Blank Page

A new semester. New students with easily forgettable names. Why do I remember some of them? What makes someone stand out in the mind of someone else? What makes me stand out in the minds of the people I meet? Do I stand out at all?

My life has become an orchestra of well polished compartments loosely fitted together. I'm good at teaching, reading, and writing. I make an effort to eat healthy and exercise, I keep my life clean, neat, orderly. I make time to draw and take photographs and play and listen to music. I try to be a good son, brother, boyfriend. I try to do some of these things each day. I cannot do all of these things each day. I have trouble connecting them together. I cannot seem to find the underlying tone, the rhythm, the pattern that will glue together everything else. Maybe there isn't such a thing. Maybe the problem is assuming that there is glue in the first place. I have tried my best to search for and collect objective truths, but maybe there is strength in recognizing the futility of such efforts.

I need to find my framework, my principals, my glue. Or, in the case that I have already found them, I need to figure out how they work, break them apart and rebuild them and learn to take care of them and check on them periodically. I take good care of myself, but in spite of this, I cannot stop searching for ways to take better care of myself. To stop searching is to stagnate and die.

Ultimate Questions

The days are slowly getting longer and even though the change in the lengthening of the day is not yet noticeable, the fact that it is happening is enough to cheer me up. Maybe that is the true triumph of Galileo and Copernicus and Isaac Newton. Maybe those ancient truths, those ancient strivings to understand came from a desire to breed joy in even the darkest seasons of our lives. Maybe the people of the past felt the wearing, tearing, icy hardening effect of the winter. Surely they did. 

The issue of the orbital patterns of moons and planets and suns is quite apropos  considering the book that I've been reading this past week. Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut is the third book I've read in 2015. It was a fantastic book and I know this because as soon as I read the last page I closed my eyes and wished that I could travel back in time and kill Kurt Vonnegut and write this book myself instead. I don't react this way after most books. I don't fantasize about the time-warp homicide of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I don't daydream about the temporal-rift murder of John Steinbeck. These are great authors and there books are among my favorites. Sirens of Titan is not my favorite book of all time, but I wish that I had written it. What does that say about me?

I think it says that we can find greatness in the mirror image of ourselves, but we can also find greatness outside of this mirror image as well. In other words, I believe that our dreams and hopes and aspirations are only a single avenue towards the true and the beautiful, and that it is possible to be inspired and to find greatness and wonder in the pathways that were previously unimagined and unexplored. It's just striking when you stumble upon someone who has so accurately captured the beauty in your own mind, who so expertly captures your thoughts, fears, fantasies, and dreams. It's striking when you find that you are not alone in your pathway through life, that people have traveled there before you and, likely, people will travel there again.

Kurt Vonnegut writes in what is often described as the "style of black humor". I don't see anything black about the humor, except for the occasional moment where something tragic happens and Vonnegut perhaps doesn't donate the socially prescribed amount words or time to reflection and mourning. But for the most part, his humor is light-hearted and vibrant, jumping, like a child. Surely this book is less "black" than Slaughterhouse Five. I thought it was fun, but not without gravity. It doesn't take itself too seriously, which allows it to ask questions which are perhaps more serious than what you find in other books. 

At the end of the day, this book is a story of a man who finds meaning in his life. And this story is about the fact that finding meaning is not always meaningful in and of itself. It is a story about the ultimate questions in life, and how the answers to those questions are not always the answers that we expect, or the answers that we feel we need. I think, at its core, this book is about the irreverence of life, and human life in particular. Human life is rare in the universe, exceedingly rare. And celebrating life, even life without meaning, will perhaps grant us a clearer view of the universe, at the end of the day, than sacrificing everything for the sake of meaning.

Additionally, this story is rather circular, and ends very much where it started, which satisfies a part of my reading conscience that is still child-like, full of wonder, and which appreciates a good fairy tale with a neat and organized ending. There is still a part of me, I suppose, which prefers a story that sweeps me off my feet, carries me to places far and wide, before returning me to the safety of my home. Like a good bed time story. Like returning home from a long and exhausting trip. Like pushing outwards against the cool expanse of your sheets, before retracting, withdrawing, and falling asleep. 

Deadly Force

I have been contemplating the value of (often unintentional) extrapolation of personal values on other people. On the one hand, it seems like a tremendous overstep of personal boundaries. It pushes the envelope of politeness. On the other hand, what kind of person would I be if I kept my values to myself? Certainly not the type of person that I have been for most of my life, and I do not know if I am willing or capable of change.

But change comes nevertheless. It often comes from situations where I am forced to deal with people whose values are very different from my own. I tend to respond to these types of people in two ways; I either despise them or fall in love with them.

The second book I read this year was Giraffe by J.M. Ledgard.

Ledgard wrote this before Submergence, and I have to say that his earlier work lacked the refinement and focus that attracted me to that book. It is not a bad book, in fact it is a very good book. I would rate it 3 out of 4 thumbs. If I had 4 thumbs.

Giraffe is very sensory. Everything is described with regard to color, odor, and taste. This would normally be great, but because it is set in Czechoslovakia in the mid 1970s, these colors, odors, and tastes are grim and bland; very Soviet (if I can use that as an adjective without imploding from self-hate). The ending is nightmarish and bloody and I quickly forgot the tiny things which brought warmth and joy during the early chapters. Nothing is solved at the end, which was troubling to me.

The result is an oppressive book. Sometimes, I dreaded reading it and I was relieved to finish it. Make no mistake, it is beautiful. But it is less beautiful than Submergence. I feel bad, holding both books up to the same light, but it really is an inevitable by-product of reading both books so quickly in succession.

