Faulkner Follow-up

From the Amazon.com official review:

Notoriously “difficult,” The Sound and the Fury is actually one of Faulkner’s more accessible works once you get past the abrupt, unannounced time shifts—and certainly the most powerful emotionally.

Um, emotionally powerful, yes. Because I hated every minute of it. Difficult, yes. We're in complete accord there. One of his more accessible works? Good lord.

I finished it late last night--just to finish it. The characters are all despicable, and I found nothing about it riveting--besides maybe the second chapter, Quentin's stream of consciousness. But even that was only moments of lucidity strewn between odd action and thoughts. Had Faulkner seen Boston? I'd like very much to know what part of Boston this little girl is supposed to live in. I couldn't picture it. Poor immigrant rural-ish housing along the river and uncrowded? Even in 1929, I can't see that in Boston.

This book pissed me off like Death of a Salesman pissed me off in high school. Men having breakdowns--loud, yelling, confusing--but not believable. And offering nothing to really latch onto or empathize with. Both stories trigger eye rolling on this end.

I'm almost dreading choosing my next book. As are you, I figure.

Fuck Faulkner

  

I innocently grabbed The Sound and the Fury off my bookshelf Friday night. I settled into my jammies, got under the quilt, put on my reading glasses, picked just the right pen with which to make notes, and opened this musty-smelling edition. And immediately thought WTF?

It's so incredibly difficult to understand. Quickly I became the Fury and the Sound was my incessant bitching.

I've been sharing online my favorite passage of rubbish nonsense:

I wasn't crying, but I couldn't stop. I wasn't crying, but the ground wasn't still, and then I was crying. The ground kept sloping up and the cows ran up the hill. T.P. tried to get up. He fell down again and the cows ran down the hill...we went toward the barn. Then the barn wasn't there and we had to wait until it came back. I didn't see it come back. It came behind me and Quentin set me down in the trough where the cows ate.

Yeah. That's page 15. It would have helped to know that the first chapter is written from a mentally ill person's perspective. I got that nugget off Amazon--and my mom. I grew up in a house with few books, but my mother apparently loves this book. Wha??? It makes Infinite Jest look like a pony ride. So now I'm reading it because it's pissing me off, and it's pissing me off as I read it. It's sort of a zen cycle I've got going on there. I like a lot of obscure stuff, but I'm not enjoying this.

***

And then there was the cooking portion of the weekend. Shepherd's pie this week. Seriously lazy shepherd's pie. I used a lot of store-bought crap, which goes against my push toward fewer processed foods and fewer chemicals. The stomach tends to steer the cart sometimes. Don't hate.

Cheddar, beef, premade mashed potatoes, gravy mix, cream cheese, creamed sweet corn. This is clearly not a dish for the faint of heart. But with all the kale and beans I've been eating lately, I decided to go in the opposite direction this weekend. The word cheese was floating through my head like a blimp made of sparkles.

While heating up the potatoes (to which I added cream cheese and butter), I browned up the ground beef.

Once the beef was browned, I added the gravy.

Into a casserole dish, I layered the beef, corn, and potatoes. I then added lots of cheddar. No pussyfooting around here--lots of cheddar.



Thirty minutes in the oven, and out came this little gem. Can I get an amen?!

 

While eating, I found the BBC rendition of Bleak House (nine salacious chapters to this miniseries). It doesn't get a lot better than jammies, melted cheese, and a period-piece movie. Heavenly. We'll see about Faulkner in the coming days.

Gone quiltin'

The whiteboard outside my office. Nashua quilt show begins today. Pictures to come.

And so jammy weekend season begins

Today I declared to be the first of jammy weekend season. I went grocery shopping Saturday night, which is my favorite--it's quiet, mellow, trance-like. There are no cranky children, no frazzled parents, no obstinate teens, no power corporate types. Just me. And a few guys buying beer on their way to someplace else. I mostly have the whole store to myself.

So, hunkered down with provisions, I woke this morning and took it wayyy easy. Hot chocolate, reading a little of The Book of Night Women (seriously, it's outstanding), toast with melted peanut butter...all the makings of a relaxed Sunday.

Eventually, I got myself motivated to begin a project I eyed recently: a beautiful flying geese miniature quilt. So I set myself up with candy, broke out the sewing machine and other props, and started in.

I purchased the materials at Checkerberries Quilt Shop, which is one of the most adorable quilt shops I've ever been in. It's full of beautiful fabric in muted tones--rustic Americana. Civil War prints, Little Women-inspired materials and quilts. It's all yummy. And the woman who runs the place is a sassy little minx. And it's right nearby, in Northwood, NH. I went there for the first time recently and was in awe.

Anywho

I haven't quilted in a long time. Years. I don't know why. Crafting tends to be an on and off thing for me. When I'm stressed or shutting down, I craft more. At least that's what I've observed from a bird's eye view of my life. At points when I've lived with someone I didn't care for, I've been my most productive. Right now? I think I'm just happy that it's autumn, don't have social plans, and wanted to stay away from watching TV and movies all day on the computer (so much for canceling cable). So I got started.









