The BIG Review of Flowers in the Attic

Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews




This is a book I read when I was in the sixth grade--it was not for sixth graders, which made it all the more fascinating. Then I read the whole series and everything I could find by V.C. Andrews. Even after she died. Until realized (ninth grade or thereabouts) that the plots were all the same, and the love affair between V.C. Andrews and me (albeit one sided) was over.

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The BIG Review of Punkzilla

Punkzilla by Adam Rapp


My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Parts of Punkzilla's adventure were heartbreaking, and some seemed a bit too fabricated, but the bottom line is that Rapp does an excellent job of what can happen when parents put pressure on their children. In some ways it seemed like Rapp had a smattering of characters in his head that wanted out, but he didn't have a lot of future direction for them. Punk's journey to his brother is one to remember.

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The BIG Review of Going Bovine

Going Bovine by Libba Bray


My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This book was an awesome adventure; Bray does a wonderful job capturing the spirits of some outlandish characters, and gives Cameron the best lesson of all: Live.

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Composting

When I first read this, I thought it said "Composing," but no :)
"Our senses by themselves are dumb" (14). Oh so true. This passage is about the waiting that writers must do. Betsy talks about a similar situation in yoga all the time. In any/everything people do, practice must happen for a skill, essay, or poem to shine through. We cannot, as Goldberg states, write about something as we are going through it. We must do so after we have some distance.

Of course there are paths, right? Like when my mom was slipping away, I was furiously scribbling about every intense feeling I had. Everything I thought and felt and wanted to scream and wanted to say poured into a hot pink notebook. For two weeks I laid on a hospital bed and talked to my mom through my notebook. At the time, I never thought I would survive or be able to do anything except think about it and about her.

Yet, here I am, and since she died I've forgotten many things I initially wrote about. I had to compost about her cancer for a few weeks, but wound up with a polished piece, but I haven't done anything with it. Perhaps that will come later as well.
There are many things about her that I haven't written about. Many things that have happened to me that I haven't written about or processed yet.
In yoga, Betsy says that I may work on shoulder balance for a lifetime before I master it. Many poses will never be entirely mastered. Many topics will never be entirely mastered. I imagine I will continue to miss my mother until I die myself. Some days less, and some days more. Maybe some days not at all. But, it is impossible to completely let go of something that shaped my core.

I imagine teaching will also be a thread I continue discussing, and as much as Barrie and Witt hate it, I will probably write about writing--at least while I'm looking at Goldberg, anyway :)
Raking through the surface level junk to get to the rich soil ready to blossom beneath. Just like everything worth practicing.

Writing as a Practice

"If every time you sat down, you expected something great, writing would always be a disappointment" (11).

Isn't that all of life? Yesterday on Facebook, I saw Camille was on, and I tried to strike up a conversation with her. Last year was so hard on her. She lost her father not too long ago to brain cancer, she was living in Kentucky, but she want to move back to Colorado badly. I had lost touch with her when my mom died, and I finally left home and grew up. I remember when my mom was gone, I had called Camille, and I expected her to come to mom's funeral, or send me a card. That expectation was unfulfilled. She pretty much ignored me.

I remember talking with her mom and her mom saying, "Camille really needs you, she's just not paying attention right now. You need to stick with her." At the time I wasn't strong enough to stick to anything. I was struggling to figure out what to do with my whole life. I couldn't support my friends who lived near me, much less friends who lived in Kentucky.

The whole time Camille's been married--even before that, she's been wanting a baby--many babies. And she can't conceive. In February or March of last year, she finally got pregnant, but she went into labor and lost the baby in June. I know her heart broke. I can't imagine.

So, yesterday, I saw her on Facebook, and I tried to initiate a conversation with her and asked her how she was. She seemed so sad. And, I know she has good reason to be, but I can't imagine her life right now. I wonder if she laughs and smiles. I wonder if she has fun and has friends.

I hate to think of someone I was so close to, being so depressed.

I hope this year is a hopeful one for her. I hope we can reconnect and be closer, but I'm not sure it will happen. I wonder if happiness is something that we have to practice. Do we have to be in the right mindset to be happy? Is joy something that must happen spontaneously, or can we search for it? Does laughter have something to do with the faith that we have in our core that convinces us that life is wonderfull?

