Dog-eared and Underlined

Foodie essays

2010-11-16T11:46:00.001-08:00

My latest passion is reading culinary fiction, cookbooks, and real-life culinary memoirs.
I long to be a foodie, but circumstances prevent my full assimilation (lack of funds, lack of company, and an unwillingness to experiment with new foods).
I am, basically, also a vegetarian, so this limits my adventures.
But I still value the idea of foodies, and love being one vicariously via written words.

Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant, is a collection of essays edited by Jenni Ferrari-Adler.
The concept of this book was to ask food and fiction writers to write about what they cook for themselves when they are alone.
The introduction says,
"We read to feel close to people we don't know, to get into other people's heads. I get the same sensation of intimacy from following a recipe...
Because cooks love the social aspect of food, cooking for one is intrinsically interesting. A good meal is like a present, and it can feel goofy, at best, to give yourself a present. On the other hand, there is something life affirming in taking the trouble to feed yourself well, or even decently."

The essays are sometimes introspective, sometimes funny, but always interesting.
I adore this book.

Ann Patchett writes, "The fact is, I love to feed other people. I love their pleasure, their comfort, their delight in being cared for. Cooking gives me the means to make other people feel better, which in a very simple equation makes me feel better. I believe food can be a profound means of communication, allowing me to express myself in a way that seems at times much deeper and more sincere than words. My Gruyere cheese puffs straight from the oven say I'm glad you're here. Sit down, relax. I'll look after everything...
So what does it say about my self-esteem that I know perfectly well how to make a veloute and yet would choose to crack open a can of SpaghettiOs when dining alone?" (page 17)

Patchett continues, "It is a pleasure to not have to take anyone else's tastes into account or explain why I like to drink my grapefruit juice out of the carton. Eating, after all, is a matter of taste, and taste cannot always be good taste. The very thought of maintaining high standards meal after meal is exhausting. It discounts all the peanut butter that is available in the world." (page 18)

Ben Karlin made a comment about the flavorless stuff Americans have been eating the last few decades.
"In the fall of my junior year of college, I studied abroad in Florence, Italy...there I ate my first real tomato...cut with a Swiss Army knife; juice ran down my arm. I asked (my mom) what the hell those red things were we'd been eating all those years." (page 91, including footnote)

Beverly Lowry talks about the joy in cooking, even for oneself: "Over the years I've settled on a few basic beliefs, one of which is that whatever we do for pleasure, we should try to do, or learn to do, and practice on occasion, in solitude. A kind of test to gauge our skills and see how deep the passion lies and to find out what it is we truly like, to discover--minus other tastes and preferences--what specifically gives us pleasure. We all have our eccentricities. Alone, we indulge." (page 111).

Haruki Murakami made spaghetti as if guests were joining him, but they never came. They were imagined. I love his description. "Every time I sat down to a plate of spaghetti--especially on a rainy afternoon--I had the distinct feeling that somebody was about to knock on the door. The person I imagined was about to visit me was different each time. Sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes someone I knew...
Not one of these people, though, actually ventured into my apartment. They hovered just outside the door, without knocking, like fragments of memory, and then slipped away." (page 130)

Book Wreath

2010-11-06T11:36:00.001-07:00

Living with Lindsay has a tutorial on making a wreath from book pages.
Before you can say, "sacrilege!", this is actually a great way to recycle damaged books, and it's perfect decor for someone who loves books.

Here's another one (using the same tutorial), made by
Get Your Martha On.

It seems to me it might be cute to turn this into a "wish" wreath, or an advent wreath, and slip tiny notes and/or toys inside some of the cones.
Maybe add a touch of glitter...
Lots of possibilities, especially if you take into account the theme of the book used.

Yes, I'm a Scanner

2010-04-27T11:22:00.000-07:00

Refuse to Choose, by Barbara Sher, is a career guide for people with so many interests it's overwhelming.
"Use ALL your interests, passions, and hobbies to create the life and career of your dreams".

Sher calls these people with too many interests "Scanners".
Too often, people who fall into the scanner category are looking for that "it" job that hasn't materialized, or (like myself) they are frozen at a crossroads, not knowing which direction to turn or which path to take.

The book has given me the freedom to relax in my "good enough" job, because it enables me the freedom to do all the variety of things I love.
Maybe that's okay.
Sure, I'd love to find a career that made my passions come to life, and now that I better understand the idea of Scanners, maybe I'll finally be able to figure out my next step.
Regardless, it's interesting reading, and it's nice to know I'm not alone.
"Compared with the dread of not using her potential, a Scanner's other fears fade in significance. A Scanner senses her own talents but is pulled in so many directions she often accomplishes very little. As she watches the years pass, the picture of her still sitting on the sidelines when the game is over creates a growing sense of panic" (page 37)

Sher also has given me the freedom to write out my ideas, yet with the permission to not need to follow-through on everything.
Rather than feeling badly for not finishing everything, now I know that part of what I really need to do is just get my ideas out, play with them, and then put them on the shelf.
Not every single idea needs implementation (i.e. I am not a failure).
"Remember, it doesn't matter if you never do what you're describing on these pages (a Scanner Daybook), because finishing a project is not the issue here. This is about your vision and the free play of ideas for pure enjoyment" (page 16)

This could have been written just for me:
"It's time to claim the feeling that draws you like a powerful magnet to what is new and unknown, because it's the most joyous part of you, and it's the other source of your identity as a Scanner. You see, not everyone feels as bad as you do when you're stuck with a project that doesn't interest you. And not everyone becomes as fascinated and delighted by something new and interesting. That's what makes you different. Your mind loves new ideas for its own reasons. Maybe coming up with ideas is just the way your brain dances" (page 109)

"If you're a Scanner, you're designed to do many things well. Don't try to change yourself into something else. Just observe what you do without judgment and try to understand yourself. The more you know, the better your chances will be of creating the life that fits you perfectly" (page 119)

Dating Optimism

2010-03-20T14:23:00.001-07:00

I've read a few dating books, and even more self-help optimistic books (about the power of attraction, etc).
This book, however, has been my favorite so far: Meeting your Half-Orange: an utterly upbeat guide to using Dating Optimism to find your perfect match,
by Amy Spencer.

The great thing about this book is she encourages you to seek out your dreams--but not in a mate so much as in a RELATIONSHIP.
In other words, don't concentrate on how someone looks or what they do, or even traits your appreciate.
Instead, focus on finding the kind of relationship that will make you feel at ease.
The kind of relationship in which you're doing things together that feel perfect for you (is it reading in bed? Laughing in the line at the DMV? Cooking together? You choose).

Find someone who really appreciates all your individual quirks.
You shouldn't have to quash your laugh, or stop eating popcorn, or whatever it is someone once might have ridiculed you about.
That just means that person wasn't the right match for you.
Find someone who loves you as you are
"I learned that it's not only okay to be imperfect, it's FUN to be imperfect. Accept it and celebrate it!"
(page 185)

This is eye-opening:
"Sometimes it takes looking at things from a new angle, which is what Tal Ben-Shahar, Ph.D, taught as a Harvard professor in his Positive Psychology lectures. In one lecture, he showed students a picture of geometric shapes and asked them to count how many shapes there were.
Then, after joking that he doesn't actually know the answer, he asks them what time it was on the clock in the picture.
Gee, well they weren't looking for the time. 'I focused you on something entirely different', Ben-Shahar said to his students, 'another part of reality.'
The fact is, there are different ways to look at your life.
Lately, you may be focusing on the hole of what you don't have in your life: a romantic partner.
But that's all you've seen: the LACK of it--the glass half empty.
But there is another part of reality in your very same story, and that's what is IN that half-glass.
Happiness is relative.
There must be some things in your life you're grateful for, thankful for, and thrilled about, whether it be in work, in friendships, in your free time, your hobbies, or your health.
Focusing on those things will help you feel positive about your life again, which will create positive energy in your body, which will, once again, attract positive things."
(page 109)

Cake!

2009-09-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

I reviewed Molly Wizenberg's book, A Homemade Life: stories and recipes from my kitchen table.
Because I posted one of her recipes, I put the review on my
Woof Nanny blog.
Go check it out.

What a great idea!

2009-02-14T20:22:00.000-08:00

Bookswim, is a Netflix-style online book rental library club.
I am told that they offer a lot of books that aren't available at local libraries.
Definitely worth checking out (pun intended).

What do you notice?

2008-11-12T22:40:00.001-08:00

I wrote again about the book Blindness, only this time on my Woof Nanny blog.
Read the post here.

Blindness

2008-09-12T12:40:00.001-07:00

I read Blindness, by Jose Saramago, at the suggestion of a friend.
Subsequent reviews I've read find it either powerful or irritating, the latter mostly due to the way the book is written (in run-on sentences).
I actually didn't mind the wording--it is written as people speak, without concern for grammatical perfection, with rambling and words spoken out of order.
It was, in this way, real. Even refreshing.

The tone of the book itself, however, is somewhat of a combination of Twilight Zone meets Lord of the Flies.
It is the capacity for human selfishness and cruelty, and a supposedly eye-opening revelation of it all.

This is a book that is probably best read as part of a class, where the instructor can point out profound sections that the general reader may gloss over.
This book deserves discussion, because I'm pretty sure it's a statement about internment camps and other atrocities of the modern world.
Too, it is obviously a comment of the theoretical--of seeing but not seeing.
Of being blind to our actions, to things around us, etc.
Too, one must consider the layers and layers of subliminal meaning to the point of overwhelming.
Or am I 'seeing' too much here?

While I appreciate that the book won the Nobel Prize for Literature, I was not as taken with it as I had hoped.
Parts of it seemed unnecessarily lengthy, and I just wanted to scream, "enough already, get on with the conclusion!"

That being said, I still did dog-ear many pages, so here are some excerpts: (note spoiler alert)

It was my fault, she sobbed, and it was true, no one could deny it, but it is also true, if this brings her any consolation, that if, before every action, we were to begin by weighing up the consequences, thinking about them in earnest, first the immediate consequences, then the probable, then the possible, then the imaginable ones, we should never move beyond the point where our first thought brought us to a halt. The good and the evil resulting from our words and deeds go on apportioning themselves, one assumes in a reasonably uniform and balanced way, throughout all the days to follow, including those endless days, when we shall not be here to find out, to congratulate ourselves or ask for pardon, indeed there are those who claim that this is the much-talked-of immortality.

(page 78)

He tried to imagine what the place must look like, for him it was all white, luminous, resplendent, he had no way of knowing whether the walls and ground were white and he came to the absurd conclusion that the light and whiteness there were giving off the awful stench. We shall go mad with horror, he thought.

(page 92)

If things continue like this, we'll end up once more reaching the conclusion that even in the worst misfortunes it is possible to find enough good to be able to bear the aforesaid misfortunes with patience...

(page 151)

Deaf, blind, silent, tottering on their feet, with barely enough will-power not to let go of the hand of the woman in front, the hand, not the shoulder, as when they had come, certainly not one of them would have known what to reply if they had been asked, Why are you holding hands as you go, it simply came about, there are gestures for which we cannot always find an easy explanation, sometimes not even a difficult one can be found.

(page 181)

In a few minutes, the rescuers reached their destination, they knew it before even coming into contact with the bodies, the blood over which they were crawling was like a messenger come to tell them, I was life, behind me there is nothing.

(page 207)

Say to a blind man, you're free, open the door that was separating him from the world, Go, you are free, we tell him once more, and he does not go, he has remained motionless there in the middle of the road, he and the others, they are terrified, they do not know where to go, the fact is that there is no comparison between living in a rational labyrinth, which is, by definition, a mental asylum and venturing forth, without a guiding hand or a dog-leash, into the demented labyrinth of the city, where memory will serve no purpose, for it will merely be able to recall the images of places but not the paths whereby we might get there.

(page 217)

Don't cry, what else could she say, what meaning do tears have when the world has lost all meaning, In the girl's room on the chest of drawers stood the glass vase with the withered flowers, the water had evaporated, it was there that her blind hands directed themselves, her fingers brushed against the dead petals, how fragile life is when it is abandoned.

(page 248)

HeeHee

2008-08-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

"Q: What do you get when you cross an insomniac, an agnostic, and a dyslexic?

A: Someone who stays up all night wondering if there is a Dog.”

--Groucho Marx

Ah, for the love of food

2008-08-09T17:18:00.000-07:00

I suppose my posting excerpts versus my own opinions/reviews could be called a spoiler.
I suppose I post excerpts because I must.
Just like I have to make notes all the time, write diary pages, and remember quotations...because it's all about loving words.

Comfort me with Apples, by Ruth Reichl, just makes me smile.

