the country I remember

(from october.)

it's autumn again. I always have approximately five used mugs milling about, and yet every walk into the kitchen puts me in the mood for another cup of tea. 

the kitchen's cold and the teakettle whistles
the J church rolls, and rattles our windows
there's no nostalgia here 
it's just now, baby, now

there are inadequate words for this year, for this autumn; we've all lived some version of it, anyway, and there are inadequate thoughts on all the things that happened, that didn't, that maybe will not happen again. I don't want to give it further time. it's time to leave it all behind and look forward to the things that are ahead.

it's colder this fall, and more sharply brilliant. the sunshine is brittle. I feel the always coming on, the always rising of the night—even the happiest days have a shadow on the edges. if I believed that's how it worked, I would be tempting the gods with these days' delight. 

this was a year of light and shadow, stark contrast and shattering. everything happened. I feel stretched in every way, and somehow still move, somehow still find joy in the morning. ready for a new year, though.

I know the beginning and end of the year are arbitrary markers, but I will be glad to begin a new one frozen and fresh. late, late winter nights I love to stand outside in the blue snow, breathing pure, cold december: clear my sinuses, clear my head, and climb into my warm, dark bed to sleep until the sun comes back. 

one day soon we all will be together

if the fates allow

until then we'll have to muddle through

somehow

so have yourself a merry little christmas now

only so many hours

I lost my 2020 planner at the beginning of march, right before I lost my sense of time & space & direction, so in my head it's still early april. consider, today was even tax day. but sweater weather is in two months, and I haven't done my spring winter-coat-dry-cleaning yet.

for being a year that held so much, it's almost the year that wasn't. so much has happened in my life, in my head, in my heart, I feel I've had less time to revel in the moments of each season. though maybe because a lot of moments haven't happened—and it's like I can't mark time the way I used to. for example, in 2019, I posted here twice: once in august and once in november, while for july 2020, here I am posting for the second time already because I clearly have nothing better to do than marinate in my own head.

all spring and summer smeared together and now it's coming on august. a weird august, because town won't be full of the incoming college students and crowded streets on warm summer evenings. 

here's my problem: I can't be happy anywhere. I went home the last week of march and stayed for three months—which was awesome. looking back, seriously, it was stellar. 

- working from home with fresh coffee in the morning

- leaving work early just because it's sunny out

- pg wodehouse books, walking around the block

- phone calls in the hammock

- atari games on the projector

- chickapig with a 12-year-old boy (so it just becomes a contest to see who can say "poop" the most)

- badminton, pool, badminton, pool

- grilled peppers and onions

- pool lights, loud music, late swimming

- back to the future at the drive-in with skittles and goldfish

- talking in whispers because everyone else is asleep

- driving all afternoon

- sitting by the river, watching the rain

the whole time wasn't idyllic, of course. work was a tough adjustment, everyone is dealing with different & conflicting stresses, but mostly I felt like I'd abandoned my city at the moment of crisis. what was I missing by being locked down, states away?

well, nothing, of course. being back is easier because I'm not worried about being the superspreader for my entire family, but I miss them every day. and mama's cooking, which is irreplaceable. and I am trying not to regret coming home to cambridge, because I regretted going home to louisville, and now I wonder why I didn't just enjoy it when I'd give so much to go back and live those days better.

going back is the crux of the issue: I miss the life that was, and I think I'm still grieving it, and searching for a place that will give me back that past. here, I miss taking the T. I miss having the air on my entire face when I leave the house. I miss deep breaths. I miss the crowds. I miss the office. I miss my desk and my beloved teammates. I miss fireworks shows on july 4th, miss spontaneous summer parties, miss standing shoulder to shoulder and not thinking twice about hand-shaking and hugging. for as long as I can remember, I've tied places to time, and carry this eternally disappointing sense that if I go back to a place I can recapture something of its spirit (usually wistful because of incorrect memories of joyful perfection). that makes it hard to know where to be, and hard when going there is so different now from last year or any year before: everything is different. once again I feel adrift and lost in time and space—I clutch at little shreds of routine, because otherwise everything is shifting sand.

besides the solid rock I stand on, all other ground is indeed shifting sand. funny that it's only taken a global pandemic and a terrible work partner and race protests and a heartbreak to remind me.