First Thoughts

Rules for writing:

1.) Keep your hand writing

2.) Don't cross out (don't delete)

3.) Don't worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar

4.) Lose control

5.) Don't think. Don't get logical

6.) Go for the jugular

It's hard to just write without thinking about all the things that "writers" are supposed to think about. Hitting the delete or backspace button is second nature, and has happened about twenty times since I first started working on this post. I'm finally at a point where I see editing as important, so I probably shouldn't give it up.

The rest of them seem possible. Logic has never been an issue :)

When trying to figure out direction for this, Witt kept coming back to the idea of what people are supposed to get out of this, but I don't think others will really read this. Blogging now is so common place, that even if I do link this to my Facebook and Twitter the only people who will definitely stay up with it already know everything about me. So, this blog is more a practice of self indulgence than teaching. Maybe I teach enough already, and this can just be about me or what I think.

This weekend I watched Julie and Julia. It was such a beautiful movie. I loved both stories, and of course thought of a the movie that would accompany my blog: Natalie and Leslie ;)

I'm pretty sure, though, that Natalie would like my blog better than Julia liked Julie's (isn't that humble of me!)

Beginner's Mind, Pen, and Paper

Experiment, Goldberg commands, with different writing utensils--pens, papers, notebooks, etc.

I love typing on Mac. I love his little keys and how the shell of the laptop feels cool against my skin. I go back to pen and paper, though. I'm not sure if I will ever stop liking the way a good pen feels in my hand.

Experimenting is so fun in theory, but in real life it's hard for me to experiment with much more besides food and music. Maybe I need to experiment more.

The BiG Review of Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days by Jeff Kinney


My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Last night before Witt and I left for Krissy's wedding in Fayetteville, we stopped by Patton Alley Pub. Witt was going to run in for a minute, have a drink, and we were going to drive. I had to get gas, and then pick him up. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, tops. Instead it took nearly two hours, and during that two hours I read Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days between trips around the block. Greg endures a summer of fighting with Rowley, getting and losing his first two pets, a scary movie, a memorable trip to the beach, several trips to the public pool, being blacklisted a country club, and a family birthday party. Funny, funny stuff.

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Introduction

"To do writing practice means to deal ultimately with your whole life" (3).
The last line of this introduction is to "use this book," and so I will. I've always shied away from writing in this or in anything online every day. What if someone reads it? What if no one reads it. The reality is that the area is here whether I use it or not.

The idea of ultimately dealing with my whole life is at once exciting and terrifying. Of course it won't happen all at once and maybe not at all. But maybe I owe it to myself to try.

And so, after trying to find a routine for this, I have decided that I will read (re-read) a vignette from Goldberg's two book volume: Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind and write something each day. Or when I remember or feel like it. I don't know that I can stick to this, but it will be an exercise.

Writing Down the Bones

The past few days I've been trying to read a mini-essay from the book Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and taking notes about things to write about. Lately I keep thinking about all of the things I need to do instead of doing them. There are four things I want to do each day for myself--read, write, walk, and yoga. Each of them for about twenty minutes (except the writing, which I feel like I can do in less time for some reason), and each of them make me feel better in all kinds of ways when I do them.

When I get up in the morning to do yoga, my head is clearer and I'm calmer. Serene, peaceful. Maybe this feeling of calmness is in my head, but even so, that still means it's real, right?

So, now, I have pages of lists in my notebook that may be translated to this blog or may just stay on the paper. When Goldberg first wrote The Bones she wrote exclusively about paper to pen or pencil, saying that pen to paper is nearly a spiritual process. I know that to be true--but I also wonder if hand to keyboard cannot also awaken the sleeping writer in us. My hands move faster when they type than when they write. So, does my brain move faster or am I trying to keep up?

On my sketchy list of things to write about is the line "our senses by themselves are too dumb" which of course is true. I walk around life trying to feel and remember every feeling and everything, but it is only when I step back that I realize my true thoughts about an issue or an idea or person.

There was a time when I believed that the feeling approach I took was the best or the only approach, but now i realize that it is a choice like most other choices we make about ourselves, even if it is an unconscious one.