The scrambled eggs with truffles were even better than the foie gras. Minutes earlier I would not have thought it possible. Each forkful was like biting off a piece of the sun. It was like musk and light, all at once, and suddenly I burst out, "This is what I always imagined sex would taste like." (page 42)

There was a kind of magic to champagne that old, a wine bottled before automobiles or airplanes or either of the major wars. A wine bottled before women had the vote. Watching the liquid come sparkling into my glass, I thought of all the years it had been waiting in that dark bottle, what a different world it was emerging into. I was drinking history; I liked the taste. (page 43)

"I love this," I said before I had time to think. "It tastes like grapefruit." Why couldn't I keep my opinions to myself? But Darrell only nodded solemnly and said, "That's exactly what I've always thought!" Looking at Colman he added, "This one you should keep. Such enthusiasm!"
Colman looked at me speculatively; I couldn't imagine what he was thinking. After a minute he said, "You don't think enthusiasm clouds the critical faculties?"
"Not at all," Darrell replied. "What's the point of knowing a lot about food if all you get is disappointment?" (page 60)

The path turned away from the golden hills and into woods, and suddenly it was almost dark and very cool. The trees above us grew close together, forming a leafy tunnel, and the scent changed to a darker one, of earth, leaves, and mushrooms. Twigs crackled beneath our feet. Bits of sunlight filtered through the leaves, making the path sparkle.
"It's like being in a cathedral," Michael said, his voice improbably reverent. "Like walking beneath stained glass." He was almost whispering as he went on: "I love churches. Sometimes when I'm really sad I go in and light candles. I love the dark, and the waxy smell, and the feeling of hope in the air. If God were anywhere, he'd be in a place like this, don't you think?"
But all I said was, "Look!" Because we'd found the place. The trees ended just ahead, and we started running, laughing, delighted. It was a deep pool at the end of the forest and straight ahead was a waterfall. Just as we arrived a bird started to sing, loudly, on a branch above our heads.
And finally I replied, "Yes, if God were anywhere, he'd be here." (page 156)

My head flew off. I felt my cheeks getting hot and my eyes getting moist. My palms prickled. Shivers swooped down my spine. Suddenly I was so attuned to sensation that I could feel my watch ticking against my wrist. No food had ever done this to me before.
The hot-pink soup was dotted with lacy green leaves of cilantro, like little bursts of breeze behind the heat. Small puffs of fried tofu, as insubstantial as clouds, floated in the liquid. I took another spoonful of soup and tasted citrus, as if lemons had once gone gliding through and left their ghosts behind. (page 177)

Danny's soup was extraordinary, with that resonance that goes on and on, like a bell still humming, long after the last note has been struck.
Danny did not sit down. As we ate he stood at the stove like a mad scientist, enveloped in the steam that billowed about him from a huge cauldron. I heard the sizzle of butter hitting a hot surface and sensed the high, clean note of lemon juice being added to the pan. Now there was a richer scent--cream, I guessed--and the aromas began to mingle, so that lemon and cream and butter were dancing through the air.
Water drained; wet pasta hit a skillet with a hiss, and a cover went crashing down. Then Danny was rushing to the table with a plate in his hand and setting it in front of me. "Eat it now," he insisted, "don't wait for the others. This is a dish that can only be served to people eating in the kitchen. In a few minutes it won't be any good. I made the noodles myself.
I twirled the pasta around my fork and took a bite. And then, in spite of myself, I gasped. The pasta was so think that it seemed to have vanished, leaving only a memory behind. What was left was simply the subtlety of the sauce, pure and light, as if the liquid had somehow taken solid form. It wasn't food; it was magic on a plate, and for a moment I disappeared into the flavor. When I returned Danny was standing over me, watching me so intently and with such pleasure that I knew I didn't have to say a single word. (page 245)

Garden Spells

2008-08-04T19:09:00.001-07:00

Wow.
I saw the cover of Garden Spells, by Sarah Addison Allen, in a store and was intrigued.
You might be surprised how many great reads I've found because I was attracted to the cover.
Something about the color or the image made me pick up the book and leaf through the pages.

I went back to buy a copy, and it was sold out.
Then I saw a display of new books at my local library, and had to read it.
This is one of the best books I've read in awhile.

It is filled with all the elements I love--food, symbolism, writing that makes me want to dogear the page.
It is the story of a family with some quirks--an aunt has a compulsion to give people things they are going to need, they just don't know it yet.
A sister has both a passion and a gift with cutting hair and making people look amazing.
Another sister caters using things that grow in her garden.
It's special garden.
The apple tree boasts fruit like crystal balls. Um, not the size, the effect.
It is a garden filled with herbs and flowers that, when cooked into breads and cakes and other goodies...evoke things you want to see or feel.

This book is magical in every sense of the word.
I loved it.
Sense is the perfect word actually--the book is about taste and smell and touch, and the way simple pleasures transform our lives.

Here are some excerpts to give you a hint:
For the past two years, ever sine he'd dragged her back from Boise, Sydney would walk into a room and smell roses, or she would wake up and taste honeysuckle in the air. The scents always seemed to be coming from a window or a doorway, a way out.
It was only one night while watching Bay sleep, crying quietly and wondering how she was going to keep her child safe when they were in danger if they stayed and in danger if they left, that it suddenly made sense.
She'd been smelling home. (page 32)

The garden was gated with heavy metal fencing, like a gothic cemetary, and the honeysuckle clinging to it was almost two feet thick in some places, completely closing in the place. Even the gate door was covered with honeysuckle vines, and the keyhole was a secret pocket only a few could find.
When she entered, she noticed it right away.
There, in the cluster of Queen Anne's lace, tiny leaves of ivy were sprouting.
Ivy in the garden.
Overnight.
The garden was saying that something was trying to get in, something that was pretty and looked harmless but would take over everything if given the chance. (page 35)

Sometimes people who had been together for a long time got to imagining that things used to be better, even when they weren't. Memories, even hard memories, grew soft like peaches as they got older. (page 50)

There was a type of craziness caused by long-term complacency. All the Burgess women in town, who never had less than six children each, walked around in a fog until their children left home. When their youngest finally left the nest, they always did something crazy, like burn all their respectable high-neck dresses and wear too much perfume. And anyone who had been married for more than a year could testify to the surprise of coming home one day and finding that your husband had torn down a wall to make a room bigger or your wife had dyed her hair just to make you look at her differently. There were midlife crises and hot flashes. There were bad decisions. There were affairs. There was a certain point when sometimes someone said, I've had enough. (page 161)

When you know something's wrong, but you don't know exactly what it is, the air around you changes. Claire felt it. The plastic of the phone was too warm. The walls were sweating slightly. If she went out to the garden, she knew she'd find morning glory blooming in the middle of the day. (page 79)

It was hot and things were out of whack. Doorknobs that everyone swore were on the right side of the doors were actually on the left. Butter melted in the refrigerator. Things weren't being said and were left to stew in the air. (page 129)

She crossed her arms over her chest and watched a maid put candles in tall glass hurricane lamps on each of the tables. Sydney listened distantly as Claire told Joanne where the roses and the fuchsia and the gladioli should be placed on the tables. "Gladioli here," she said, "where the nutmeg stuffing in the squash blossoms and the fennel chicken will be. Roses here, where the rose petal scones will go." It was all so intricate, a manipulative plan to make the guests feel something they might not feel otherwise...
"If it's love you want to portray, then roses." And, "Cinnamon and nutmeg mean prosperity." (page 90)

"You've learned the secret to my success," Claire said. "When people believe you have something to give, something no one else has, they'll go to great lengths and pay a lot of money for it." (page 143)

this is such a fun idea!
Claire was at the kitchen island making chocolate cupcakes for the Havershams, who lived four doors down. They were hosting their grandson's pirate-themed tenth birthday. Instead of cake, they wanted six dozen cupcakes with something baked inside, a child-size ring or a coin or a charm. Claire had made candy strips from thin shoots of angelica from the garden and was going to make a tiny X on the frosting of each cupcake, like the sign on a treasure map; then she was going to put tiny cards on toothpicks with riddles as to what was buried within. (page 174)

And as a boy it was a fact that if you caught exactly 20 fireflies in a jar, then let them all out before you went to bed, you'd sleep through the night without bad dreams. (188)

He stared up at the moon, which looked like a giant hole in the sky, letting light through from the other side. He took deep breaths of the wet grass and warm roses and the black pavement from the highway that was still so hot from the summer sun that it melted at the edges and smelled like fire. (page 238)

...it was like the way you wanted sunshine on Saturdays, or pancakes for breakfast. They just made you feel good. (page 282)

Foodie memoirs

2008-07-29T16:51:00.001-07:00

Last Christmas, I picked up a copy of Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires, and didn't put it down until it was finished.
I gave it as a gift, and she loved it too. Now my friend's husband is reading it.
It's that kind of goodness.

Ruth Reichl used to be a food critic for both the Los Angeles Times newspaper and the New York Times.
Now she is the editor of Gourmet Magazine.
And boy can she tell a story.

Garlic and Sapphires is actually the third part edition of stories of her life.
I went back to part one and her childhood, in Tender at the Bone: Growing up at the Table.
She grew up with an eccentric mother and several encounters with exotic foods and locations, all of which prepared her and influenced her for writing about the journey.

Alice would have snickered derisively at the notion, but she was the first person I ever met who understood the power of cooking. She was a great cook, but she cooked more for herself than for other people, not because she was hungry, but because she was comforted by the rituals of the kitchen. It never occurred to her that others might feel differently, and I was grown before I realized that not every six-year-old would consider it a treat to spend entire afternoons in the kitchen. (page 26)

I dipped my own (spoon) into the thick liquid and brought it to my mouth. With the first sip I knew that I had never really eaten before. The initial taste was pure carrot, followed by cream, butter, a bit of nutmeg. Then I swallowed and my whole mouth and throat filled with the echo of a rich chicken stock. I took another bite and it began all over again. I ate as if in a dream.
The butler set a roast before Beatrice's father, while the maid removed our empty bowls. Slowly the roast was carved and then the butler moved majestically around the table serving the meat.
It was just a filet of beef. But I had never tasted anything like this sauce, a mixture of red wine, marrow, butter, herbs, and mushrooms. It was like autumn distilled in a spoon. A shiver went down my back. "This sauce!" I exclaimed involuntarily. The sound echoed through the polite conversation at the table and I put my hand to my mouth. Monsieur du Croix laughed. (page 65, 66)

Slowly, proudly, Marielle began teaching me everything she had learned in hotel school. She taught me to bone fish, make omelets, and serve with a spoon and fork and one hand behind my back. She made me taste salad dressings over and over until I could pour out the precise ratio of olive oil to vinegar without looking at what I was doing. "It's like typing," she said, "you have to know it in the fingers so that you do not think about it with the head. You will need this later." (page 144)

Unknowingly, I had started sorting people by their tastes. Like a hearing child born to deaf parents, I was shaped by my mother's handicap, discovering that food could be a way of making sense of the world.
At first I paid attention only to taste, storing away the knowledge that my father preferred salt to sugar and my mother had a sweet tooth. Later I also began to note how people ate, and where. My brother liked fancy food in fine surroundings, my father only cared about the company, and Mom would eat anything so long as the location was exotic. I was slowly discovering that if you watched people as they ate, you could find out who they were.
Then I began listening to the way people talked about food, looking for clues to their personalities. (page 6)

Mistress of Spices

2008-07-23T16:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I buy vintage books, or used books, and within the cover are written inscriptions...the book had been a gift to someone special.
"From Mommy..." or comments hoping the receiver will be as delighted by the story as was the giver.
I wonder why I now hold the book in my hands--why it was not kept and treasured and held close.

So too old library books. Who checked this out? Who read these pages? What stories could the book tell beyond its own?

Today, in a lazy afternoon, I finished reading Mistress of Spices, a novel by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
As a passage would move me, I would dog-ear the page, intending to come back to the words and save excerpts.
Over and over again, I would find the pages already creased, previously dog-eared, sometimes little stars in red pencil marking paragraphs.
Who was similarly moved?
Who is this person with the red pencil?
I'm intrigued.

The book is fantasy, folklore and fable.
Fairytale.
It is old wives tails and spells and the symbolism that I love.
The story unfolds around an Indian woman, cloaked in a body of one who is old, but actually a young sage, sent to help Indian patrons with their problems.
She lives in Oakland, in a spice shop.
The spices are living--they whisper to her, they grow angry at times.
The spices have power.
It is the spices, too, that offer healing to those with needs for safety, or love, or finding a way.
The woman pounds them into powders, or cuts them into pieces--they become potions for some, and for others they are simple ingredients in food, though the magic is the same.
Amazon describes the story: Tilo, proprietress of the Spice Bazaar in Oakland, California, is not the elderly Indian woman she appears to be. Trained as a mistress of spices, she evokes the magical powers of the spices of her homeland to help her customers. These customers, mostly first- or second-generation immigrants, are struggling to adapt their Old World ideals to the unfamiliar and often unkind New World. Though trapped in an old woman's body and forbidden to leave the store, Tilo is unable to keep the required distance from her patrons' lives. Her yearning to join the world of mortals angers the spices, and Tilo must face the dire consequences of her disobedience.