I am glad to be alive and safe and well (for the moment). I am glad I have friends who still call, still text, still write. I am glad we have resilient supply chains and sunny days and shared trouble. there is wifi and books and music and love, and the world is still peopled with wonders. 

slow down, you crazy child
and take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile
it's all right, you can afford to lose a day or two
when will you realize—vienna waits for you?

the five-books challenge

what five books would you choose if you could only read five books for the rest of your life?

what if you were stranded on an island. maybe an island with a large horseradish-apple tree growing on it; maybe a little atoll somewhere with a sprinkle of stereotypical palm trees; maybe a third small island where remains an old stone table and a moulder'd cave. really, pick wherever for your hermit's history, but then pick your five books.

it's super hard, because they have to be deep enough to give you thoughts to think for, seriously, the rest of your life, and general enough to fit all your moods and life situations (...though if you're vibing with crusoe there may not be a lot of variability to your days after all). so I'm assembling various five-book-portable-libraries to make the choosing easier.

I've put together several packages—fast, nutritious, and convenient for the busy traveler who doesn't have the time to assemble her own list. pick one up today from an isle near you!

the serious reader: the person who wants a range of writing styles, emotions, and genres while keeping it classy

shakespeare

the ultimate poetry anthology (curated by me + harold bloom)

dickens's complete works

calvin's institutes

alexandre dumas anthology or complete works

the just for fun: the person who wants to spend her time lying on the desert island beach getting a tan with a desultory glance at a page, and maybe curl up with some light reading that evening by the stormy window with a cup of tea

lord of the rings

jane austen

I capture the castle

three men in a boat

room with a view

the state of man: the person who wants to spend her seclusion philosophizing on the society she left (in like, milan, along with her dukedom), the depravity of the human heart, and what has been done about it

oscar wilde collected works

crime & punishment

john bunyan anthology

the ultimate poetry anthology (still curated by me! + harold bloom)

[and maybe thoreau? am waffling on this last one. good variety but wonder if there's something better/longer. will take recommendations]

the poet: sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life! and mad world, mad kings, mad composition

[biggest personal challenge I'm facing at the moment]

non-fiction: for the person who wants to spend that desert island time improving her mind by extensive reading, but seldom looks into novels

[still working on this one]

- - -

the thing about imposed restrictions is that you have to be that much more intentional and creative within them, so I want to come up with the only-5 lists for kids as well (to read and to be read to). 

0-2

goodnight, gorilla - peggy rathmann

hondo and fabian - peter mccarty

the runaway bunny - margaret wise brown

either opposites or moo, baa, la! la! la! - sandra boynton

A, B, C: an amazing alphabet book! - dr. seuss

3-5

eeny, meeny, and miney mole - jane yolen

the story of ferdinand - munro leaf

george and martha - james marshall

surprises - lee bennett hopkins

where the sidewalk ends - shel silverstein

6-9

the king's equal - katherine paterson

one morning in maine - robert mccloskey

alexander and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day - judith viorst

the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe - c. s. lewis

the oxford illustrated book of american children's verse - donald hall

10-12

the saturdays - elizabeth enright

frindle - andrew clements

tuck everlasting - natalie babbitt

holes - louis sachar

a child's anthology of poetry - elizabeth hauge sword

the question of course is: can you take the previous books with you into the next period of life? because I'm making the rules, I think so. these are books that grow with you, and assuming there is also society on these isolated islands, you'll want to give these books and their lessons to your children, too. while that sort of translates to more than five, I don't think it counts, since this isn't where you're getting your main thought food. also you have to build thoughts: you have to start somewhere to reach the big 5 in adulthood. and really, the themes are the same across the years—always considering that at some point, george and martha will not be what you turn to first on that sunny beach day or that thoughtful rain-swept evening.

