles Vess's illustrations for the book, which I adore. I don't have much to say on them other than that. His work thrills me and comforts me. I know where I stand when I'm looking at a Vess drawing, but I never know what's standing just out of sight.

Book: Ruby

by Francesca Lia Block and Carmen Staton (2006).

Sadly lackluster. Reads like a watered down, less evocative and less interesting version of most of Block's other novels.

I hope Psyche in a Dress is better.

Author wish list

I've decided on a twofold goal for 2007: to read as many authors as possible whose work I've never read before, and to catch up on the books by my favorite authors I haven't had a chance to read.

So here are my wish lists for both categories:

Unread authors
Jessica Abel
Chris Adrian
Alison Bechdel
Aimee Bender
Jorge Luis Borges
Alain de Botton
Kevin Brockmeier
Susanna Clarke
Alan DeNiro
Cory Doctorow
Keith Donohue
Myla Goldberg
Theodora Goss
Daniel Handler
Alice Hoffman
Elizabeth Merrick
Haruki Murakami
Marisha Pessl
R. Barton Palmer (my old film prof)
Frank Portman
Tim Pratt
Laura Amy Schlitz
Jill Soloway
Ngũgĩ wa Thiongʾo
Jeff VanderMeer
Vendela Vida
Ned Vizzini


Unread books by favorite authors
the Bitch book
Ines of My Soul by Isabelle Allende
Pysche in a Dress by Francesca Lia Block*
Ruby by Francesca Lia Block and Carmen Staton
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
Only Revolutions by Mark Z. Danielewski
The Empire of Ice Cream by Jeffrey Ford*
The Stories of Mary Gordon by Mary Gordon*
Looking for Alaska by John Green
Collected Stories by Amy Hempel
Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link
anything Charles de Lint*
Black Swan Green by David Mitchell
Ghostwritten by David Mitchell
anything Philip Pullman*
Changeling by Delia Sherman
Doing Time by Rob Thomas
Fado & Other Stories by Katherine Vaz*
Mariana by Katherine Vaz
Saudade by Katherine Vaz
Blue Noon by Scott Westerfeld
Tanglewreck by Jeanette Winterson*

Book: Severance

by Robert Olen Butler (2006).

A strange and beautiful collection, which I read in a just a few hours. It was easy to just let these words wash over me, but stopping and reading carefully and picking out the subtle details really made me appreciate Butler's style. He is witty, touching, and sexy all in the space of a few words.

I especially enjoyed the stories of those who lost their heads in the French Revolution (Madame du Barry was unexpectedly touching); the thought that so many continue to be decapitated in connection with conflicts in the Middle East came as an uneasy revelation.

I will certainly be seeking out more of Butler's work in the future.

Book: Satellite Down

by Rob Thomas (1998).

I have to say that I absolutely love how all of Rob Thomas's writing reminds me of other Rob Thomas writing. I mean this in a good way, in an English-major-who-loves-to-track-references-and-obsessions-and-motifs way. Thomas taught high school journalism, then left Texas for LA and worked on a tv news show broadcast into classrooms across the country. I have no doubt at all that these experiences informed this book. And while I enjoyed it--and I mean a whole, whole lot--I was a little sad that the book ends on such a cynical note. Rats Saw God was much more optimistic. I understand the choice, though, and it reads very truthfully. It just didn't make me swoon with vicarious joy the way I did at the end of my previous Rob Thomas read.

Film: Chinatown.

One of those movies I fell asleep during in my high school film studies class. Don't blame me, blame the fact that it started at 8 am and I rarely went to bed before 4.

Here are the things of particular interest to me (oh I just love lists):

wet/dry as a stand in for dark/light in a film shot in color (though some of that dark/light is still there)

public municipalities conspiracy as thrilling fodder for detective drama

how Faye Dunaway is gorgeous, and then strangely grotesque within moments of each other (teeth, bare skin, forehead)

Polanski's interest in (fetish for?) rotting food--see Repulsion

what it means to lose exactly one shoe

Jack Nicholson's disarming hotness

John Huston, in general


Chinatown
directed by Roman Polanski, 1974

Book: Fragile Things

by Neil Gaiman (2006).

A charming collection of short stories, some of which I'd read before. I very much plan on buying the paperback edition of this book, but when I saw it on the new book shelf at the library, I had to grab it. (I believe in the synchronicity of these things.)