Here are some excerpts to give you, the, ahem, flavor.
Fennel,which is the spice of Wednesdays, the day of averages, of middle-aged people. Waists that have given up, mouths drooping with the weight of their average lives that once dreamed would be so different. Fennel, brown as mud and bark and leaf dancing in a fall breeze, smelling of changes to come. (page 108)

I try to think but inside my skull is a jumble of broken parts, thought shards whose ends do not fit each other.
"Ultimately,the Mistresses are without power, hollow reeds only for the wind's singing. It is the spice that decides, and the person to whom it is given. You must accept what they together choose and even with failure be at peace...
But when you lean out past what is allowed and touch what is not, when you step beyond the old rules, you increase the chance of failing a hundredfold. The old rules which keep the world in its frail balance, which have been there forever, before me, before the other Old Ones, before even the Grandmother." (page 148)

The death of my father cut me free of all ties, all caring. I was like a boat that had come unmoored, bobbing in an ocean filled with treasure troves and storms and sea monsters, and who knew where I would end up. (page 258)

"Say goodbye to her for us. Say thanks for all her help. Say we will always remember her."
I am moved by the warmth in their voices. Even though I know that what they say, what they believe, is an illusion. Because in time all things are forgotten. Still, I imagine them walking this street next month, next year, pointing. 'There once was a woman here. Her eyes like a magnet-rock drew out your deepest secret,' they say to their children. "Ah, what-all she could do with spices. Listen carefully."
And they tell my story. (page 281)

But I know that rules broken must be paid for. Balance upset must be restored. For one to be happy, another must take upon herself the suffering.
A tale comes to me from my forgotten childhood: In the start of the world, searching for the nectar of immortality, the gods and demons churned up halahal, bitterest poison from the primal ocean. Its fumes covered the earth, and all creatures, dying, cried out their terror. Then the great Shiva took in his cupped hands the halahal and drank it. The dreadful poison burned in his throat, turning it a bruised blue that remains to this day. Ah, even for a god it must have been painful. But the world was saved.
I Tilo am no goddess but an ordinary woman only. Yes, I admit it, this truth I have tried to escape all my life. And though once I thought I could save the world, I see now that I have only brought happiness into a few lives.
And yet, is that not enough. (page 318)

The Friday Night Knitting Club

2008-07-07T12:02:00.001-07:00

I had high hopes for The Friday Night Knitting Club, by Kate Jacobs, but it was just a'ight for me.
It seemed looooong and, in the end, insignificant.
Like I could have spent time better elsewhere.
Not that it was a bad read, just a so-so one.

The chapters are separated by knitting tips that are metaphors for life.
"Every knitter has a sweater left unfinished; the bags of bits and pieces stashed away an never picked up again. And why? A change in fashion? A change in season? If that was so, you'd just pull out the stitches and use the yarn for something new. No, there's a secret hope that makes you hold on, to dream that you'll get it right someday, that you'll go back and take it up again and it will finally come out right. That this time all the pieces will fit. The mistake is waiting until you feel renewed enough to give it another try. You simply have to pick up the needles and keep at it anyway." (page 261)
or
"You can't keep your garment on the needles forever; eventually it's going to have to exist on its own, supporting itself. The trick is looping the stitches across each other so they can be pulled away from the needle without coming all apart." (page 295)

The story is about relationships--lovers, daughters, friends. It's about believing in yourself.
I had some excerpts saved, but I think I'll pass after all.
I'm just not that enthusiastic.

Make Scrappy Bookmarks

2008-06-29T23:44:00.000-07:00

The Accidental Domestic Goddess has posted a tutorial to make these cute scrappy fabric bookmarks.

Genuine simplicity is the key to happiness

2008-06-27T20:35:00.000-07:00

Often people attempt to live their lives backwards; they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want, so they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do, in order to have what you want.

~Margaret Young

(Thanks to Bella Dia for posting this)

Words to live by

2008-05-29T10:39:00.000-07:00

"I'll take an earnest person over a hip person every time, because hip is short-term. Earnest is long term.
Earnestness is highly underestimated. It comes from the core, while hip is trying to impress you with the surface."

--Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture

Bel Canto

2008-05-25T19:09:00.000-07:00

I got the recommendation to read Bel Canto from Suse's blog.
I noticed in comments that people kept repeating how they wished it hadn't ended.
The reviews on Amazon, while still positive, weren't as enthusiastic.
I picked up a copy at my local library, and read it in two days.
In other words, I didn't want to put it down.

The premise of the storyline is a youthful group of soldiers takes a party hostage.
As in literally a party--a famous opera singer is performing at the birthday party of a powerful businessman.
Are these soldiers fighting a worthy cause, or are they terrorists?
It depends who is telling the story.

It is the music, and the passion for the music that soothes the tensions here.
Within a situation made up of confusion, frustration, sorrow, and rage, the music offers tenderness and loveliness.
The music unites.

Thrown together in these unusual circumstances, the characters blossom and grow familiar to the reader--relationships develop that would have not had a chance normally.
The reader is sympathetic to characters on both sides of the proverbial fence.

excerpts:
"Until their capture, he had thought of his life in terms of achievement and success. Now it struck him as a long list of failures: he didn't speak English or Italian or Spanish. He didn't play the piano. He had never even tried to play piano." (page 123)

"Kato went to the piano and he played. It wasn't like the last time he had played, when no one could believe that such a talent had been in the room among them without anyone knowing it. It was nothing like Roxanne singing, where it seemed that everyone's heart would have to wait until she had finished before it could beat again. The Satie was only music. They could hear its beauty without being paralyzed by it. The men were able to relax to read their books or look out the window while Kato played. Roxanne continued to leaf through the scores, though every now and then she stopped and closed her eyes. Only Mr. Hosokowa and the priest completely understood the importance of the music. Every note was distinct. It was the measurement of the time which had gotten away from them. It was the interpretation of their lives in the very moment they were being lived." (pages 155,156)

"To find myself here with her and to be unable to say anything it is, well, unfortunate. No, honestly, it is frustrating. What if we were released tomorrow? That is what I pray for and yet, wouldn't I say to myself for the rest of my life, you never spoke to her? She was right there in the room with you and you didn't bother to make arrangements to say something? What would it mean to live with such regret? I supposed it didn't bother me much before she resumed her singing, I was preoccupied with my own thoughts, the circumstances at hand, but now with the music coming so regularly everything has changed." (page 175)

"It was a tragedy to my grandmother that none of us showed a talent for painting. Even at the end of her life, when I was in school studying business she was telling me to try again. But it wasn't something I was capable of learning. She liked to say my brother Dimitri would have been a great painter but that was only because Dimitri was dead. The dead we can imagine to be anything at all. My brothers and I were all excellent observers. Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. Don't you think? It is a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are the spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world's greatest soprano. Not everyone can be the artist. There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see." (page 219)

"He had the kitchen to himself for a moment and wanted to make use of this rare time alone. The sun came through the windows and shone brightly off his clean rifle and oh, how he loved to hear the words in his mouth. She had sung it so many times this morning he had had the chance to memorize all the words. It didn't matter that he didn't understand the language, he knew what it MEANT. The words and music fused together and became a part of him. Again and again he sang the chorus, almost whispering for fear someone might hear him, mock him, punish him. He felt this too strongly to think that it was something he could get away with. Still, he wished he could open himself up the way she did, bellow it out, dig inside himself to see what was really there. It thrilled him when she sang the loudest, the highest." (page 224)

"Glorious light...(he)who had thought he would not live to feel once again the sensation of grass beneath his feet, stepped off the shale stone walkway and sank into the luxury of his own yard. He had stared at it every day from the living room window but now that he was actually there it seemed like a new world. Had he ever walked around his own lawn in the evening? Had he made a mental note of the trees, the miraculous flowering bushes that grew up around the wall? What were they called? He dropped his face into the nest of deep purple blossoms and inhaled. Dear God, if he were to get out of this alive he would be attentive to his plants. Maybe he would work as a gardener. The new leaves were bright green and velvety to touch. He stroked them between his thumb and forefinger, careful not to bruise. Too many evenings he had come home after dark. He saw the life in his garden as a series of shadows and silhouettes. If there was ever such a thing as a second chance he would have his coffee outside in the morning. He would come home to have lunch with his wife in the afternoons on a blanket beneath the trees. His two girls would be in school, but he would hold his son on his knees and teach him the names of birds. How had he come to live in such a beautiful place? He walked through the grass towards the west side of the house and the grass was so heavy he knew it would be difficult to cut. He like it that way. Maybe he would never have the grass mown again. If a man had a ten-foot wall then he could do whatever he wanted with his yard. He could make love to his wife late at night in the place where the wall made a pocket of lawn and three slender trees grew in a semi-circle. They could come out after the children went to bed, after the servants were asleep, and who would see them? The earth they lie down on is as soft as their bed. He pictured her long dark hair undone and spread over the heavy grass. he would be a better husband in the future, a better father. He got on his knees and reached between the tall yellow lilies. He pulled up a weed that was as high as the flowers, its stem as thick as a finger, then another, and another. He filled his hands with green stems, roots and dirt. There was a great deal of work to be done." (pages 281, 282)

"It was not unlike watching a calf rise up for the first time on spindly legs, at the same time awkward and beautiful...
'It makes you wonder. All the brilliant things we might have done with our lives if only we suspected we knew how.'" (page 300)

The only part of this book I wanted to change was the ending.
I would have liked to have seen it end a couple chapters earlier.
I would have preferred the reader imagine their futures.

Ain't that the truth!

2008-03-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

"If it wasn't for dogs, some people would never go for a walk."
--source unknown

Pile of books side table

2008-03-01T22:56:00.000-08:00

by Josefin Hellstrom-Olsson

Too many books?

2008-02-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes those of us who love books find ourselves smothered by the quantity we keep.
Sometimes, as much as it hurts to part with books, we just need to do some weeding.
Great post on this subject by the lovely Aubrey.
Read it here.

Leota's Garden

2008-01-12T20:41:00.000-08:00

Leota's Garden is the first Christian novel I've read. My friend Tracie knows I want to mosaic a bowling ball for my first garden, and thought I'd enjoy the whimsical elements described in this book's garden also.
But it's more than that--it's about reconnecting with loved ones, and forgiveness.
It's about compassion and empathy.

"She glanced around the living room, trying to see things through their eyes. She supposed most of what she possessed was junk by their standards. They didn't know that every knickknack, stitchery picture, and stick of furniture meant something to her. Everything in her house held special meaning and sparked a memory. These stories, most of them private, some heartbreaking, some lovely, some tender." (page 287)

Some tidbits of wisdom:
"People can be like Monet paintings. You have to get some distance before you can see what they are and appreciate their full beauty." (page 411)

"All day Annie had watched family members, friends, and neighbors wander around the garden, and she kept thinking how they were all like flowers. Some were poppies, blooming bold and brief. Others were like ornamental vines, passion flowers, or trumpets. Still others were shy violets and wallflowers. And all together, what a beautiful world they made. Everyone different, everyone amazing to behold." (page 422)

A fable?

2008-01-11T20:56:00.001-08:00

As much as I love books, I don't recollect them well.
I'm worse with movies.
Songs, however, are a different story (no pun intended).

I read something recently, and it's bugging me that I can't remember the source.
Perhaps you can help me?
Was it in Eat, Pray, Love perhaps?

It was a mention of a fable, in which a man asks God to enable him to touch people's lives (inspire, affect, etc), but without his knowing the impression he has made.
So as the man walks along, all these miracles are taking place behind him...
in his shadow.

I love that idea, because none of us can ever really know the extent to which we might make an impact on someone else.
Sometimes it's the right question at the right time, or a comment that affects someone, or a shared experience.
Sometimes it's written on a blog, or an email, or a letter.
Sometimes it's your example.

Don't discount your impact...your shadow falls longer and wider than you realize.

What a tale!

2007-10-29T18:49:00.000-07:00

Wow.
The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield, just grabbed me, threw me about, and didn't let me go for two days.
It's an amazing tale within a tale within a tale.
If you love to read, love libraries, love words...
then you'll love this book.