Of course writing, and this book, and Natalie Goldberg make me think about Dr. Walker. When we went through her papers a few weeks ago and we found letter after letter of hers from Leslie and some other man. She write these love letters in ways that made me realize I didn't know her much at all. We were given a small slice of her life, and that slice was beautiful, but it was definitely not the only part of her. We were barely a part of her life, but we were there at the end, circled around her and holding her hands. Listening to her breaths move slowly and less rapidly from her body until she was dead. Barely knew her, yet held her as she took her last breath.

Dear Dr. Walker

Witt and I took some time to go through your papers and we found stacks of letters that you had written to Woody and Leslie. Witt declared them love letters, and I stuffed them into sacks and they're outside now in the cold November air. It seems lonely that all of your words would be stuffed into sacks, and shoved into the cold, but when I read the occasional paragraph I was struck by how detailed and beautiful your words were to these men that we never spoke about.

Immediately I felt as though I was invading your privacy, but I was also entranced by these drafts and drafts of love letters or these letters that you never sent. Letters that you wrote about hiking and Franconia College and having a couple over to dinner. We even found an old photo of you--Witt said it was professionally made, and you must have been thirty or even forty. I imagine you were about my age now, but you had already lived a lifetime. A terrible world of hurt, losing your daughter, surviving a first husband.

Remember when I brought you Thanksgiving dinner? And you ate and we sat in your room and talked about dinner. And we must have talked about other things, but I don't remember. I remember what. I have flashes of you--in class, in the hospital, in the nursing homes.

Your letters reminded me today that being with someone at the end gives no true indication of beginning. It makes me afraid to have children.

The BIG Review of The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Michelle Tracy gave me this book for my birthday in August. I had wanted to read it for a while, then forgot about it. When I unwrapped it, I was excited to see the book I had forgotten.The book was an easy read, and the cartoons were nothing short of hilarious, but of course it was an exercise in depth of character as well. The prose was fluid as well as poignant. Arnold/Junior faced challenges that all teenage boys face and challenges that minorities face and does so with a maturity that is real and respectable. I enjoyed how smart and thoughtful Arnold was. His dual personality consistently weighed on him but he also lived his life in both places instead of merely talking about it. And that’s why I love this book—he doesn’t just tell me how it is—he shows me.

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The BIG Review of South of Broad

South of Broad by Pat Conroy


My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Overall, I was disappointed in this book. The language, like all of Conroy's books, is remarkably fluid and lyrical, but the story lacked the tightness and character development that Conroy's previous books hold. At his best moments, Leo King seemed interesting, but more often than not, he was pathetic. The most gripping events of the book--the summer the friends became close, the back stories of the twins and the orphans, the death and aftermath of the brother, the terrible secret that comes out at the end that could have serious ramifications for Leo's mother--all glossed over.

In many ways it seemed as though this was three books wrapped into one; too many things happened for one book.

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Aging

You know you're getting old when all of the sudden you realize the actors and celebrity that you grew up admiring now play the parents (or grandparents) in movies. When I first saw There's Something About Mary, I never imagined Cameron Diaz as a mother. She put cum in her hair, for God's sake. She couldn't raise a child; she is a child.

And, yet. She's the mother of a child with cancer in the movies. I know how that makes me feel. I wonder how it makes her feel. People don't really spend time talking about these kinds of transitions--when you realize that you can't go to bed at three in the morning and get up at eight and be happy. When you can't eat whatever you want at ten and sleep through the night with no problem. Digestion changes. Your knees change. Your hip feels out of place. And then it hits you. "I never thought about my hip before I was (insert current age here).

Yet, with age comes a kind of confidence. A confidence that if I'd had when I was thirteen, would have meant a much different path for me. I didn't do things that I regret, yet there are some things I would have done if I thought I could live them or through the embarrassment. And now, I realize that I could have lived through any embarrassment because I have lived through far more.

Initiations

This morning I'm trying to get into the mindset that Gabriel Halpren suggested one finds when taking on the role of the student instead of the role of teacher. "I am water, I am water." Yes, yes, at first I thought he was a whack job--I'm not water!

But upon reflection, I realize that we need students to be water--fluid, moving, rushing at times to get to the next step, slowing down at times to roll over bumps. So, this morning, I am water in an effort to be initiated into my new job.

It's so strange to consider that a few hours away my friends are initiating someone who will teach in my room (I know, I know, it's his room now).

WFFMAD

Write for fifteen minutes a day during the month of July.