Neil's work is special to me in that I have been reading him since I was 15--his voice is familiar, comfortable in some way. Comforting, maybe. Additionally, his devotion to his fans, his prolificness, his explanatory introduction giving some piece of the history of each story, and his wonderful online presence make him, and his work, feel very approachable. One of my favorite things in the world is that I once sent in a question asking for further elaboration on something he'd said in his blog about the Center for Puppetry Arts in Atlanta, and he actually responded. My question had no significance whatsoever, but I asked it, so he answered.

Some favorites from this collection:

"The Mapmaker"

"October in the Chair"

"Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire"

"Bitter Grounds"

"Strange Little Girls"

"Pages from a Journal Found in a Shoebox Left in a Greyhound Bus Somewhere Between Tulsa, Oklahoma and Louisville, Kentucky"

"How to Talk to Girls at Parties"

"The Day the Saucers Came "

"Monarch of the Glen"

This last was my absolute favorite, a novella occuring two years after the close of American Gods, featuring Shadow in remote Northern Scotland and a couple of characters from the story "Keepsakes and Treasures," which appears earlier in the collection. I read American Gods so long ago that I have this strange sense of not remembering much of the book. I've held onto some very basic plot points, but can't for the life of me remember exactly how it ends. I mention this because I was surprised how familiar Shadow felt to me when I started reading "Monarch of the Glen." I knew him; I knew how he was and how he might generally react to the events of the story. At the close of the story, which is the close of the book, I had the distinct sense that I had just wrapped up a conversation with an old friend. I really like that feeling.

Noir in The Oxford American

Syntax of Things pointed out this great article from The Oxford American, "Dark Harvest: On the Pleasures of Teaching Noir, an Underdog Genre" by Barry Hannah. He lists the main books on his syllabus, all of which I am tempted to read.

Oh, and did I mention I really want a subscription to The Oxford American now?

Book: An Abundance of Katherines

by John Green (2006).

I just finished this book about 30 seconds ago, and I swear I am this close to writing a full on fucking fangirl letter to John Green about how amazing he is and how his book hit all the highlights of my geek chic fetishy obsessions. Like, labradoodles and oral history and storytelling and fake cuss words and summer live-in sleepovers and tampon strings and the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and rural Tennessee--the town is named Gutshot, for Christ's sake--and smart boys and girls who say shit like "emo core" in all seriousness and math equations describing life experience things that you shouldn't possibly be able to quantify and footnotes, can you believe it, footnotes in a freaking book for teenagers.

This is by far one of the best books I've ever read, and I didn't even have to cry at the end. In fact, I really spent the whole book just laughing aloud a lot, and you know that's saying something.

Exhibit: Louvre Atlanta, Year One.

I bought my membership to the High Museum based solely on the fact of this exhibit. Raphael, Velázquez, Poussin (who isn't here just yet)--there was no way I could miss this.

The exhibit for Year One is broken up into two parts: Kings as Collectors and The Kings' Drawings. Both sections were fairly small--it only took about an hour and a half to view everything. Of course, the crowded museum on a Saturday had a lot to do with how quickly we looked and then moved on.

Jenny liked the drawings best, as they clearly represent the movements of the artist's hand. I enjoyed the marble busts, but the paintings were really my favorite. Velázquez's Infanta was small but worth looking at (I'd rather see Las Meninas, personally). Raphael's Portrait of Baldassare Castiglione, the centerpiece of the exhibit, drew me in with the eyes, made me understand why this person and this painting are so well known. The portrait goes home at the end of January, and Poussin's Arcadian Shepherds will replace it. There is no end to my excitement about seeing this painting in person--I have a tattoo based on it, and consider it one of the most philosophically interesting works of art I've ever been exposed to. I'm crossing my fingers for a lecture on it.

There were several other pieces I enjoyed contemplating, though I don't remember their names or artists now. Jenny and I forewent the audio tour, as we wanted to talk to each other about what we saw. But I'd very much like to go back by myself and listen to it.

Music: Alela Diane.

I got my copy of the winter issue of Venus Zine in the mail a few days ago--terrificly free because I wrote a very small book review for the issue--and I've spent this evening flipping idly through it. Great issue, and the cd reviews at the back afforded me a wonderous new find: Alela Diane.

Her debut album, The Pirate's Gospel, was just released by Holocene Music. You can listen to and download some tracks from her MySpace page. The title track is my fave so far. Now if only I had $15 to buy the whole album...