"I didn't intend to read. Not as such. A few phrases were all I wanted. Something bold enough, strong enough, to still the words from the letter that kept going around in my head. Fight fire with fire, people say. A couple of sentences, a page maybe, and then I would be able to sleep.
I removed the dust jacket and placed it for safety in the special drawer I keep for the purpose. Even with gloves you can't be too careful. Opening the book, I inhaled. The smell of old books, so sharp, so dry you can taste it.
The prologue. Just a few words.
But my eyes, brushing the first line, were snared.
All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won't be the truth; it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.
It was like falling into water...
...Aspects of my room came back into view, one by one. My bedroom, the book in my hand, the lamp still shining palely in the daylight that was beginning to creep in through the thin curtains.
It was morning.
I had read the night away." (page 26-28)

Many people understand (how sad for the ones who don't) that books can be like friends--a joy to spend time with, an adventure. They are FUN!
"Of course one always hopes for something special when one reads an author one hasn't read before, and Miss Winter's books gave me the same thrill I had when I discovered the Landier diaries, for instance. But it was more than that. I have always been a reader, I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy. And yet I cannot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet is is not the same. Books are, for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child, books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning that one ever expects to be fulfilled. And during this time, these days when I read all days and half the night, when I slept under a counterpane strewn with books, when my sleep was black and dreamless and passed in a flash and I woke to read again--the lost joys of reading returned to me. Miss Winter restored in me the virginal qualities of the novice reader, and then with her stories she ravished me." (page 32)

Characters come to life in books, or in the case of biographies of people who lived long ago, books bring them back to life.
In this way, books are like photographs--the essence of a person, summed up with words.
"For all my biographical projects, I have kept a box of lives. A box of index cards containing the details--name, occupation, dates, place of residence and any other piece of information that seems relevant--of all the significant people in the life of my subject. I never quite know what to make of my boxes of lives. Depending on my mood they either strike me as a memorial to gladden the dead ('Look!' I've imagined them saying as they peer through the glass at me. 'She's writing us down on her cards! And to think we've been dead two hundred years!') or, when the glass is very dark and I feel quite stranded and alone this side of it, they seem like little cardboard tombstones, inanimate and cold, and the box itself is as dead as the cemetery." (page 159)

One of my favorite books--a really excellent journey.

I love this quote on so many levels

2007-10-13T21:39:00.001-07:00

"Anyone who thinks they're too grown up or too sophisticated to eat caramel corn, is not invited to my house for dinner."

Ruth Reichl
Editor-in-Chief, Gourmet Magazine

In the pursuit of happiness

2007-09-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

I get a special kind of joy from reading the type of books that are so finely written, I have a smile pasted on my face during the entire process of reading.

Luckily for me, two books I have recently read have been this kind of, well, FUN.
The one I'll talk about here, is Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.
This book was recommended to me by a friend who loves to travel.
It has the smut (romance), the spiritual, the journaling introspection, and bits and pieces of foreign travel.
Perfect.
But I wasn't expecting such sound writing...with words that just made me think, ponder, and feel that itch of the travel bug again.

There were times when I put a hand to my eyes and just laughed out loud.
Other passages made me squirm in uncomfortable recognition.
Some of it was a bit heavier than I anticipated.
But ultimately delicious.

I am so disappointed to hear the book will become a movie starring Julia Roberts.
Groan....
I'm not a big Roberts fan--so many other actresses better suited for the role.
The role needs a blonde with great acting ability but also intellect and sex appeal.
Please, NOT Scarlett Johanssen. That's soooo last year.
Not Charlize Theron. Enough with the same old same...
I can envision maybe Naomi Watts with an American accent.
Or that girl that played Claire on Six Feet Under, Lauren Ambrose.

But I digress.

Honestly, there are so many good excerpts in this book, they are worthy of printing out and posting in places for inspirational viewing.
So excuse the length of this post.

The book starts out with Liz thick in the muck of relationships gone sour and all the darkness that brings.
To drag herself out of the vortex of depression, she goes in pursuit of pleasure, and something she has always longed to do: learn Italian.

First, therefore, she traveled to Italy.
"Of course sometimes I really do become overcome with lust. I walk past an average of about a dozen Italian men a day whom I could easily imagine in my bed. Or in theirs. Or wherever. To my taste, the men in Rome are ridiculously, hurtfully, stupidly beautiful. More beautiful even than Roman women, to be honest. Italian men are beautiful in the same way as French women, which is to say--no detail spared in the quest for perfection. They're like show poodles. Sometimes they look so good I want to applaud." (page 66, 67)

This made me laugh:
"I mean, maybe I was afraid I wasn't getting any attention because I was no longer nineteen years old and pretty. I was afraid that maybe my friend Scott was correct last summer when he said, 'Ah, don't worry Liz--those Italian guys won't bother you anymore. It ain't like France, where they dig the old babes.'" (page 67)

"I work hard at Italian, but I keep hoping it will one day just be revealed to me, whole, perfect. One day I will open my mouth and be magically fluent. Then I will be a real Italian girl, instead of a total American who still can't hear someone call across the street to his friend Marco without wanting instinctively to yell back 'Polo!'" (page 71)

Most of her pleasure-seeking in Italy revolves around food (ah, a girl after my own heart...). Seriously, this life is about JOY. Not counting carbs or using artificial sweetener, or any other nonsense. Here, now, in-the-moment joy.
"...when I look at myself in the mirror of the best pizzeria in Naples, I see a bright-eyed, clear-skinned, happy and healthy face. I haven't seen a face like that on me in a long time. 'Thank you,' I whisper. Then Sofie and I run out in the rain to look for pastries." (page 81)

"These weeks of spontaneous travel are such a glorious twirl of time, some of the loosest days of my life, running to the train station and buying tickets left and right, finally beginning to flex my freedom for real...
One night in a town somewhere on the Mediterranean, in a hotel room by the ocean, the sound of my own laughter actually wakes me up in the middle of my deep sleep. I am startled. Who is that laughing in my bed? The realization that it is only me just makes me laugh again." (page 97)

"But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one's life, is it so awful to travel through time with no greater ambition than to find the next lovely meal? Or to learn to speak a language for no higher purpose than it pleases your ear to hear it? Or nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favorite fountain? And then do it again the next day?" (page 113)

Some comments are more profound. They illustrate the lessons she has learned.
"When I get lonely these days, I think: So be lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings." (page 63)

"It was in a bathtub back in New York, reading Italian words aloud from a dictionary, that I first started mending my soul. My life had gone to bits and I was so unrecognizable to myself that I probably couldn't have picked me out of a police lineup. But I felt a glimmer of happiness when I started studying Italian, and when you sense a faint potentiality for happiness after such dark times you must grab onto the ankles of that happiness and not let go until it drags you face-first out of the dirt--this is not selfishness, but obligation. You were given life; it is your duty (and also your entitlement as a human being) to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight." (page 115)

This book is so dog-eared with notations for excerpts, I'll have to continue with India and Indonesia in a future post.

Read another interesting review about this book here.

Bookmarks

2007-08-29T11:18:00.000-07:00

Fun, whimsical metal bookmarks by Ialuna (etsy) and also here.

Reflection

2007-07-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

Here are some excerpts from a lovely book based on a true story, The Poet of Tolstoy Park, by Sonny Brewer.

"Henry could not remember when last he had walked barefoot in the rain, mud squishing up between his toes. He believed it was Black Elk, or maybe Chief Seattle, who had said that the man who always wears moccasins thinks the earth is covered with leather." (page 5)

"Black Elk had spoken of the giving-away ceremonies practiced by his people in the springtime: extra pemmican, extra furs, extra horses--these were not hoarded but were given to those who had none or not enough. The joy of giving is more full when the gift is finer, Black Elk said. This is because each thing owned takes a measure of spirit from the owner. And more spirit is paid out into finer things. To make a gift of these things, the more prized things, Black Elk continued, returns a fuller measure of spirit and power to the giver's body." (page 28)

"...it was not a 'face' he'd put on his leaving. It was permission
that he had claimed. 'We do not owe each other the keeping of some artificial proximity because of our common family name. Love is what we share. And love does not dissipate across distance, falter through the passing of time. It will not succumb to your anger at my leaving.'" (page 52)

"'Thoreau said that to walk outside and gaze at the full moon is nothing,' said Henry, 'compared to walking along a path alight with the full moon's glow. The one is taste, the other a feast.'" (page 84)

"I am reminded that Socrates was found studying a new language on the night before the morning of his death. A pupil came to see him, and in surprise asked, 'Why do you now study a new language?' And Socrates answered, 'If not now, when?' If I don't build my hut now, dear Leddie, then when shall I ever build a hut?" (page 139)

"...these Alabama woods were remarkably green in winter. The magnolias had their leaves, the sweet bay and holly trees had their leaves; some of the varieties of oak were deciduous, but most of the oaks had their leaves, and the willows, the pines, and cedars were green. Much of the understory vegetation, honeysuckle and briar and privet, was thick with leafy jade. If Henry were a painter, he would set up his easel here. He would cover canvas after canvas with pigment. He would try to awaken an image reflecting the light falling here upon this immense green world. Henry could only stand in reverent awe.
When he shuffled his foot in the sand, he dislodged a fat acorn and it tumbled down to the water's edge. The acorn might have been a piece of wise man's gold, so captivated was Henry by it. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for the small daybook he had brought from his desk drawer in Idaho. He had a piece of pencil in his trousers pocket. He sat on the sand with the journal on his knee and the pencil poised above the clean page. There in the acorn's fall was his own life." (page 146)

Power in a circle

2007-06-16T14:42:00.000-07:00

"After the heyoka ceremony I came to live here where I am now between Wounded Knee Creek and Grass Creek. Others came too and we made these little gray houses of logs that you see, and they are square. It is a bad way to live, for there can be no power in a square.

You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle. And that is because the Power of the World always works in a circle, and everything tries to be round...

The sky is round and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball. And so are all the stars. The wind in its greatest power whirls.

Birds make their nests in a circle, for theirs is the same religion as ours...The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves...

But the Waischus (white men) have put us in these square boxes. Our power is gone and we are dying, for the Power is not in us anymore...Well, it is as it is. We are prisoners of war while we are waiting here. But there is another world."

Black Elk, Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux, from Black Elk Speaks, by John G. Neihardt (and preface of The Poet of Tolstoy Park, by Sonny Brewer).

Where books and fabrics combine

2007-06-13T01:04:00.000-07:00

I love it when I find things that overlap my interests.
This is a quilt made by Pockafwye (well, that's her Flickr ID).
Each block of the wall hanging represents a book she read during the year it was made (1991).

I adore symbolism like that.
Plus the fact that necktie fabric is used in parts.
So inspiring...

Read about each block here.

Bookshelves of books

2007-06-08T23:02:00.000-07:00

Furniture and shelves created from old books, by This Into That.

The Secret

2007-06-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

"Carefully watch your THOUGHTS, for they become your WORDS. Manage and watch your WORDS, for they will become your ACTIONS. Consider and judge your ACTIONS, for they have become your HABITS. Acknowledge and watch your HABITS, for they shall become your VALUES. Understand and embrace your VALUES, for they become YOUR DESTINY."

Mahatma Gandhi

The power of positive thinking

2007-06-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

Philippians 4:8

Keep growing

2007-05-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

"Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there."

- Will Rogers

The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets, by Eva Rice

2007-05-11T12:27:00.000-07:00

I love copying excerpts, if only to remember the author's tone.
This book, written by the daughter of lyricist Tim Rice, has an Alice in Wonderland quality.
It took me several chapters to grow accustomed to the affected mannerisms and language, but then the characters grew real to me.
I really enjoyed this story.

"Charlotte's coat was exquisitely comfortable and warm. It seemed a little slice of her had stayed hidden in its lining, and it felt strange, like putting on a mask. She wriggled into my coat, pulling her mass of hair over the collar. The effect shocked me, not least because she possessed the actress's ability to change the aura around her simply by altering her clothing. It was as if she had been given her costume for the evening and she was instantly immersed in her part." (page 7)

Some of the author's descriptions are just so wonderful:
"His bride virtually ran down the aisle and into his arms, a green-eyed, inky-haired fairy in white lace, already three months pregnant with me." (page 27)

"'Sit down next to me,' she pleaded, and I did, feeling the stone step warm on my thighs in the late-afternoon sun. I rubbed my fingers over a stalk of rosemary and lay back, listening to the hypnotic buzzing of the wasps in their nest in the old pear tree. The garden was the center of the universe, and within its walls lay the whole world, Eden-esque." (page 28)

"Glimpsed from the road, through a gap in the estate walls or a break in the avenue of whispering limes, Magna sits like a sapphire among the trees--part birthday cake, part ocean liner, part sculpture, part skeleton--a magnificent, ostentatious chunk of history, immediately defining those who have lived within its walls with the same adjectives." (page 28)

On shopping:
"There was something gorgeously theatrical about Selfridges, with its intoxicating smells of powder and perfume and the rows of salesgirls with shapely fingernails and Thursday-afternoon smiles. It was impossible to imagine anything bad happening to anyone in such a place, and as always, I felt my intellectual resolve weaken. I wanted everything, everything, everything--in fact, I felt myself positively winded by my need to consume." (page 51)

On friends:
"It was amazing how easy I felt with her, despite all my worrying. She was so utterly familiar to me, like a character from a favorite book come to life. I joined her by the window. The kitchen garden lay still under its white blanket, which gave me an odd sense of freedom. Silently, I thanked God for giving me temporary respite from the location I associated so strongly with the night my parents met." (page 66)

"Dear Aunt Clare. If ever there was a tangent, she was off on it." (page 204)

the definition of happiness:
"'There was a lightness about him,' said Aunt Clare. 'That's the only word I can think of to describe it. You have it too.'
'What do you mean?'
Aunt Clare stretched her hand out toward my whiskey.
'He struck me as being terribly good at living, which is the greatest gift anyone can have. A talent for life.'
'You mean he seemed very happy?'
'Not just happy,' said Aunt Clare. 'Nothing as straightforward as that.'
'What do you mean, then?'
'He was at ease with himself, he was at home in his own skin. I remember seeing the waitress light up when he asked her where she got her pretty shoes.'" (page 322)

"Happiness can be frightening when one is not used to the sensation." (page 330)

"I had become used to ache now; it was with me all the time, and never seemed to lessen. Time was no healer, I decided, but it was a great accommodator." (page 345)

Novel idea

2007-05-07T21:53:00.000-07:00

Are you crafty at all?
Mary Ann made this adorable paperback book cover for her mom for Mother's Day.
Read her post here.