This project, part of the "Jo's Little Women" series is a black and gold combination in the flying geese pattern. It's tiny, so it stitched up quickly--maybe three to four hours total so far.

The afternoon was spent at my kitchen table, with soup simmering on the stove, the dryer rumbling, and the sewing machine humming. I'm happy with how quickly this came together. There's something about that sense of accomplishment--sometimes it feels outside my reach. But I realize I'm my own worst enemy. There were a few times when I stood up from the table and my mind raced with other things I could be doing. It took discipline to sit back down and sew another row. I'm pretty fleeting about things. It's frustrating to have my mind racing in so many different directions.

But I did it! I made the whole front. Next will be buying batting, piecing the layers together, and beginning the stitching. Now THAT could take a while. But it's so stinking cute, and I'm so stinking proud of myself.

Hope your Halloween weekend was fab-o.

Cold weather cooking

This morning I woke to a cold, gray sky. I made myself semipresentable, grabbed the camera, got into the car, and headed for town.

I'm proud of my tiny, odd mill town. I haven't been here quite a year yet, but I every evening when I drive through on my way home from work, my heart fills when I come around the first bend and see the old mills looming large over the left side of the main drag, and the tiny shops all in a row to the right. So even though we're a little past prime up here, this morning I took pictures to capture fall in Newmarket.

I drove around some of the side roads too, down to the Great Bay. I didn't realize there were so many luxe houses here. But I do appreciate that the town has a little of everything. Along with the out-of-the-way richies, there are lots of hipster college kids, many earthy hippie types, and the locals who grew up here. In front of the coffee shop, it's typical to see a Lexus parked next to a beat-up pickup truck. And it's typical to hear conversations about graffiti as a growing problem, the band that played last night at the Stone Church, and local drum circles. I revel in it. Probably because it reminds me of Amherst and Northampton, MA.

The sky never lightened after this morning's sojourn, and stitching alone in my apartment, I could feel my fingers growing colder. But I come from a long line of yankees who proudly refuse to turn on the heat until absolutely necessary. No way does 45 degrees warrant anything more than another sweater. And maybe a blanket over my lap. And maybe some soup to warm me up.

I read several recipes and then came up with the following. It turned out quite good. Enjoy!

I started out cooking up some kielbasa in olive oil to give the pot a smoky flavor--just enough to get it warm and juicy, but not enough to brown it. Then I tossed in three cloves of chopped garlic and a healthy sprinkling of red pepper flakes.


Next, I poured in four cups of chicken broth. I wanted organic, but I also wanted something low in sodium. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find both in the same package. So I chose organic over low sodium. Depending on your salt sensitivity, you may want to do the opposite. Considering the other ingredients, this is a pretty salty bowl of soup.

Once the broth was warmed through, I put in a chopped bunch of kale. I've never cooked with kale before, but it shrinks just like spinach (and isn't half as tedious to prepare).  

When the kale was good and shrunken down in the pot, I added a handful of Parmesan cheese (which is essentially adding a layer of salt as well as yumminess).

Next, the star of the show: small white beans. These are another first for me today. I dumped in the whole can for added liquid and a slight thickener.

Finally, I added pistou, which is French and fancy for "half a container of store-bought pesto." Kidding--my Frenchie ancestors would kick me for buying a container of the stuff, and I do make good pesto from scratch. But damn, a girl doesn't always have time for that sort of nonsense. That's when a tub of pesto comes in handy.

And what soup doesn't cry out for a slice of crusty bread and a little butter? Tonight I found a darling rosemary rustic bread at the bakery. I used some quality local butter. And the final results:

 Hope you had a great weekend too.

xo

Taking reader questions

"do you have thoughts or inner dialogue that you keep special/private that you don't share with the world?? that you don't offer up for their interpretation or ridicule?"

This question from a recent email exchange has been on my mind for a couple days. And I was trying to figure out why I had a strong reaction to it. The word ridicule kept bouncing around between my ears. Ridicule, ridicule, ridicule.

There are several answers to this question. And my first reaction was--maybe I'm an optimist. I have a readership of maybe six, plus the occasional stray who lands here. And all y'all know me. I don't believe ridicule is an issue. If it is, good for you. Thank you for spending so much time thinking about me.

But, then, I'm not really an optimist. More a realist. So my second answer to anyone who comes across this blog and decides to take out their upset on me is, "Fuck'em if they can't take a joke." Sometimes I'm happy; sometimes I'm sad. Sometimes I'm on a roadtrip with Stevie Wonder; sometimes I'm steps away from writing a grocery list. I'm not really here to impress.

 

 

Currier & Ives

The point of this blog was for self discipline. I decided it would be good for me to have a middle-of-the-road place where I'm not trying to write the Great American Novel and I'm not scrawling a deeply personal journal entry. It's a playground for me to explore the craft further. And it's a way for me to throw my fifty cents out there in more than 140 characters and away from the motley crew I'm friends with on Facebook. If I want to write a research paper on Allen Ginsberg, I will, damn it.