but sometimes, yeah, you just want to read about split pea soup in slippers. it happens. even in australia.

books in the time of quarantine

last july, I stopped recording each book I read; this was a mistake. (I love having lists & documentation, because I can't remember everything & regret not having the record.) then, because I was trying to convince myself I did not have this regret, I didn't keep a faithful record this year either.

but it's never too late to start, and I'm looking back over the past few months to see what my covid-19 reading habits have been like: highlight version.

completed
never let me go, kazuo ishiguro
straight up took it from the little lending library by my house, because I haven't read this book in like six years. not quite as heart-wrenching the second time around, but we all know I was reading it for the last page. now I need to go back to remains of the day, which might stand time a little better.

on writing, stephen king
entertaining and funny, typical king. a little snobby, because to him writing is an inborn talent that can be honed but not made (and I am actually paraphrasing). at least that means his book is much less technical, much more enjoyable, and feels more accessible than a lot of writing 'manuals' (ironically enough!). but I'm a king fan already, so biased.

poisonwood bible, barbara kingsolver
mom has always used that "thyroid mary" quote and I wanted to finally just read a kingsolver. I did. not a fan of her writing style, but it was a compelling story.

all the lives we ever lived, katharine smyth
something about this caught my attention (and I was gripped by to the lighthouse once myself), so I tried it just between 2020 and covid. it was fine, maybe even good; going through some things at the time, though, and what I distinctly remember is this one paragraph:

"...embedded in Mrs. Ramsay's reflection that Paul and Minta will say 'we' all their lives, what is to me the most resonant of the book's observations about coupling: Marriage precipitates what may well be a splendid new entity, but its price is the supplantation of 'I'. ...To the Lighthouse is hardly an antimarriage novel; its portrait of the Ramsays reveals the heights of human connection, imperfect though it may well be. But it also recognizes that marriage is a loss, a sacrifice of self and its expression, and that, contrary to Mrs. Ramsay's beliefs—among them that 'an unmarried woman has missed the best of life'—solitude can be an act of self-preservation. 'She liked to be alone,' Lily insists, pleading her exemption from that universal law. 'She liked to be herself; she was not made for that.'"

the code book, simon singh
totally cool. I loved the breakdown of cryptography techniques and history, though I think he spent too much time on bletchley park, when you should just read turing's cathedral.

it starts with food, melissa hartwig
in prep for my last wh30. and what a saga that became

you look like a thing & I love you, janelle shane
my dezine book club pick. fun foray into artificial intelligence; shane's technical explanations were excellent in some places and I felt more confusing in others, but definitely gave me a better idea of the abilities and limitations of ML.

1Q84, haruki murakami
meant to read murakami for a long time (you have to read one, right?). gripping story; I see why people would love murakami, but I don't think I could read another one—it requires a big investment. maybe it's quarantine brain, but I am needing things that do not require a lot of focus and attention and time commitment.

leave it to psmith, pg wodehouse
I love wodehouse. this has been my favorite book of quarantine. it made me laugh literally out loud and it's one of his delightfully woosterian, complicated stories—blakeney-esque hero, hijinx, and lines like, "Beach the butler entered, a dignified procession of one." or, "A depressing musty scent pervaded the place, as if a cheese had recently died there in painful circumstances." orczy herself never reached these heights.

in progress
the D case, carlo fruttero & franco lucentini
this came recommended by a friend who knows I love dickens and who loved this book. we love dickens in different ways, I think.
until now, I've stood firm in my decision to never read the mystery of edwin drood because 1, he didn't finish the mystery and 2, depressing! no more dickens! but this friend was insistent I read the book, and I doubted myself. I should never have doubted. once again I am regret.

letters to vera, vladimir nabokov
some great descriptions. not as gripping as I wanted it to be—lacked the polished cleverness of his writing, although this was much more natural. obviously. also much more moany. they kind of remind me of napoleon's letters to josephine while on campaign hahaha

napoleon, andrew roberts
because I finished a catherine the great kick last summer & wanted to jump tracks. I also spend too much time in elizabethan england.

napoleon (2nd borrow)
it's a big book. currently waiting on 3rd borrow, since for some reason there's a wait list at the library.

astrophysics for people in a hurry, neil degrasse tyson
it's actually been a slow crawl for me. I need to be a better book picker or a more diligent attention-payer.