I'm totally inspired.

The Namesake

2007-04-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

The last few days, I have buried myself within The Namesake, by Jhumpa Lahiri, a book chosen as part of Finny's book club.

One of the biggest gifts of having joined a book club, however informal, is being exposed to pages I never would have found otherwise. I am carried off to a magical place, my body and mind go through a series of introspective cycles of my own memories and tears. My words are etched with her (Lahiri's) words, her phrases. It is like going on vacation.

This book has been a fantastic find; a lovely retreat.

Though these disembodied passages sound stark and cold, the feel of the book is not. Introspective, yes. Depressing, no. It's just filled with real moments and a roller coaster of moods that we all pass through. It stands as a reminder to be alert, notice your surroundings, hug the people you love.

"There is work to do at the house, his mother has warned him. His room must be emptied, every last scrap either taken back with him to New York or tossed. They will drive her to Logan and see he off as far as airport security will allow. And then the house will be occupied by strangers, and there will be no trace that they were ever there, no house to enter, no name in the telephone directory. Nothing to signify the years his family has lived here, no evidence of the effort, the achievement it had been." (page 281)

"And these events have formed Gogol, shaped him, determined who he is. They were things for which it was impossible to prepare but which one spent a lifetime looking back at, trying to accept, interpret, comprehend. Things that should never have happened, that seemed out of place and wrong, these were what prevailed, what endured, in the end." (page 287)

The book brings you through routines, through emotions, through the days in the lives of individuals in a family. It amazes me how well this author brings the pages to life. Somehow her overuse of commas feels comfortable, conversational, effective.
"Though no longer pregnant, she continues, at times, to mix Rice Krispies and peanuts and onions in a bowl. For being a foreigner, Ashima is beginning to realize, is sort of lifelong pregnancy--a perpetual wait, a constant burden, a continuous feeling out of sorts. It is an ongoing responsibility, a parenthesis in what had once been ordinary life, only to discover that that previous life has vanished, replaced by something more complicated and demanding. Like pregnancy, being a foreigner, Ashima believes, is something that elicits the same curiosity from strangers, the same combination of pity and respect." (page 49, 50)

Ah, the reminders this life passes by far too fast.
"She passes over two pages filled only with the addresses of her daughter, and then her son. She has given birth to vagabonds. She is the keeper of all these names and numbers now, numbers she once knew by heart, numbers and addresses her children no longer remember...In her own life Ashima has lived in only five houses: her parents' flat in Calcutta, her in-laws' house for one month, the house they rented in Cambridge, living below the Montgomerys, the faculty apartment on campus, and, lastly, the one they own now.
One hand, five homes. A lifetime in a fist." (page 167)

"And yet he has the feeling that he has been to a few of her birthdays, and she to his. That weekend, at his parents' house, he confirms this; at night, after his mother and Sonia have gone up to bed, he hunts for her in the photo albums that his mother has assembled over the years. Moushumi is there, lined up behind a blazing cake in his parents' dining room. She is looking away, a pointed paper hat on her head. He stares straight at the lens, the knife in his hand, poised, for the camera's benefit, over the cake, his face shining with impending adolescence. He tries to peel the image from the sticky yellow backing, to show her the next time he sees her, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to detach cleanly from the past." (page 207)

"She applies lotion to her arms and legs, reaches for a peach-colored terrycloth robe that hangs from a hook on the door. Her husband had given her the robe years ago, for a Christmas now long forgotten...She does not remember the year she'd gotten the robe, does not remember opening it, or her reaction. She knows only that it had been either Gogol or Sonia who had picked it out at one of the department stores at the mall, had wrapped it, even. That all her husband had done was to write his name and hers on the to-and-from tag. She does not fault him for this. Such omissions of devotion, of affection, she knows now, do not matter in the end...
It is the image of their two names on the tag that she thinks of, a tag she had not bothered to save. It reminds her of their life together, of the unexpected life he, in choosing to marry her, had given her here, which she had refused for so many years to accept. And though she still does not feel fully at home within these walls on Pemberton Road she knows that this is home nevertheless--the world for which she is responsible, which she has created, which is everywhere around her, needing to be packed up , given away, thrown out bit by bit. She slips her damp arms into the sleeves of the robe, ties the belt around her waist. It's always been a bit short on her, a size too small. Its warmth is a comfort all the same." (page 280)

Recycled book crafts

2007-04-22T11:28:00.001-07:00

Wow, lamps from recycled books!

Storage boxes made from recycled books.

Buy blank journals made from recycled books at Buy Olympia.

Or blank journals at Ex Libris Anonymous.

Buy handbags made from old books at Rebound Designs.

Or make your own bag with the tutorial here.

How fun--buy an address book made from recycled floppy disks at Pristine Planet. (see Greenfeet)

Or a blank journal with a recycled record cover, from Buy Olympia.
Or at Snap.

Make your own journal

2007-04-22T11:28:00.000-07:00

Instructions to make an accordian-style art journal.

Wall maps turned into journals, by Studio Ben Ben.

Cassettes to books!

Bookbinding tutorial on craftster.

Make your own photo journal, by Five and a Half.

A lovely tale in the aroma of an orange rind

2007-03-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things is to find a well-written tale that combines a love of food and its preparation.
Within that combination of words and cooking, some touch of magic ignites.

Five Quarters of the Orange, by Joanne Harris (the author responsible for Chocolat) just took hold of my hand and led me down a path that filled my senses.

She describes her mother:
"Food was her nostalgia, her celebration, its nurture and preparation the sole outlet for her creativity." (page 4)

"She lacked any capacity for tenderness. Her defenses were too good, her sensual impulses sublimated into her recipes, into creating the perfect lentilles cuisinees, the most ardent creme brulee." (page 228)

Herself:
"I'm 64 years old, for pity's sake. I ought to know better. And yet there's something in the way he looks at me that sets my old heart lurching like a tractor engine...A feeling of peace. The feeling you get when a recipe turns out perfectly right, a perfectly risen souffle, a flawless sauce hollandaise. It's a feeling which tells me that any woman can be beautiful in the eyes of a man who loves her." (page 229)

"Secretly she dreams of a soft-voiced stranger, in her mind's eye she sees him, a man who could see beyond what she has become to what she might have been." (page 230)

Of wine:
"Drunkenness, she told us once in a rare moment of confidence, is a sin against the fruit, the tree, the wine itself. It is an outrage, an abuse, just as rape is an abuse of the act of love. She flushed then, turning away gruffly...
Wine, distilled and nurtured from bud into fruit and then through all the processes that make it what it is, deserves better than to be guzzled by some sot with a headful of nonsense. It deserves reverence. Joy. Gentleness.
Oh, she understood wine, my mother. She understood the sweetening process, the seething and mellowing of life in the bottle, the darkening, the slow transformations, the birth of a new vintage in a bouquet of aromas like a magician's bunch of paper flowers. If only she had had time and patience enough for us. A child is not a fruit tree. She understood that too late." (page 194)

The story is set in France during the occupation. Live music was forbidden, so I can literally feel the joy coming off the pages when she writes of the sweet treat:
"...then they began to play some bright sharp-sounding tune that we did not recognize, though I think it might have been some kind of jazz. A light beat from the drum, a throaty burble from the clarinet, but from Tomas's saxophone a string of bright notes like Christmas lights, sweetly wailing, harshly whispering, rising-falling above the half-discordant whole like a human voice magically enhanced and containing the entire human range of softness, brashness, coaxing and grief...
...Of course, memory is such a subjective thing....
...the music was hot, and the heat burnt off us like alcohol in a flambee, with a sharp, sour smell, and we whooped like Indians, knowing that with the volume of sound indoors we could make as much noise as we pleased and still remain unheard." (page 109)

"It's like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home." (page 306)

The need to secure our borders...

2007-03-02T15:54:00.000-08:00

I put aside the mysteries, the comedies, and the fluff in favor of non-fiction this month. Colorado Congressman Tom Tancredo's In Mortal Danger: The Battle for America's Border and Security ought to be on everyone's 'must read' list.

"The greatest threat in our nation today does not come from invasion by foreign soldiers but rather from internal decay, a loss of identity, and a de-emphasis on the value of American citizenship." (page 193)

"I firmly believe that we must reaffirm the principles of citizenship and of American identity if we are to survive as a free people in the twenty-first century. This comes not from a fear of immigration. As a son of immigrants, I welcome and support immigration. What worries me is that the nation our new immigrants seek to find at the end of their journey may not be the nation of their dreams and grand ambitions. If we are to remain true to our history, we must also remain true to our destiny. Our destiny is not to be a vague, confusing collection of ethnic groups or religious sects, but rather is a continuation of the land of freedom and opportunity, the world's beacon of hope for all who are oppressed." (page 183)

"Citizenship should be as important to Americans as it was to the ancient Romans. In every sense, citizenship is a set of rights (voting, equal protection under the laws, etc) and responsibilities (draft registry, jury duty, etc). But at its core, citizenship is about belonging. It is an allegiance you owe to your nation and an allegiance your nation owes to you. Citizenship is more than residency; it is more than an address, it's more than an electric bill. It's part of who we are and a source of pride. Much more than the value of citizenship is lost when we abandon our national heritage. And when you take away a belief that it is something special to be an American, something else can--and likely will--fill the void."(page 194)

"I'm 100 percent Italian, but I would no more cast my vote for another American of Italian ethnicity simply because he or she was Italian than I would cast my vote blindly. For me, a candidate for office should represent my views, not my hues."(page 32)

"If our goal is to remain a United States of America, we must first be a united people of America."(page 33)

"We must know who we are. What places us in mortal danger is a lack of that knowledge. We apparently know little about our enemy while we, at the same time, struggle with an identity crisis of our own, which has been brought on by decades of politically correct propaganda being spewed out by the cult of multiculturalism. The problem is exacerbated by the massive infusion of millions of immigrants who come here without any desire to leave behind their old allegiances. And they are encouraged by the cult to avoid assimilation into what is left of the last bastion of Western civilization, a unique concept called America." (page 76)

"The lives of ranchers...have been radically altered in the last decade because their own government has repeatedly failed to protect them and their land from invasion. And invasion is exactly the proper term for what's occurring."(page 178)

And then this excerpt from a speech given by Teddy Roosevelt in 1912.
"There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism. When I refer to hyphenated Americans, I do not refer to naturalized Americans. Some of the very best Americans I have ever known were naturalized Americans, Americans born abroad. But a hyphenated American is not an American at all. This is just as true of the man who puts "native" before the hyphen as of the man who puts German or Irish or English or French before the hyphen. Americanism is a matter of the spirit and of the soul. Our allegiance must be purely to the United States. We must unsparingly condemn any man who holds any other allegiance."(page 196)

I need to remember this

2007-03-02T08:35:00.000-08:00

"The optimist sees opportunity in every danger; the pessimist sees danger in every opportunity."

- Winston Churchill

Inspirational Quote

2007-02-14T19:41:00.000-08:00

“Passion will make you crazy, but is their any other way to live?”—

Howard Hughes
(as heard on Project Runway. I can't find verification that he said this...but I love the thought)

Ironic and memorable

2007-02-13T16:58:00.000-08:00

"It's not the year, it's the mileage."

I just thought it was funny that a used car salesman used this car reference when speaking about the death of Anna Nicole.
In other words, she was young, but lived hard.
I guess she was driven (sorry, I couldn't resist).

Inspirational words

2007-01-27T19:04:00.000-08:00

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world,
indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."

Margaret Mead

Positive Thinking...

2007-01-26T23:06:00.000-08:00

"If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Wherever you are -- if you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time."