Engagements and Weddings

Midges are running rampid in Daytona, right now--Claire and I picked up the flier today outside of our room. They, thankfully, don't drink blood although they do resemble mosquitoes. We picked up the flier on our way in from dinner. At Bubba Gumps to celebrate my birthday I enjoyed shrimp, but not Forest Gump trivia which I always win. Claire told the waitress it was my birthday and she came with a sundae and then demanded that I stand and dance. Really, I thought, stand and dance. My face got hot, my glasses steamed in the left corner and in my head I got up and did a jig, but in real life my heavy thighs pressed to the vinyl seat and I felt embarrassed.

The first year I was in Daytona I had the sensation of empowerment that I've not felt as strongly since. When I first got to my hotel room, I had the sudden realization that I could do anything I wanted. For what was maybe the first time in my life I didn't have anyone else to help me figure out what to do or where to go. It was intoxicating, almost, but also a bit frightening. Once in a while I have the feeling that I could wander off--take the money I had on me and travel somewhere alone. Be a totally free person. Of course, then I shake the feeling and come back to what is my reality. I have family. A life that I love.

Yet, that first time in Daytona I didn't have the feeling of family. I had friends, and I had Witt, but we weren't married, so the attachment, though very realy wasn't set in stone. The first evening I went to the beach I sat on my towel for a long time. The beach is always more romantic in my head. When it comes down to it, and the sand is in the crevices of my rolls and I have to shake out my hair, I'm not really a fan of it. But something possessed me that evening to jump into the ocean. I got in full force and left my glasses and engagement ring with my book on the beach.

The water and the waves were strong, and when I got out I was disoriented. My things weren't enough of a marker to help me (everyone had white beach towles and books), so when a nice lady pointed out my belongings , I felt silly. In one fell swoop I had picked everything up and went back to my room.

Later that evening, I was eating with my new friends Lisa and Karin. Karin had just gotten married, and Lisa engaged. They were actually comparing their rings, and talking about plans that seemed foreign to me since I had already decided I would have small wedding. I looked down at my ring to notice it was missing. My face went white, and I ran to the beach. Fast.
Of course when I got there the chairs were gone as was any other marker I could have used for where I had been.

The girls had followed me down to the beach and were with me when I burst into tears, listening to the first bars of "Money Can't Buy Me Love."
When I called Witt, in my room, I was heaving with sobs. "I-I-I-l-l-l-l-lo-lo-lost-lost-mah-mah-mah-my-r-r-ring. " He couldn't understand me, and when I had calmed down enough to say it, he was relieved, I think, that I hadn't been attacked.

The next year, I walked the beach, but knew better than to trust it with my things. I was older, wiser, and Heidi was with me. We looked out at the sand and I pointed to the castle area where the band had been. A distant story that we could laugh about. My ring with the tiny diamonds and crescent sapphires was long gone.

After that week I drugged myself with Dramamine to suffer the plane ride home. The lack of sleep and drugs had caught up with me when I landed in Springfield and stumbled toward the baggage claim. When I saw my family, I thought I was hallucinating, They must have thought they were too, as they grabbed me and posed with me for pictures. I'm sure they never show those shots to anyone because my frizzy hair and bleary eyes were shocked beyond belief.
My dad and his fiance smiled, and inquired about my trip in Florida. As I explained that my bags were waiting, it occurred to me to ask about what they were doing in the airport. My dad, as far as I knew had never flown anywhere.

"We're going to Las Vegas" they explained, "to get married."

There's that song in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, "When You Get Married in June" all about how women swoon to be married in the summer month, yet I never equate June with marriage. For me, marriage will always be the fall--the grass freshly cut under my bare feet, the smells of late summer and early fall melding together in my nostrils. A sweating glas filled with peach margarita, and Witt's steady hand and unwavering gaze as we repeated our vows under a tree just beginning to turn.

The BIG Review of American Wife

Curtis Sittenfield's novel based on Laura Bush's life started off strong, but did not end the same way. The early years of Alice Blackwell's life and marriage were intersting and strung together well. In many ways she explained better than most anything else I've read how much a single event can change your life. The one night or event that shapes how one can see everything. The tactic is something I plan on remembering for when I write about my own stories--if there is one event, like the genisis of everything else.