100 years of solitude, gabriel garcia marquez
audiobook, this one; because it keeps me entertained while I walk my boring, boring rounds of the neighborhood (I'm going to be entirely flab when I get back to boston, and should stop trying to make steps happen. I will never again be able to walk the entirety of the porter escalators. this is the end). I hate audiobooks, because I am a terrible aural learner, but this way I'm so focused on the storyline that I forget I'm walking. it's working for me.

never to be completed
design of everyday things, don norman (4th borrow)
I love nielsen norman and this is a classic, so we should have been the perfect match, right? but every time I got it checked out, I'd only make it through a chapter before it was due again—and finally gave up. I guess I will never be a legitimate designer.

& other
working through some puritan paperbacks as well—bunyan, brooks, & watson, the OG boy band, or maybe actually a law firm—and valley of vision, which I've never devoted enough time to before. it is a cold spring of refreshment.
- reformed baptist manifesto, barcellos
- infant baptism & the covenant of grace, jewett
- coronavirus & christ, piper
- end times made simple, waldron

I've spent some time combing through my old school books, now that I'm home, too: westing game is always gold, mara, daughter of the nile, which I don't even have to explain, even ramsay scallop because etienne's version of patient griselda is my favorite. it's been quite a mishmash; going forward I want to hardcore prioritize my reading so I'm not spending time on the peripheral or joyful (true story) when I could be reading something on my longer-term list.

like the elizabethan world, which I last cracked the week before quarantine started and am determined to get back to. the enlightenment & napoleon combined can't keep me down.

requisite quarantine feelings post

it's rainy twilight. I am vibing with the weather. and every time I write "vibing" I get autocorrected to "viking".

this is hard for me. everything is hard for me right now. I am not loving getting up in the morning. I put off going to bed because then I don't have to face the next day. nothing is in itself hard; it's just all so much the same, so many same little everyday stresses. it's like having teeny anxiety sand grains in my head, and the grit is getting to me.

usually—or used to be—reading helped this. but right now, I can't summon the emotional investment for fiction and have no mental capacity for anything else. also, all my current books are digital, and my inability to focus these days is exponentially increased by blue light, seems like. work is all screen, too. so I stare out the window constantly and miss large, integral chunks of conversation in meetings.

I am tired of zoom calls. I am tired of talking about the quarantine. I am inevitably the one who brings it up on zoom calls, which makes me irrationally irritated and then I wonder why no one seems to have a life to talk about anymore—ironic,* because I spend my days working, sleeping, and staring out the window, for the most part.

*I almost said "funny" but then remembered "hahahaha," and it made me sad to think of how we used to do that in the carefree summer of our youth

frankly, I'm even tired of the virus memes, because the time spent laughing and then sighing is getting disproportionately weighted towards the sigh.

when I was in school I liked to read sad poetry to cheer myself up. "it's lonely in the country, I remember" was a good refreshing tear-jerker at the time but now it's another way everything I read makes me depressed. memories of hopes that are not, bla bla, and it's clear that stickney never had to wear a mask in public by order of the state government.

it's spring. I thought winter's rains and ruins were over, and all the season of snows and sins. yet I am sitting inside, viking with the glum dim sadness, the petty dust my soon-choked soul to fill. with a heigh ho the wind and the rain.

the one thing bringing me joy these days is walking to BJ harrison reading leave it to psmith, and I honestly won't know what to do when that is done. walk to another wodehouse, possibly, a dignified procession of one.

feel how swift, how secretly, the shadow of the night comes on.
still falls the rain.
miniver coughed and called it fate, and kept on drinking.