Joseph Campbell

Wisdom of the Ages

2007-01-23T23:37:00.000-08:00

I tend to collect little bits of paper, no matter how I try to be more organized. I may be listening to the radio in the car, and feel the need to scramble about searching for a pen...to record some idea, spark, recollection, or quotation.

On my bedside table, there's a receipt on which I have written,
"A heart at peace gives life to the body."
Proverbs 14:30

I don't remember where I heard this, why, nor which translation (several translations of the bible list this quotation differently. 'Tranquil heart', for example. I like the version above best).
I think this may have been in reference to how stress makes people physically ill, how that is a documented fact.

Yet the cure has been around for centuries. It's so simple, really.
Just let your heart go, let it be still. I like that.

Too Cute Bookmark

2007-01-18T19:41:00.000-08:00

I looove my new bookmark from Cathy Peng.

I bought it through her Etsy shop--only $1.50! And the quality is excellent.
Bookmarks are always great little stocking stuffers, additions to swaps, etc.
And anytime you buy someone a book as a gift, be sure to include a bookmark.

Happy Birthday MLK

2007-01-15T00:25:00.000-08:00

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Martin Luther King Jr., Strength to Love, 1963
US black civil rights leader & clergyman (1929 - 1968)

Suite Francaise

2007-01-05T21:33:00.000-08:00

As part of the book club on Finny Knits, I just finished Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky.

This is a novel based in WWII's history, yet it is so much more. Sadly, the entire volume is incomplete--the author was killed in Auschwitz in 1942, her manuscripts taken into hiding by her daughters.
Only two books of a planned five were completed; published 64 years after their mother's death.

At first I was underwhelmed--too many characters to track, too much undercurrent between the lines, and (unfortunately) too much history outside my ken.
Too, I wasn't sure I wanted to read about the war. That part of history was something distant...not anything I really thought about.

Until now.

Then the history itself...this woman...crept into my dreams.
It all made me think.

That, I suppose, is the essence of a fine novel.

The book is not so much about the details of the war, but about human nature--its twists and short-comings. Throughout, however, I got a sense of the author's hope. Perhaps it was because of the way she repeatedly describes the beauty of sunlight on a branch, or the bursting fragrance of fruits or flowers.

And therein lies its brilliance.

The message is not within a story of war, judgments, or accusations. It is within a story of life. In Appendix I of the author's notes:
"The most important and most interesting thing here is the following: the historical, revolutionary facts etc. must be only lightly touched upon, while daily life, the emotional life and especially the comedy it provides must be described in detail." (page 356. Emphasis mine)

"A toad croaked in the darkness. It was a soft, low musical note, a bubble of water bursting with a silvery sound. "Croak, croak..." Lucile half closed her eyes. How peaceful it was, sad and overwhelming...Every so often something came to life inside her, rebelled, demanded noise, movement, people. Life, my God, life! How long would this war go on? How many years would they have to live like this, in this dismal lethargy, bowed, docile, crushed like cattle in a storm? She missed the familiar crackling of the radio: when the Germans arrived it had been hidden in the cellar because people said they confiscated or destroyed them. She smiled. "They must find French houses rather sparsely furnished," she thought..." (page 207 Dolce)

From the preface of the French edition:
"Nemirovsky began Suite Francaise , as was her habit, by writing notes on the work in progress and thoughts inspired by the situation in France. She created a list of characters, both major and minor, then checked that she had used them correctly. She dreamed of a book of a thousand pages, constructed like a symphony, but in five sections, according to rhythm and tone. She took Beethoven's Fifth Symphony as a model." (page 392 emphasis mine)

What I like to do is let the character's words speak here. Random quotations are pulled, unrelated.

The characters are full of self-absorption and vice, yet representation of the enemy is surprising in its sensitivity.
"They were alone--they felt they were alone--in the great sleeping house. Not a word of their true feelings was spoken; they didn't kiss. There was simply silence. Silence followed by feverish, passionate conversations about their own countries, their families, music, books...They felt a strange happiness, an urgent need to reveal their hearts to each other--the urgency of lovers, which is already a gift, the very first one, the gift of the soul before the body surrenders. 'Know me, look at me. This is who I am. This is how I have lived, this is what I have loved. And you? What about you, my darling?' But up until now, not a single word of love. What was the point? Words are pointless when your voices falter, when your mouths are trembling, amid such long silences. Slowly, gently, Lucile touched the books on the table. The Gothic lettering looked so bizarre, so ugly. The Germans, the Germans...A Frenchman wouldn't have let me leave with no gesture of love other than kissing my hand and the hem of my dress." (page 299 Dolce)

"War...yes, everyone knows what war is like. But occupation is more terrible in a way, because people get used to one another. We tell ourselves, 'They're just like us, after all,' but they're not at all the same. We're two different species, irreconcilable, enemies forever." (page 307 Dolce)

"The piano...How could anyone like music?...
Anything was better than music, for music alone can abolish differences of language or culture between two people and evoke something indestructible within them." (page 309 Dolce)

"...you never pride yourself on truly knowing the sea unless you've seen it both calm and in a storm. Only the person who has observed men and women at times like this, she thought, can be said to know them. And to know themselves." (page 335 Dolce)

The descriptions of the children gave me pause:
"They obeyed him so perfectly, so mechanically--no doubt used to hearing the whistle blow, to standing in line, to being docile, to enforced silence--that it broke his heart. He glanced at their faces which had suddenly become glum and lifeless--as closed as a house when the door is locked, the life within withdrawn, absent, or dead.
...He walked among them, talked to them...trying to interest them, to get closer to them. All in vain. They didn't even seem to be listening; he realized that anything he said to them--encouragement, reprimands, information--would never sink in, for their souls were shut off, walled up, secret and silent." (page 126, Storm)

When the author's eldest daughter finally was able to tackle the task of "deciphering the miniscule handwriting (she) soon discovered these were not simply notes or a private diary...but a violent masterpiece, a fresco of extraordinary lucidity, a vivid snapshot of France and the French..." (page 395 from preface of French edition)

"As I Walked Out One Evening"

2006-12-30T20:16:00.000-08:00

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

by W.H. Auden
1940

Recycled Bookmark

2006-12-28T23:33:00.000-08:00

I could have posted this on my thrifting blog, since this was a complimentary gift today at the thrift store, and it's a recycled card.
I could have also posted it on my crafty blog, since it's crafted from an old Christmas card.
But it wound up here, because it's a bookmark.

This is such a simple thing to make, but so lovely. The card has been cut with decorative scissors, hole-punched, and strung with some yarn.
Great way to recycle, and it's just so cute.
Would make a fun keepsake also, if using cards from friends or family.
Sure beats throwing them away, that's for sure.

A similar idea is worth sharing from the blog "I Heart Fabric". She sells gift tags that she fashions from vintage wrapping paper. Adorable.

Shopping for book lovers

2006-12-01T22:33:00.000-08:00

I thought it might be fun to list some gift ideas for readers on your list. Sure, books are great, but accessories might be more useful if you're not sure what's on their reading list.

Fish Bowl Bookends (available at several locations).

Ha! The librarian action figure with push-button Shushing action!

"I read Banned Books" sweatshirt.

writers and artists caricature bookmarks, posters, magnets, notecards.

the literate tote bag.

Novel-themed wine stops, or tea infusers.

"Book Lovers Diary", has places for someone to list favorite quotes, wants, gift ideas, etc.

Ensconced in another tale...

2006-11-17T14:48:00.000-08:00

I was just in my bedroom in the middle of the afternoon, and so clearly felt a presence that I turned to look out the window. My edginess surprises me at this hour, when all that greeted me was blue sky and a calm breeze.

Whatever book I happen to be reading at the time, it never ceases to haunt my dreams--both day dreams and during sleep. I have been reading with a hunger this month--insatiable.

I love finding magic in a good mystery, when the story grabs me and spins me around. When I sit in my chair by the window and can't help but smile, impressed with the unexpected wrinkles, suspenseful surprises, and writers' creative maneuvers.

Currently what seeks my gaze is "The Historian", by Elizabeth Kostova. Normally a novel about Dracula wouldn't excite my attention, but a review in the newspaper sparked my curiosity, and I was fortunate to come across a copy during my last trip to the library's second-hand store. There, on the 'new acquisitions' shelf, a copy of this book I have been longing to devour, and with only a one dollar price tag.

I read over a hundred pages today, yet it barely makes a dent in this large volume. The length holds no dread for me, only enthusiastic anticipation. Already I fantasize of packing my bags for Slovenia, to visit lush vistas and Romanesque structures. The descriptions have scratched the travel bug dormant for too long.

"As an adult, I have known that particular legacy time brings to the traveler: the longing to seek out a place the second time, to find deliberately what we stumbled on once before, to recapture the feeling of discovery. Sometimes we search out again even a place that was not remarkable in itself--we look for it simply because we remember it. If we so find it, of course, everything is different. The rough-hewn door is still there, but it's much smaller; the day is cloudy instead of brilliant; it's spring instead of autumn; we're alone instead of with three friends. Or, worse, with three friends instead of alone."

Words to live by

2006-11-15T21:22:00.000-08:00

"Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth."

Mark Twain

Fear Nothing

2006-11-11T12:41:00.000-08:00

Dean Koontz must love dogs. Several of his stories involve dogs (my favorite being "Watchers"). The 'Orson' of the following excerpts is the character's dog in Koontz' "Fear Nothing".

"Orson put his head in my lap, as if he thought I would take some consolation from petting him and scratching behind his ears. In fact, I did. It always works. A good dog is a medicine for melancholy and a better stress reliever than Valium."

"Perhaps the purpose for which I was born is not to write about my life in search of some universal meaning that may help others to better understand their own lives--which, in my more egomaniacal moments, is a mission I have embraced. Instead of striving to make even the tiniest mark on the world, perhaps I should consider that, possibly, the sole purpose for which I was born is to amuse Orson, to be not his master but his loving brother, to make his strange and difficult life as easy, as full of delight, and as rewarding as it can be. This would constitute a purpose as meaningful as most and more noble than some."

"Is this really a wise strategy for living? Insisting that most of life isn't to be taken seriously. Relentlessly viewing it as a cosmic joke. Having only four guiding principles: one, do as little harm to others as possible; two, be there always for your friends; three, be responsible for yourself and ask nothing of others; four, grab all the fun you can. Put no stock in the opinions of anyone but those closest to you. Forget about leaving a mark on the world. Ignore the great issues of your time and thereby improve your digestion. Don't dwell in the past. Don't worry about the future. Live in the moment. Trust in the purpose of your existence and let meaning come to you instead of straining to discover it. When life throws a hard punch, roll with it--but roll with laughter. Catch the wave, dude."

"Besides, the best way to deal with a rising sea of trouble is to catch the wave at the zero break and ride it out, slide along the face straight into the cathedral, get totally Ziplocked in the green room, walk the board all the way through the barrel, hooting, showing no fear. That's not only cool: it's classic."

Far more than a good mystery...

2006-11-05T23:19:00.000-08:00

Mystic River was recommended to me long before it went to film, and I've been hooked on Dennis LeHane ever since. His books are full of twists and turns and surprises. I just finished reading "Shutter Island", and I barely paused--I couldn't put it down. I don't want to spoil the plot with my choice of quotes, I just want to give you a pinch of the brilliance. Three paragraphs, from different parts of the novel...

"Everyone wants a quick fix. We're tired of being afraid, tired of being sad, tired of feeling overwhelmed, tired of feeling tired. We want the old days back, and we don't even remember them, and we want to push into the future, paradoxically, at top speed. Patience and forbearance become the first casualties of progress. This is not news. Not news at all. It's always been so."

"You surfaced without a history, then spent the blinks and the yawns reassembling your past, shuffling the shards into chronological order before fortifying yourself for the present.
What was far crueler were the ways in which a seemingly illogical list of objects could trigger memories of his wife that lodged in his brain like a lit match."

"You was in all sorts of places, huh?"
Yeah, I was. Saw the world.
What'd you think of it?
Different languages, same shit.
Yeah, that's the truth, huh?"

Fun quote

2006-09-07T11:53:00.000-07:00

"Dating is like pushing your tray along in a cafeteria. Nothing looks good, but you know you have to pick something by the time you reach the cashier."

said by Heaven Albright, one of the main characters in "Stupid and Contagious", a novel by Caprice Crane (who is the daughter of Tina Louise interestingly enough).

Literary Meme

2006-08-13T18:28:00.000-07:00

Miss Eagle has tagged me with a couple book-related questions:

Name one book that wracked you with sobs
Hmmm...this is tough because (as I've said many times) I'll cry at a Pepsi commercial. Sobs though? I am more often in a fit of note taking or inspiration. Of course any book that mentions harm to an animal will have me in sobs. I try to stay away from those.

Is there one book you wish had never been written?
We all have different tastes, and I would certainly never condone censorship nor book burning. Then again, there's that Anne Coulter book....