Alice and Charlie fell in love easily and quickly and in a believable way. Yet, the later years were a bit less believable--perhaps because Sittenfield didn't have the personal material to finish the characterization, yet had political material. How would it feel to be a liberal living in the pro-war White House? Sittenfield's ideas do not quite get to me in the same ways that the earlier portion does.

Sittenfield's broad narrative is chronological with plenty of flashbacks througout that focus on earlier problems or conversations Alice has. The narrative style became quite tedious during the final portion when the entire story was flashback for the most part. Also, some parts of the story seemed a bit too neat for reality.

Overall, I enjoyed the story quite a bit.

Anti-Valentine: Will You

Brad Smith refused to be my valentine in the third grade.
I asked him on the card I dropped
in his valentine box.
He laughed at the card.
On the playground, I rubbed
his face in the dirt.
I missed recess the next day.

A Crossover from Facebook

My friend Chad posted his 25 things on Facebook. I figure my blog needed a boost. It's been too long, old friend :)

1.) I have been listening to WICKED songs for the past six days. Anytime I'm by myself, I sing the song Defying Gravity as loud as I can, and sometimes I pretend I'm a green witch.
2.) I love T.V. a lot more than I should. Maybe more than anyone else does.
3.) I do not enjoy learning about copyright. Not even a little bit.
4.) I have a blog. I don't let many people read it, and I haven't written on it since before Christmas. I also have journals.
5.) I start things. I start cleaning. I start writing. I start books. I start diets.
6.) I lollygag. I don't finish any of those things I start. I forget diets. The kitchen stays dirty. My blog remains unpopulated. Books aren't finished.
7.) I have a lot of books that I've never read, but I can't give them away because I know one day I will want to read them.
8.) I am an English teacher, but I often wonder if I would be better doing something else. Or perhaps not much at all.
9.) Witt is my best friend. Everything I do is done in the hopes that I make him proud of me.
10.) I am afraid of mice. One lives in my garage and we call him Swervin' , but I hate Swervin' with all of my heart and I wish him dead every time I think about him. I hope everyone who reads this wishes him dead too.
11.) I have washed and folded five loads of laundry today, but I don't know that they will ever be put away. Laundry: one more thing I start but don't finish.
12.) I want to write a book, real bad. I have some ideas, but I haven't even really tried writing them down, yet. I am afraid that if I start writing I will never finish. Or worse--maybe I will.
13.) Sometimes I am struck by how much I miss my mom. Still, after seven years I hope that I am 1/2 of the woman that she was.
14.) I wonder if I will ever stop feeling guilty for leaving my mom to die in the hospital bed while I went to call people.
15.) My dog Snap snores louder than most people. He sounds a lot like my Grandma Margie snoring.
16.) I love Scholar a little better than Snap. Not a lot, but enough to feel like I would save him if they were dangling from the cliff.
17.) I have never been good at sports. I hate baseball, and I always hear my dad's gruff voice in my mind when I try to throw, catch, or bat something.
18.) I am constantly amazed at Witt's ability to see small details like a crooked line on a PowerPoint. I could stare at that damn slide for an hour before I see an uneven line.
19.) I curse too much.
20.) High school students may influence me more than I influence them. So far this year I've started saying "I know, right!," "Idiot!," and "Motherf***er" aloud more often because I have heard them at school. I bet there aren't kids walking around saying "soliloquy" and "exposition" because they've heard it from me.
21.) I hold grudges. I try to talk myself out of them, and I know it's wrong to, but I hold grudges bad. I have to practice forgiveness often, and I'm not really all that good at it.
22.) When I'm sad, Witt always says or does something that makes me laugh or helps me realize that whatever I'm sad about isn't all that permanent.
23.) I cry a lot more than people would think. I cry at pep rallies. I cry at church when I go. I cry at the end of T.V. shows. I cried when Obama was elected president.
24.) I just realized I could tag Laurie Halse Anderson in this message. That's right, she's my Facebook friend and she may respond. She may not. She probably has degrees of Facebook friends, and I'm lucky to be on the fringes. I think she has over a thousand. I have barely over a hundred and I feel pretty happy about it. Her friend list is a bit intimidating.
25.) I hate finishing things. When something is over I feel a sad empty dead feeling. Except when school is out for the summer. That may be the only exception.