But in the end, "not really" is the answer. Of course I keep some shit to myself. But I'm also a pretty open book. That's my choice as an artist, a writer. My favorite writers and poets took huge risks in putting themselves out there. All in hopes that some other poor schmuck would come forward and say, "me too." I tout the gritty truth among my better qualities. I don't write anything here that I wouldn't say to a good friend. And with many of you, I've shared much more/worse. I'm human. And this weekend, when I am camping in Maine, I'm sure I'll share all kinds of inappropriate tidbits by the campfire. And I don't care. Life is too short to give a shit about some things.

Writing be silent talking

Kudos to Boston for putting on a fantastic Boston Book Festival yesterday. Compared to last year, it was grander, the weather was better, the venues were larger, and the list of sessions more numerous.

I left NH around 10:30, got to Wellington Station (now lovingly referred to as Beef Wellington Station), and boarded the orange line. On the train, a loud, confident guy holding American and don't-tread-on-me flags was lecturing a sweet group of Canadian 20somethings. "I'm paht of the Nohth Shoha Tea Pahty blah blah blah." By the time we got to my stop, North Station, he had talked about taxes, the price of gas, how all our freedoms are about to be ripped from us, and that FOX News is the ONLY reputable news source. I managed to bite my tongue the whole way. Asshat.

http://summit.haaaa.net/speakers/

The first session my friend and I attended was Time and Place, at the Old South Church on Boylston. The first two readers felt restrained and too serious. But I was there for Gish Jen. And she delivered. What a feisty little minx! Here's a Harvard graduate who's been published in all the hot spots (New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly...), and she was personable. She laughed, she was smart, but never stuffy.

Her latest book, World and Town, was released this month. I'm looking forward to reading this and delving into the depiction of voice: the old Vermont farmers, whose dialect is terrifically informal and probably unsettling to an outsider; a long-settled immigrant, whose English is textbook perfection; and a teenager girl who has seen Cambodian refugee camps, the mean streets of a city akin to Lowell, and finally a rural landscape.

The next session we hit was Fiction: Reality Bites, at the Church of the Covenant on Newbury Street. A perfect day for stepping on fallen leaves, looking at beautiful people, and ducking into echo-y chambers of stained glass--the way the afternoon sun shines on the dust in the air and each movement in each pew sets off a creak.

Readers for this session included Brando Skyhorse--fascinating life story, of which he shared only a little. He spoke with the kind of humor one develops when the truth is too embarrassing to take seriously. Great speaker; not so hot a reader. He read too fast--and his words were all description, so there was no time to picture what he was offering the listener.

Second was Allegra Goodman, who read from The Cookbook Collector. I'm not sure I care for the subject matter; I just wasn't drawn in. She is an interesting character, however. Very quirky personality. My friend called her "cute." I warmed up to her as she spoke, but she was goofy as hell. I would totally be that nervous and goofy in front of a crowd too, however, so who am I to judge?

http://bit.ly/akTpME

The third writer in this session was Marlon James. Now, ladies, I admit the first thought I had was, in the words of Jada, "He is foine!" And then he spoke. With a Jamaican accent. And told us he's an Austen fan. And quoted Pride and Prejudice. Are you fucking kidding me? Deep breath.

Looks and voice aside, what an incredible writer! He read from The Book of Night Women, a story about 18th century Jamaican slavery, written in, according to Bookmarks Magazine, a "lilting Jamaican patois."

Asked to read a "dangerous" passage, James chose to read a passage in which a slave learns to read. Afterward, he spoke about his passage choice. In sum: There's danger in love and in giving one's heart. But the danger of knowledge, of critical thought, can be the most deadly. Considering the amount of violence in this book, I was touched by his choice.

His writing is beautiful. From the passage he read,

So Homer commence teaching Lilith how to read. Lilith don't know why her, but glad to have the new feeling rise in her when she see a letter shape into something when they in front of her. A cup was something that she could hold and pour tea into, but a cup was also a c-u-p.

and

Writing be silent talking

Simple but smart. Really clever and thoughtful. My friend and I felt fortunate to have gone to the session and come across this writer we might otherwise not have encountered.

Full up on the written word, my friend and I hit the bars. First stop was Top of the Hub. Hella expensive drinks; but, really, the charge is for the phenomenal views of Boston. And the drinks deliver an ass-kick pretty quickly. I had a beer later but was mostly on water for the rest of the evening so I could drive home.

From there we joined a pub crawl through Faneuil Hall. The initial reaction was a wrinkled nose because FH tends to be where college kids learn to drink. Loud bars jam packed with young people who aren't interesting yet. But we were early and didn't encounter any of that business until we were heading out of the city. Watching it all, however, made me realize it's been a long time since I was that young. Even then, out in Amherst, I just didn't aspire to that. I absolutely did stupid things, but decidedly different stupid things. I'm so glad to be an adult. To be unique and on my own track. I have no desire to travel back and do it again. Onward!