Is there one book you're currently reading?
I usually read several books at one time. Right now I'm reading a book about pirates. I'm having a tough time making time to read it, because it's more text book than fun.

Any one book you've been meaning to read?
A friend lent me Arabian Nights several months ago, and I still need to get to that. I have yet to read classic children's tales like Huck Finn and Treasure Island either. But I want to.

Falling Cloudberries

2006-08-04T14:18:00.000-07:00

I have started reading cookbooks as one would read a novel, except the pages are littered with Post-it flags, notes, and wishes of one day making the wonderful concoctions within. I read about "Falling Cloudberries," by Tessa Kiros, on one of my favorite cooking sites, 101 Cookbooks, but had a heck of a time getting ahold of a copy (it is available in the UK and Australia. I finally purchased a copy off ebay). I love cookbooks with snippets of family history. This author has a Finnish mother and Greek father, so her food influences are quite varied. I love her words:

"Greece is magnetic, they say. Once you have stepped on the Greek ground it's hard to shake yourself free. Myth has it that it's because your feet become stuck in the rich honey coating this country. It's the only place where people have always wished me a good week, month, day, summer, winter, life, work...and a birthday wish to grow old with white hair."

"The smell that hit you upon arrival in Nicosia was those jasmine bushes flanking the front door. Their syrupy delicate fragrance waltzed smoothly with the summer night heat. We would lie on the marble floors, soothing our bodies, hoping that some cooler air would arrive from somewhere. Still now, when I smell jasmine at night, I feel I could embrace the moon."

"Pappou was quiet; he had integrity and no flashness about him. He always wore a perfectly ironed shirt, gilet in winter, polished shoes and had his hair slicked back with the special cream he ordered from Italy. He never demanded acknowledgement, but dashed around quietly with the energy of milk just at that rolling boil."

"There are some things that don't change much. I find the smell of a dish, or the way a certain spice is crushed, or just a quick look at the way something has been put on a plate, can pull me back to another place and time. I love those memories that seem so far away, yet you can hold them and carry them with you, even forget them, and then, with a single taste or hint or a smell, be chaperoned back to a beautiful moment."

Slow Down

2006-07-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

"The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail. Travel too fast and you miss all you are traveling for."

Louis L'Amour

"The Piano Tuner", by Daniel Mason

2006-07-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

Some stories possess the ability to awaken one's soul and make it grin.

This is one of those stories.

I was browsing titles at a library's bookstore shelves. Many libraries offer used books and magazines for sale now. Spine after colorful spine of second-hand books haphazardly arranged...called out to be chosen. Which ones are brilliant? Which will move me? It's a luck of the draw. This mustard-colored book jacket caught my eye and made me examine the contents. Late 19th century Burma? Hmmm, probably not my cup of tea. For some reason, however, I purchased the book anyway. And I was instantaneously transformed, embossed, impressed.

It's magic.

I turned the last page only to realize hours had passed in a flash--I had journeyed to another world and my own stopped momentarily. I recommend this book completely--it's my favorite book to date.

Excerpts:

"I hope they read the letter, he thought, smiling to himself as he fell asleep. Of course, at the time he couldn't know just how many times it would be read, inspected, sent to cryptographers, held to lights, even examined under magnifying lenses. For when a man disappears, we cling to anything he left behind."

And,
"A balanced peace is a poor fertilizer for promotion."

"'The rock is hollow, they are vibrations from the river, a high-pitched resonance. That is one explanation. The other is Shan, that it is an oracle. Those who seek advice come here to listen. Look up there.' He pointed to a pile of rocks on which a small wreath of flowers had been placed. 'A shrine to the spirits that sing. I thought you would like it here. Scenery fit for a man of music.'"

Blogging Bees?

2006-06-29T15:16:00.000-07:00

Today I decided to post on my other blog. Check it out here.

Excerpts

2006-06-22T14:08:00.000-07:00

"I didn't like the way I looked, the way I dressed and moved, what I achieved and what I felt I was worth. But there was so much energy in me, such belief that one day I'd be handsome and clever and superior and admired, such anticipation when I met new people and new situations. Is that what makes me sad? The eagerness and belief that filled me then and exacted a pledge from life that life could never fulfill? Sometimes I see the same eagerness and belief in the faces of children and teenagers and the sight brings back the same sadness I feel in remembering myself. Is this what sadness is all about? Is it what comes over us when beautiful memories shatter in hindsight because the remembered happiness fed not just on actual circumstances but on a promise that was not kept?"

and

"At a certain point the memory of her stopped accompanying me wherever I went. She stayed behind, the way a city stays behind as a train pulls out of the station. It's there, somewhere behind you, and you could go back and make sure of it. But why should you?"

from "The Reader" by Bernhard Schlink

Again, Alice Hoffman's amazing use of language that stirs the soul

2006-06-19T14:56:00.000-07:00

"What was desire anyway, when examined in the clear light of day? Was it the way a woman searched for her clothes in the morning, or the manner in which a man might watch her sit before the mirror and comb her hair? Was it a pale November dawn, when ice formed on windowpanes and crows called from the bare black trees? Or was it the way a person might yield to the night, setting forth on a path so unexpected that daylight would never again be completely clear?"

Alice Hoffman, "The River King"

Interesting Quote

2006-06-08T12:52:00.000-07:00

"The truth isn't easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find."
From Sourcery, by Terry Pratchett (a tale of wizards and assorted magical items)

Books for Foodies

2006-05-31T14:12:00.000-07:00

I got a notice in the mail of a sale at a thrift shop I wasn't familiar with, so I went to check it out. Out front was a big sign, "Free Books, No Limit".

Hmmm...

One can never have too many books. I cruised through titles and found a luscious hardback in yellows and oranges..."Consuming Passions: A food-obsessed life," by Michael Lee West. I took it home and devoured (no pun intended) half the book before stopping to breathe. I love books that can transcend time like that. Authors who are also chefs or foodies...books that talk about regional food, culture, trends, history, or just plain old-fashioned cookbooks....these are all good reading.

Cookbooks, well, I've loved those since Jane Nowell gave me "The Betty Crocker Kid's Cookbook" for my second grade birthday. But my love of food-related writing only started a couple of years ago when I was cashiering, and a customer recommended I read "The Apprentice" by Jacques Pepin. That book had me laughing out loud, and that's, as they say, all she wrote.

Now these types of books are favorites. This book is right up there with the Sweet Potato Queens and Paula Deen as Southern foodie fun. If only I had the family and friends and the right kitchen in which to entertain my dreams. Someday, I hope. Someday.

Excerpts:
"By the time I started taking cookbooks to bed--to read, study, and dissect--I knew my kitchen, perhaps my life, would never be the same. I had a destiny, a food-obsessed life."

"I have come to believe that beginning a serious recipe is similar to beginning a novel--you gather the essential ingredients and forge ahead. If you wait too long to start, your butter might melt, your cream might spoil. And for heaven's sake, don't turn your back on it. A pot of water, or even a trembly first draft, can boil dry. You can't fret about grease fires, dirty dishes, or floury countertops. It's important to press on, to finish what you start; but at the same time, don't be too proud to throw out you failures."

and of her childhood:
"I invented imaginary worlds, where elves danced under the clothesline and stole human babies from their cribs. My Mimi encouraged me to believe in these creatures. She said fairies--perhaps even ghosts--existed at the edges of things. I saved leftover biscuits and hid them on the back porch, and by morning they were always gone. 'The fairies were starved!' Mimi said."

The Sweet Potato Queens' Big Ass Cookbook

2006-05-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

I love the SPQs. Their lives are all about a good laugh and a good meal. That's really living when it comes down to it. Here's an excerpt:

"Mom's friend Dorothy Frazier makes this pumpkin stuff that will make you the most popular one at any potluck dinner you ever attend. (I know, just the thought of pumpkin goobs some people out, but trust me, folks will gnaw off their neighbor's arm to get at this stuff.) I'm sure it has a real name, but we just call it That Pumpkin Stuff That Dorothy Makes. You mix together 1 16-ounce can of pumpkin and a can of Pet evaporated milk, and then you add 1 cup sugar, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg, and 3 eggs. Then you put that stuff in a greased 9-by-13-inch pan and crumble 1 yellow (butter) cake mix (we use Duncan Hines) and one cup chopped pecans on top of it and then you pour 2 sticks melted butter over it. (It's hard even to write that with a straight face--two sticks? Yes ma'am--yum, no?) Bake it for 50 to 60 minutes at 350.

While you let it cool off, make the frosting by mixing together 8 ounces cream cheese, 1 cup powdered sugar, and 2 cups Cool Whip, then smear it on top of the pumpkin stuff and put some more pecans on top. Then force yourself to put it in the refrigerator until it's time to go to the potluck dinner; otherwise you won't have any left to take. When you get there, immediately serve yourself a big wad of it and go off somewhere safe to eat it, because once the next person tastes it, it's over--they'll be swarming on it like yellow jackets on a KFC bag."

Eat Your Words

2006-03-23T23:18:00.000-08:00

How yummy--a celebration of art and literature in which edible art has a book shape and contents. This year's theme is mystery books. More info here.

Curtis and Camilla

2006-02-18T21:53:00.000-08:00

After Shanna of Pink Rocket posted her 99 cent store challenge, I have become obsessed with the store. One location even has books. Who knew?! I bought a coffee table type black and white photo book of barns, and a novel by Nick Fowler called A Thing (or two) about Curtis and Camilla. I figured, for a buck, I had nothing to lose. I haven't finished it yet, and it's overly laden with metaphors....but I'm enjoying the ride. I'm underlining lots of passages (a good sign for me). Here's an example:

"And we walked into my Art Nouveau vestibule. Or rather, she walked and I floated. While, as if from above, I watched myself trotting eagerly to the elevator.
As we stood there, not looking at each other, I remember wanting to pull the fire alarm so that every one of my neighbors could see the goddess who was coming over to be with....ME! I must have pressed the already-lit UP button five or six times. But as with elevators, Love, and all things that lift us away, we cannot speed their arrival by pushing."

and another example of why I keep reading:
"Our first kiss, as I've discovered of all unmerciful things (hunger, addiction, Death), was irresistibly simple. But it also held the healing symmetry of a kids' game of catch. A welcomed aphasia. That opiate earned when the self is forgotten. I realized, as we carved that oblivion out of the hope and regret between us, that, despite all the kissing cliches, this was really the language we should've been uttering all along. That the rest was all hearsay, a noisy corruption of the immaculate stuff humming between us. We were effortless together. Twinned. Every tease and bite seemed a foregone conclusion. we knew just what to do. At one point, Camilla laughed, airily, into my mouth. And I think, I thought, I knew just what she meant.
We fit."

2006-02-07T23:34:00.000-08:00

Pleasure

2006-01-31T19:36:00.000-08:00

I made two loaves of bread yesterday, and sometimes I'll get comments from people saying why make it when it's so cheap to buy. Well, cost isn't the point. Baking bread is all about the sensuality of the moment. Kneading the dough...noticing the texture and warmth. It's about the scent permeating every corner of your home. Debra Ollivier says it well in Entre Nous: A Woman's Guide to Finding Her Inner French Girl.
"Pleasure in ordinary moments. Pleasure in extraordinary moments. She does not confuse commerce with culture and the narrative in her life does not come from what she buys or sees on TV; rather, it comes from getting sensual satisfaction in the moment, from feeling an almost tactile pleasure and evocative power in the seemingly mundane...Sensuality is so pervasive in her life that it is almost transparent. It is in the general texture of life, the patina of age that comes with time. It is the baking of bread by hand, the aging of wine. It is the color of inkwells or damask drapes, in the uproarious flamboyance of architecture. And it is fundamentally in the perfection of imperfections--the complexity and realness that create character, depth, and charm."

Impact

2006-01-27T17:56:00.000-08:00

"People will forget what you said...people will forget what you
did...but people will never forget how you made them feel."

Maya Angelou

Avoiding avoidance

2006-01-22T07:58:00.000-08:00

"When we run from our feelings, they follow us. Everywhere."

Martha Beck
(from Oprah magazine article, February 2006)

Book-related cooking

2006-01-17T20:11:00.000-08:00

My blogs are somewhat converging with this post, in part because I think this is very interesting, but also because I have been uncharacteristically absent from book pages these days. I usually like to read at least one book per week, but lately I've been only reading a few pages here and there. I guess the holidays required a lot of time, and I've had the cold here and there, and weird work hours....so this makes for a book-related post instead.