A few other recent music-related discoveries: Anji Bee's Chillcast, which I am loving; Daylight's for the Birds, also out of Venus; Largehearted Boy's Best of 2006 list, complete with legally downloadable tracks; and of course, my favorite music blog-ish thing ever, for I am a nerd of incalcuable dimensions, The Music of Veronica Mars. Don't judge me.

Film: American Graffiti.

Okay, I'll admit that I didn't finish watching this film, but only because my tv reception turns all crappy when I tune to TCM. It's enough to make me cry, I swear. Anyway, I'll have to get this one out of the library at some point, because the tableaux composed like Edward Hopper paintings were too wonderful for me not to finish watching. Plus the soundtrack is boss.


American Graffiti
directed by George Lucas, 1973

Book: Rats Saw God

by Rob Thomas (1996).

A brilliant YA novel I got from the library; the girl behind the counter immediately asked, "Do you watch Veronica Mars?" Oh yes, I do, and this book has a lot of things that get referenced later in the show, so I'm glad that I just did my marathon re-watch of the first two seasons.

That isn't to say that this book has anything really in common with the neo-noir world of VM. At the heart of the story is a teenage boy, Steve, who's incredibly bright but just not interested in playing along. His guidance counselor cuts him a deal: he won't have to take English over in summer school, if he writes a 100 page paper/story, on any topic he chooses. Steve wants to write fiction, but finds himself instead writing the story of his sophomore and junior years of high school. It's the story of the school club he and a friend found, the Grace Order of Dadaists (GOD); it's the story of his strained relationship with his father the astronaut; it's the story of his first love, a fellow nonconformist named Wanda Varner.

SPOILER ALERT
And here's where I have to catalogue all the things in the book that have made their way into VM, because my enjoyment of this book, at least in part, stems from recognizing these things, and feeling right at home in any world created by Rob Thomas. So, Wanda Varner shows up again in the VM episode "Return of the Kane," albeit sans her nickname (Dub), and with a little snitching problem. A reveal towards the end about Book Wanda's indiscretions reminded me distinctly of the plot of "Mars vs. Mars." The title of the book itself gets referenced in an episode title from season two, "Rat Saw God," only this time it's a clue in the bus crash investigation, not something the dadaists spell out with their hands in a yearbook picture. And then there is, of course, the entire snarky tone of the book, which had me cracking up in my room for the one entire evening it took me to finish the book.

I cried a bit when it ended, too, because Rob Thomas is just that good.

"I take mine noir"

a marathon viewing of both seasons of Veronica Mars

long days spent alone in my basement apartment, just trying to keep myself busy

The Maltese Falcon, my undying love for Bogey

Murder, My Sweet

the "Out of the Past" podcast

Black & White & Noir by Paula Rabinowitz, which has so far revealed to me the melancholy beauty of the photographs of Esther Bubley

Bubley's image of a female schizophrenic who had been treated with electroshock therapy--memories of the story my mom told me about my grandmother, who this full on happened to

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The history of things.

Imagery of the South

While reading Pamela Petro's book Sitting up with the Dead: A Storied Journey through the American South, I came across a piece of particularly striking imagery. She writes about talking with Nancy Basket, a storyteller in Walhalla, South Carolina, who tells her about the Cherokee towns being drowned for reservoirs. "There are some of us... who can still hear the drums sounding underwater."

Petro relates this to her time spent in Wales, where towns were similarly drowned for reservoirs for the English. There, the story goes, you can hear chapel bells tolling underwater.

It's a bit of a triangulation, but these images reminded me of, as Jacob might say, the time I spent in Tori Amos purgatory. Amos talked in one interview I remember about hearing the bells toll in the South. One lyric to "Here. In My Head" says, "The bow and the bell, and the girl from the South, all favorites of mine, you know them all well."

Bells and drums signify multitudes for me. War drums. The bells that tolled by the quarter-hour on campus, which I could hear from my freshman dorm window if the air was still enough, which echoed ominously through the quad if you were standing in the right place when they sounded. The drum of distant thunder. The phrase "for whom the bell tolls," which I'm well aware is a book but fascinates me only as sounds, kind of exactly like "roll of thunder, hear my cry."

On the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, they call the Pascagoula River the "singing river," because of the songs of the tribal people there, who walked into its depths rather than face fate at the hands of white men. I'm drawn intimately to water as well, something we have plenty of here in the South. I could never imagine being a desert child, a Pine Belt kind of girl.