Long Journey

It is the day after the first day of the new year. I have spent it mostly in bed, which is great, but growing tiresome. As far as resolutions go, I have few. When designing resolutions, I think it is important to keep them simple and measureable. Quantities are celebrated, in the realm of resolutions. They allow for progress to be easily discerned. Or lack of progress. Last year I made two resolutions. The first was to visit a state that I had never been to before, which I accomplished when I rode my motorcycle to Tennessee in July. The second was to read one book a week, which I did not accomplish. I did not accomplish this goal because I became distracted. I was on track to complete this challenge well into the month of July, but after that point things fell apart. I would read in bursts and fits. I would forget to return books to my local library. I will say that I spent almost no money on books in 2014. I came close to reading one book a week, but I failed. And I think coming close and failing is a bitter pill to swallow, certainly more bitter in the short term than failing by a wide margin.

Here are some of the books I read in 2014. I believe I may have missed a few.

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Pastoralia by George Saunders

CivilWarLand in Bad Decline by George Saunders

Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

A Raisin in the Sun  by Lorraine Hansberry

An Unfinished Season by Ward Just

Beloved by Toni Morrison

Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut

Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz

This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz

Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger

A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

Love and Other Demons by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Lillies of the Field by William Edmund Barret

Rage is Back by Adam Mansbach

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

The Red Pony by John Steinbeck

White Fang by Jack London

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

God Bless You Dr. Kevorkian by Kurt Vonnegut

Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut

Ghosts of Onyx by Eric Nylund

Two years ago I fell in love with a beautiful woman in New York City. I think I fell in love mostly with her brain, which was like the one I would have had if I was a woman and bought too many cooking books. The relationship failed rather dramatically, and I felt very alive during the failure, and even now, although that may be due to the situations I had surrounded myself in both before and after. I certainly hope that my zeal for life stems from the frameworks I have built for myself and not from the morbid fascination of watching something beautiful collapse. In actuality, my role was more the arsonist dumping gasoline on a haunted house. The house is gone, but the ghosts remain. How many of them live inside of me?

She also had a reading challenge for 2014, although hers was more ambitious. One hundred books in one year. I remember scoffing in a sun soaked Books-a-Million deep in the Florida winter. I remember scoffing in a frozen Vermont cross-walk. I have no idea if she finished it, or even if she liked all the books she read. I hope she finished it, I hope she read one hundred and one books in 2014, and thought about each one afterwards, and felt that she was better for it. 

I read so many great books last year. And I know I am better for it. So what is to stop me from doing the same thing this year? Simple. Measureable. Will I let the ghosts of failed relationships and failed resolutions prevent me from trying the same trick twice? My second goal for 2015 is to read fifty books. I am going to document them here because, in the spirit of haunted houses, often recognizing the existence of the phantasmal menace is enough to dispel it.

I eat and breathe and read and teach and occasionally I remember to go to the gym. I drive up the state routes 8 and 25, north bound tendrils bringing me to the houses of friends to watch movies and to play paintball and video games. A student discovered my Youtube account one year ago and I set all of my videos to private. There was nothing incriminating there. But a wall fell down and the openness between the spaces felt strange to me. 

I consume but rarely produce. Failed vegetable gardens. The muffler on my car fell off and I got used to the noise. The life I am living is beautiful, but I am bloated by all that I have seen and felt. I am adapting, with small changes. I am critically thinking of my life. The life that I had and the life that I want to have. Creation lies behind me and before me. So, my third resolution for 2015 is to write more. Try to keep the vomit inside your mouth. Simple. Measurable. I want to write five short stories this year. Sub-resolution: limiting the number of contractions I use. So, if you are counting, that's a total of three point five resolutions. 

Here's a book review to start:

Submergence was a story about love. I guess that is not exactly accurate. It is a story built from love. This is true in two ways. Firstly, the book is lovingly written. It is easy to tell this because of the way the sentences and paragraphs are designed and the way that the author uses quotes and excerpts from other novels and often cites historical events, art, literature, and the natural sciences. It is clear that the author believes in the story and loves the story, and maybe loves himself a little bit, but its forgivable because the love is contagious and you find yourself rooting not only for the characters but for the author. You feel swept up in the book. You don't, I do, but you probably would if you read it. You feel swept up in the book, but not in a fantasy or science fiction sort of way, where, at the end, you remember who you are and feel a little let down. In this case, you get swept up and the force of the sweeping breaks you into parts and the book allows you to see each of those parts with increased clarity. 

I suppose another way of saying this is that the book makes you feel small, but I've said that about a lot of my favorite books and it really fails to capture what sets this book apart. Secondly, the two main characters fall in love. They fall deeply in love, and I found myself celebrating their love and cheering for them, and hoping that they would both survive and succeed. To be honest, the actual falling in love part is unclear and happens rather quickly, and most of the book is spent describing the effect of this love on each person's separate lives. I felt like I was watching the ripples left on a lake by a jumping fish I could not quite catch a glimpse of. This is alright with me however, because I feel that this is an accurate representation of the real world, and I admire the author for depicting it as such.

The sentences are often short and descriptive, kind of like Hemingway, but the characters use big words and the author uses big words to remind you that the story is set in the modern age with modern technologies and understanding of science. It is a book about science and discovery, but also about human truths and so if you are not a scientist or interested in science, this book might still hold real value for you. Honestly, the book feels very old fashioned, but is is beautifully written and very appealing on a sensory level, and I put on headphones and listen to recordings of a thunderstorm while I read it. If you can, I highly recommend the use of headphones and thunderstorm soundtracks while reading this book. Definitely one of the best books I have ever read. I have already downloaded another of his novels to my Kindle and I cannot wait to start it.

Until next time blog!