This is from the McCall's Bake-it Book, a 1975 publication. I think it's a great idea to think of cooking around a time period or subject matter. This might make a great party theme. Too, it's a great gift idea for a book or movie lover, to make gift baskets of items related to a particular film or book. For example, the current film "Walk the Line" might include a copy of the DVD, a Johnny Cash CD, a new black shirt....you get the idea. The more esoteric the better, just make sure you choose items that the recipient would really want to have. There are tons of items applicable to a book or movie that might be funny to give, but not necessarily useful. Opt for useful instead. The possibilities are really endless. For a baby shower once upon a time, we used Beauty and the Beast as a subject, but with a tea party theme. The cake had a depiction of Mrs. Potts, and said it was a Par-tea or Kiersty (the name of the baby to be). Guests were asked to bring a snotty tea party food item, and to wear a tea party-type dress. For the game, we took a child's tea set that included a tea cart and tray (how cool is that?!) and gave everyone things like paint, nail polish, glitter, sequins, etc and asked them to personalize the items. That way the little girl could keep the stuff, but the items would carry a memorable extra. It was fun. Another friend holds annual Christmas ornament parties, and asks guests to do the same to plain ball ornaments. Now she has decades of special items, some of the artists are now gone but not forgotten. It's a nice tradition.

Meaningful poetry

2005-12-24T18:38:00.000-08:00

A thanks to Will Powers for posting this. I had to post it too.

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And soft delicate wiles.

And it grew both night and day
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine
And he knew that it was mine.

William Blake

The Sweet Potato Queens

2005-12-16T16:26:00.000-08:00

One of my clients was kind enough to leave a copy of The Sweet Potato Queen's Field Guide to Men for me to read last time I house-sat. The book had me laughing out loud. Here is a thought provoking introduction:

Love gone bad is at least interesting, if only in a macabre sort of way. It's surely not boring. Love gone blah is simply death--slow, torturous, and ultimately longed-for death. When you're mired in a lifeless, life-stifling, life-smothering relationship, you start to take it for granted. Life sucks, always did, always will, and so you're just hunkered down, enduring this relationship. As far as I know, nobody is handing out prizes, tangible or otherwise, for endurance of life its ownself. In my experience, if you ignore your life, it will pretty much ignore you right back. I reckon the universe figures why should it bother sending you anything else if you haven't got any more gumption than that.

Prizes are handed out in a continuous stream, however, to folks commited to living. When you finally wake up and look around, you realize that your life has been so bad for so long, it's no longer even painful to you. And when you get yourself up on your hind legs and take action, you'll not only wonder how you stood your misery for so long, but you will ask that all important question, why? Why did you bear that burden for so long when apparently you were wearing the Ruby Slippers the whole time? It doesn't really matter too much why--as long as you start clicking those heels together and devote a fair amount of time each day to grinning and looking around you.

Inspiration

2005-11-24T11:26:00.000-08:00

"I'm no longer afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my own ship."
Louisa May Alcott

Quote

2005-11-22T23:33:00.000-08:00

I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.
Eleanor Roosevelt

Memories

2005-11-12T18:59:00.000-08:00

I find myself thinking of people and places long gone. Perhaps the holidays bring this out in all of us. This excerpt from the November 1992 issue of Victoria Magazine seems appropriate.

One of my favorite plays is Thornton Wilder's "Our Town." In it,
you may recall, life in a small town unfolds before our eyes. The
first time I saw this drama I was especially moved by the scene in
which a young woman who has died unexpectedly "returns home" and,
looking about her, realizes all the things she had so taken for
granted. I vowed then to live each day to the fullest, to always
cherish smiles and kindly gestures.

Of course, we all go back on such promises in the bustle of daily
life. But Thanksgiving is the time to renew these good intentions,
particularly those we hold for our families and friends who mean so
much.

When I journey back to the home in my heart, I always do so with
poetic license. It is not that things were really better then, it
is that I have chosen to remember them that way. During those
moments, I fervently hope that my resolve to savor a smile and the
ordinary peace of an ordinary day will last.

Here on Earth

2005-11-10T18:50:00.000-08:00

Would that I did not identify with this excerpt from Here on Earth, by Alice Hoffman. Unfortunately, it speaks to me so much that I plan to incorporate the page into one of my art pieces.

You build your world around someone, and then what happens when he disappears? Where do you go--into pieces, into atoms, into the arms of another man? You go shopping, you cook dinner, you work odd hours, you make love to someone else on June nights. But you're not really there, you're someplace else where there is blue sky and a road you don't recognize. If you squint your eyes, you think you see him, in the shadows, beyond the trees. You always imagine that you see him, but he's never there. It's only his spirit, that's what's there beneath your bed when you kiss your husband, there when you send your daughter off to school. It's in your coffee cup, your bathwater, your tears. Unfinished business always comes back to haunt you, and a man who swears he'll love you forever isn't finished with you until he's done.

Finally, a new post!

2005-11-03T22:53:00.000-08:00

I am reading Finding your own North Star: Claiming the life you were meant to Live, by Martha Beck. It is a self-help book about finding your way back onto the path toward happiness, because somehow you have gone astray. To learn to listen to your body's cues, your passion, your intention...to find and follow that beacon (like a North Star) that you were intended to follow but have somehow up until now lost. I have read several of these type books before, but they never spoke to me like this one, nor made me laugh out loud so many times. I am very thankful for finding this, because it truly feels to me like a life-changing read. I like this passage:
...When the curtain of social judegement pulls back, it reveals the most amazing beauty.
"I first became aware of this phenomenon when I was a college art student. Every few weeks, I'd join this or that group of artists, and we'd all pitch in a few bucks to rent a studio and hire a model. Most of the people we got to pose were college students with bodies that matched the social ideal--slender, fit, perfectly proportioned. (After all, who else would risk standing naked in a roomful of strangers?) And then, one day, we got somebody really different.
She looked well over sixty, with a deeply lined face and a body that was probably fifty pounds heavier than her doctors would have liked. She'd had a few doctors, too, judging from her scars. Shining purple welts from a cesarean section and knee surgery cut deep rifts in the rippled adipose fat of her lower body. another scar ran across one side of her chest, where her left breast had once been. When she first limped onto the dais to pose, I felt so much pity and unease that I physically flinched. But we were there to draw her, so I picked up a pencil.
The thing about drawing is that you can't do it well with your social self. You have to bring out your essential self, which doesn't know anything about social stereotypes. And so, as I began to draw this maimed old woman, the most amazing thing happened. Within five minutes, she became a person of absolutely wondrous beauty. She didn't look like a supermodel; she didn't have to. Her body, in and of itself, was as beautiful as a piece of polished driftwood, or a wind-carved rock, or a waterfall. My essential self didn't know that I was supposed to compare the woman to various movie stars, any more than it would have evaluated the Andes Mountains by judging how much they looked like an Iowa cornfield. It simply saw her as she was: an exquisite sculptural form.
When this perceptual shift happened, I was so surprised that I stopped drawing and simpley stared. The model seemed to notice this, and without turning her head, looked straight into my eyes. Then I saw the ghost of a smile flicker across her face, and I realized something else: She knew she was beautiful. She knew it, and she knew that I'd seen it. Maybe that's why she had consented to pose nude in the first place. Knowing that a roomful of artists couldn't draw her without seeing her--I mean really seeing her--she may have decided to give us a gentle education about our perceptions.
...if you feel a bit isolated or scared, and your faith in yourself isn't exactly earthquake-proof, you must learn to do what ...Mystery Model seemed to do naturally: replace your hypercritical, limiting, lying Everybody with an Everybody who sees you as you really are."

Quote

2005-10-21T21:47:00.000-07:00

"Hope is the thing with feathers".
Emily Dickinson

Fun Quote

2005-10-05T23:53:00.000-07:00

Who said quotes have to come from "famous people"? This is classic. Off a blog I read, by Gina.

"I'd like to find a job that's a little less about the greater good and a little more about the greater wallet".

Quote for Today

2005-09-16T21:44:00.000-07:00

"Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise."
Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye, 1988
Canadian critic, feminist, novelist, & poet (1939 - )

I confess I borrowed this from croque-choux, who had it posted on her blog. Margaret Atwood is one of my favorite authors.

My friend debs' favorite quote

2005-09-11T22:05:00.000-07:00

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,
but by the number of moments that take our breaths away.
(Anonymous)

Excerpt, Davita's Harp

2005-08-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

I found out about Davita's Harp, by Chaim Potok, on someone's blog page of suggested reading, and I immediately went to the library and checked out a copy. I wish I could remember who to thank for this delightful read. It is not something I ever would have considered reading had it not been suggested, as the subject matter is a bit heavy and somewhat unknown territory for me: Judaism, Communism, Fascism, etc. The novel evolves around a young girl (around the time of WWII) named Ilana Davita Chandal, and the interesting characters that come into and out of her life. It also focuses on her religious experiences, choices, and losses. It is far more worthwhile than I can find words to describe. We are given lovely tales that are woven together with the texture of sounds (the door harp) and sensations (the sea, the wind). It is about personal freedom and the changes made within us when we are confronted with violence, ignorance, anger, differences of opinion, and the rigidity of tradition.

A memorable quote in the book:
Walls are laws to some people, and laws are walls to others.

I have chosen this one excerpt to share:

Was he afraid he would lose control over our thinking? Why did he need to control the way we thought? Did he believe that God wrote stories with only one kind of meaning? It seemed to me that a story that had only one kind of meaning was not very interesting or worth remembering for too long.

The harp sounded muted that evening as I came into my room and sat down at my desk to my homework. I looked at it, wondering if something was wrong with its strings. Across the hallway from me David softly sang his talmudic music. In the living room my parents were listening to a symphony on the phonograph. Outside an icy wind moaned in the trees, rustling bare branches in a sad music of its own.

Inspirational Quote

2005-07-29T21:15:00.000-07:00

“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no 'brief candle' to me. It is sort of a splendid torch which I have a hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it over to future generations.”

~ George Bernard Shaw

Quote for today

2005-07-09T19:19:00.000-07:00

"You can deprive the body, but the soul needs chocolate."
on the wrapper of a Dagoba organic chocolate bar

Introduction, and Excerpt from The Dogs of Babel

2005-07-09T08:40:00.000-07:00

Dog-eared. The perfect name for this blog, in that it fits with the dog-theme of my life and other blog, and it is the state of most of my books.

I love words to the extent that I want to share excerpts with you...sentences, paragraphs, or pages. I will post at least once each month, a passage that moves me to such a degree that I feel others will be moved as well. I first posted on my crafting blog, Woof Nanny, and the following is copied from those pages as an introduction here.

I spent several hours this afternoon, not able to pry myself away from the pages of The Dogs of Babel, by Carolyn Parkhurst. I do have to remember to be thankful for the fact that I have so much freedom in my life, that I am able to choose to lie in bed and finish a novel if I so desire. My friend Jen wrote to me to say she reads this blog to "live vicariously through you". That comment gave me pause. Jen, wife of a doctor, stay-at-home mom to the perfect boy and perfect girl; Jen living the American dream that I wish I were living. Funny how we all wish to step into one another's backyard every now and again. But I digress. I just need to remember to be thankful for what I have, versus continually longing for what I do not. So, back to the original intention of this post, in regard to what subjects my mind has lingered upon today. The book is a marvel of words that add texture to my own at this moment. I adore how words are put together. My books are dog-eared (I so want to add an extra 'r' there, as I want to place an additional 'l' in traveling. I must read too many books from the UK), with sentences underlined, and notes in the margins. I cannot help myself--for this reason I rarely am able to read library books. I find myself needing to pick up a pen...so I go out and buy the book instead. My friend debs, who has been a writer by profession for over 20 years, told me today that she likes writing well enough, but doesn't value words the way I do. I am the more natural writer, she said, for it creases my soul in an unusal way. Too bad my career path has yet to stray in that direction. But I digress again. Anyway, one of the characters in The Dogs of Babel is an artist--the maker of exquisite masks. She is called upon to make a death mask as a mourning memorial to a 19 year old cancer victim. She makes a mold of the actual face, but the realism stops there. She paints the mask not with the features of the deceased, but with the markers of her soul--the essence of this individual. She paints scattered wildflowers, blowing in the breeze. Only when one looks closely, the bump of a nose is still present...the indentation of eyes, the roundness of mouth. The mask is so beautiful, that she is called upon to make several more. Her husband describes one of the masks, saying, "For an old woman who had been a seamstress, a patchwork design covering the entire face, each square painted in a texture of a fabric from a loved article of clothing--here a wedding gown, there a baby blanket. And always, in every mask, the face hidden beneath the painting, adding its poignant topography." That moves me somehow. Maybe because mourning articles fascinate me so. Maybe because memory art moves also. To capture an essence of someone. What would my own mask look like? I think I may add a regular feature to this blog, of favorite excerpts from books.

Post script: I have considered the appearance of my own mask. I think it would be collaged in bits of handmade and recycled paper, scraps of fabric, and a mixture of various found objects like diary keys and pieces of wire. It would be embellished with charms, stones, and broken seashells. Across the eyes would be cursive writing, perhaps random words without meaning.