Show me a trail and I want to walk it.

It's still autumn here, which is lovely because I've fallen in love with walking again. I just finished reading A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, in which he hikes a good portion of the Appalachian Trail, sort of on a whim.

I've hiked parts of the trail before, but I was quite young, and I don't really remember much about it. In fact, about the only things I do remember are being scared to death of bears, and falling down dangerously close to the edge of the trail as it wound up a mountain. I still have a scar on my knee from that fall.

I've batted around the idea of hiking more of the trail now that I'm older and enjoy those sorts of things. I don't imagine I could ever do all 2,200 miles of it--for now I've settled on hiking the entire Georgia portion, a distance of about 78 miles (plus the 8 mile approach trail from Amicalola Falls). I'll most likely have to do it in chunks, what with work and all.

In the meantime, all this reading about hiking has inspired me to get off my butt while the temperature is still in the 50s. Friday I walked around Murphy Candler Lake and marvelled at how much it's changed since the weather turned cold. Yesterday I walked around the Dunwoody Nature Center, which was very autumn-colored and enjoyable.

Today I headed up to Roswell to hike through Leita Thompson Memorial Park. I ended up doing the 2.25 mile trail twice, plus an extra .25 miles around the lake. My first time around was glorious, and as I reached about the 2 mile point, I took a little side trail up the crest of a hill and discovered three deer grazing happily.
They watched me warily for a long time, and I took a few pictures and some video, then scared them as I put my camera away. I didn't know before that deer made a weird grunting/whining noise to warn each other of danger, but I heard it clearly just the instant before they all bolted out of sight.

Book: Madame de Pompadour, Mistress of France

by Christine Pevitt Algrant (2002).


Algrant takes a fairly condescending and judgemental tone in her discussion of the life of Louis XV's mistress. I don't think this is entirely justified, as the material she quotes only rarely backs up her remarks. Regardless, it was interesting to learn about the life of little Reinette, the bourgeouis girl who grew up knowing it was her destiny to be the king's lover. I had to peel away the layers of derision, but underneath was a fascinating woman.

I think her death says the most to me about her grace: "A moment, monsiuer le curé, we shall go together," were her last words, as her priest was trying to slip quietly out the door.

Some true things

"It's a kindergarten motherfucking sense of entitled, playground morality that assumes just because A is an asshole, B is blameless. It's possible for B to grow the fuck up and act in accordance with a stable morality, instead of leveraging their evil based on some kind of flimsy "Mommy, he started it" excuse. At the end of the day, A is not your problem, because A is not your responsibility. Your behavior is your problem, and what you did to excuse it, because you are the person in charge of you. There are a lot of unanswerable questions here, but that is not one of them, and somebody should have told these motherfuckers when they were younger, because now they are grown up and I am ashamed for them. Your personhood doesn't go in the closet until things get easier -- that's like the one thing I disagreed with Tigh about, down on New Caprica -- it's there all the time. You can't write your bullshit self a hall pass to be "your worst" or commit atrocities right up until the very second that things get perfect and awesome, at which point like a wonderful jackpot prize you get to be who you are "at your best," and how one of these days, you'll get to be that you. As soon as nothing bad ever happens, nobody ever calls you an asshole, and everything is perfect and quiet and still. I'm not saying don't "wipe 'em out," I'm saying be really damn sure you know why you're doing it, because that's the only question that matters. Fucking…be better. It's the easiest thing of the world."
--Jacob on Battlestar Galactica


"Think for yourself, because I won't be there with you. Nobody tells you when you're young that pain must eventually lead to pleasure, and vice versa; that a man must break his back, to earn his day of leisure. Think for yourself, because I won't be there with you. Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight."
--Jacob on Doctor Who

Stamp carving and travel journals

I spent pretty much all of today carving stamps at my desk. I've had a sudden burst of creativity, nicely coupled with a fair amount of free time, and though my back and neck ache from craning to see, I am satisfied with what I've done. I've noticibly improved my skills at designing and carving. I wish that I could draw these images by hand, but I've never been good at freehand drawing. I'll just have to resign myself to that.

I'm also thinking of new ways to document these endeavors, new ways to journal and keep track of things like roadtrips. I want to be able to look back and say, we went here and it looked like this and felt like this. I haven't settled on anything yet, but here is what I know: every journal in my room already has something written in it, and I want to start fresh. I want to keep records of every trip Jon and I make and have made.

I need to find a way to scan images like my stamps into my computer so that I can post them. My camera can't take pictures at that close range.

Today on Flickr

I am really really jealous of all these people with their art skills and their cool travel journals.

Walking in autumn

Film: Marie Antoinette

I just got home from seeing this film, and of course I loved it. Of course, I would have a hard time not loving anything involving both Gang of Four and a big orgy of frothy period costumes.

I don't want to say too much about it, as it feels unnecessary to overthink this one. But of course, Sofia Coppola has made her into all of us, and the minutae of her life feels very contemporary, very understandable to me which I think is somewhat of a generational thing. This was the right movie for this particular moment.

Marie Antoinette
directed by Sofia Coppola, 2006

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I discovered Fontainebleau.

Fontainebleau is the name of both a forest and a château (once a royal hunting ground and the largest royal château, respectively) located about 35 miles southeast of Paris. Louis XV and Madame de Pompadour spent some of their first weeks together at this château. The court went to Fontainebleau in the autumn every year, as Louis XV loved to hunt and did so with much of his free time.

And in a strange bit of synchronicity, Fontainebleau is also the name of a state park in Louisiana that I hope to visit next weekend. I've been working on a series of letterboxes based on French women I admire; Madame de Pompadour will hopefully be the first carved and planted. I chose Fontainebleau, obviously, for the matching name and season. But the park is interesting in its own right: it contains the ruins of a sugar mill built by Bernard de Marigny de Mandeville in 1829 (it is of further note that de Marigny was also the title of Mme de Pompadour's brother, Abel Poisson, though I'm not sure if/how the titles are related). M. de Mandeville named the area after the Fontainebleau of France. The park has hiking trails, and is quite near part of the Tammany Trace, a 31-mile rails-to-trails conversion. I doubt it's quite as beautiful as the royal Fontainebleau, but I'm excited nonetheless.

Autumn and roadtrips

It is undoubtedly autumn here, and driving up the small ridge on my way to work everyday makes my taxing schedule just a little bit more bearable. The trees are tall and all different shades of red and orange, with just a bit of green still peeking out. I am terribly excited to drive the highway outside of Birmingham, on my way to Mississippi this Thursday. I rarely make the drive during the day, but the landscape has so many secrets only seen in daylight.

Autumn is the season when I think about how I need to be doing autumn-y things. In the summer it all comes naturally--trips to the lake, cookouts, cold beer--I don't even think about it at the time.
But when it starts to get cool outside, I suddenly find myself thinking of all the things I need to do: visit cemeteries, drink apple cider, go to the corn maze, buy new sweaters, drive in the mountains, eat stuffing and mashed potatoes with my mom, go iceskating, visit Christmas light displays, on and on and on.

St. Petersburg: The State Hermitage Museum

Heidi is on her way to Russia right now, or at least really soon, and I am sitting here at her desk being very jealous. She gets to visit St. Petersburg, and the Hermitage, where Sokurov made my favorite film of all time, Russian Ark. The films spirals through Russian history as though through a dream, never stopping, never staying in one place. The camera work itself is a feat: the film was shot in one take, with a steadycam, a cast of hundreds, the entire Hermitage as the set, and three live orchestras. Particularly affecting are the depictions of Catherine the Great as an aging queen, still spry enough to take a run through her snow-covered gardens with a courtier supporting her, and the scene from the Second World War, with all the frames empty and on the floor, the great rooms dark and bare.

The Director of the Hermitage ordered everything packed up during World War II and shipped off to safety. The frames remained, however, as a sign to the Germans that Russia would be back to display the glory of its gallery once again. Debra Dean chronicles this devastating time in Russian history in her novel The Madonnas of Leningrad. In the book, Marina, a young docent at the Hermitage, helps to pack the paintings and other pieces away; at the same time, she takes daily walks through the empty rooms, remembering by sheer force of will the pictures that once hung on the walls. She is drawn to the Madonnas in particular; I, on the other hand, wish I could see in person Fragonard's The Stolen Kiss, or any of the Poussin paintings they hold. More than that, I simply wish I sould walk those halls and see the mouldings, the staircases, the gardens.

I'll most likely never make it to Russia, and that saddens me to no end.

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Castles are cool. So are monks.