her able hands

November 18th, 2006

I’ve moved on to Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: A Novel by Jonathan Safran Foer. Is it in bad taste to say I wouldn’t mind having this writer’s babies? It is. I’m sorry. But it’s true. And at the moment it’s the most intelligent thing I have to say (which is not at all) about the book, I’m too besotted for good words.

Then again, maybe he would sire a child like Oskar, his protagonist. I don’t know if I could love a kid like that. I love reading it because of the distance and because Safran Foer wastes so few words. The details mesmerize. The layers of family and history and emotions lock together and form walls around me so that twice today my own family came knocking and I didn’t know how to open a door and let them in. I was lost in the story.

How does he do that?

November 17th, 2006

In my fevered state Wednesday I snagged a few Young Adult novels out of the teen section at our new library. Of course, I didn’t have my list of suggestions from all of you helpful readers, so I had to wing it. Yesterday I read Saint Iggy by K. L. Going. I don’t know why I was worried about writing for teens about subjects like sex, drugs, crime and finding one’s way. I loved the fast pace of this story, and the huge challenges this 16 year-old boy has to face in his day to day life. Born addicted to drugs, father always drunk and high, mother often drunk and high and also often “gone visiting” for long weeks with no contact. Slow learner–especially in terms of common sense and how to play the game at school and how to stay under the radar. But he makes the most of what’s put in front of him when he gets it that he’s hit rock bottom.

The one thing that I kept getting hung up on was the use of the verb to be in the narrative. The story’s told in the first person, by Iggy.

I think, Oh, so terminated means over. And it is not like I didn’t see this coming, but this time I can tell it is real so my mind wanders and I start thinking how the girl wasn’t even that hot and my parents will never show up to a hearing and what will I amount to anyway?

We know Iggy struggles, that he comes from the projects in New York City, but he narrates without very many contractions. About three pages in I started to get annoyed that the kid is thinking in such perfect English, that it sounds stilted, an extra syllable where it should just spill out onto the page smoothly. Or ride across my brain seamlessly. I know, it’s a small nit, but it popped up on just about every page. I loved the story enough to make myself ignore it. I’m glad I did, it was a fulfilling read. But it’s something to think about in my own writing, in trying to make Henry’s voice believable, because really, I have no idea what I’m doing.

I’ve put K. L. Going’s other books on my TBR list.

November 16th, 2006

He had to have his mother drop him off at Billy’s house in the newest development built on the old Ames farm, a few hours early before everybody else showed up. Billy met him at the door wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a neon-blue, plastic lei, carrying a jug of vodka by the plastic handle. Henry pushed him inside and turned to wave goodbye to his mother. He slammed the door behind him and said, “Dude, you asshole. You trying to get me killed?” He pulled the velvet drape over the window next to the door to make sure she had backed out, then turned back to Billy. “I swear. Sometimes you are such an idiot.”

“Whatever, dude. Let’s go mix up this punch.” He waved the jug of vodka in the air and pointed to the living room. Billy had a bunch of bottles set up on the coffee table next to a giant glass bowl, and put the vodka down and said, “Start pouring, man. We’re making kryptonite tonight,” and he screwed off caps and began to mix vodka, rum, gin, and tequila with ginger ale and fruit juice. “Everybody’s supposed to start to land around seven. I have enough X to get us through the weekend, dude. You’re staying right? My parents won’t be back ‘till Sunday night.”

“Yeah, totally.” Henry laughed, pouring out a jug of orange juice into the bowl, the fumes of alcohol shooting up into his face and giving him a surge of nerves. “So?” He started, trying to be casual, “You tried it before?”

“What? X? Sure. A bunch of times. Shit makes you fucking love everything.” Billy picked up a bag of ice that was sitting on the carpet, making a puddle, and dumped it into the bowl, splashing the punch all over the table. “Shit. Go grab a dishtowel man, hanging on the stove.”

The two of them spent the next hour loading the giant cd changer with discs in the order they wanted them played, over a hundred cd’s. They drank some of the punch out of giant red plastic party cups, danced around the living room filling other bowls with bags of chips and popcorn and cheese puffs. Billy asked him, “So dude, is Lisa coming or what?”

Henry really didn’t want to talk about it. He had finally shaken off the bad vibes he had all day, and didn’t want any reminders of the fact that she had basically called him a druggie loser. “Nah. She had plans.” He mumbled flopping into a giant overstuffed chair, and propping his faded black Converses on the footstool that was like an island, the ottoman. His buzz building, he said the word over and over in his head, wondering what it meant.

“Sure she did. Man, she’s hot, but she’s so uptight.” Billy dipped his cup into the punch again and took a long swallow. “You need a refill?”

“I’m cool.” Henry watched his friend thinking if he kept up drinking like that he’d be passed out on the floor before the party even started. “Hey man, so tell me about the X some more. What else is it like?”

“Nothing. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tried in your life. Dude, they used to use it for like marriage counseling and shit. They’d give it to people who were on the verge of divorce and then make them talk to each other, and before they knew it they’d be doing the nasty and making plans to renew their vows.”

Henry liked that image, but wondered if it was wise for a bunch of guys to take it together. “But these were couples? What happens if like, only one part of the couple takes it?”

“How the fuck do I know?” Billy rolled his eyes at him. “Man, you think too much. What are you worried you’re gonna fall in love with me?” He threw his head back and let out a huge laugh that echoed in the great hall of a room and fell flat in silence. Then he snickered and shook his head. “Just try it. There’ll be plenty of ass here tonight, trust me. You won’t be chasing my tail. And man, it’s Lisa’s loss.”

They sat in silence for a long while, taking slurps of their drinks, letting the boozy buzz wash over them. Henry got sick of listening to the swallowing noises and grabbed the stereo remote off the table next to him, and hit play causing an explosion of sound as the dozen speakers mounted on the walls around the room came to life at once with the grinding guitar and thumping bass of The White Stripes. For the rest of the hour waiting for the sound of the doorbell, they kicked back on the chairs and bounced their heads to the beat and continued to get drunk until the doorbell finally rang.

A group of girls huddled together on the front steps like a team going over their plays one last time before the big game. They all straightened up and stuck their chests out, flipping their hair back when Billy and Henry threw the door open wide to let them in. They all knew and liked Billy, but cast Henry wary glances as they said hello. Billy herded them all into the living room and showed them where to dig into the punch. Once they got started, the doorbell rang steady for another hour and close to a hundred other kids from the high school, all grades, poured into the house and got busy pouring drinks.

Keith Overlook had a big Ziploc baggie full of fat green buds of weed covered with wiry red hairs. He sat at the dining room table offering people hits off of his giant red bong and rolling joints in Bamboo paper like a pro. Henry took a long toke from the bong, trying not to laugh at the sound of the gurgling water, then sat back and held his breath for as long as he could, feeling the smoke penetrate and singe his lungs, loosen the knots in his brain. Billy sat down next to him and held his hand out to him under the table. “Here you go, asshole. Take it now and drink lots of water tonight. The bathtub is full of bottles on ice.” Henry held out his hand and Billy dropped a tiny white pill onto his sweating palm.

“Why water?” he asked after he tossed the pill into his mouth and rinsed it down with the last of his fruit punch. Anticipation flooded his body and he felt dizzy and nervous. What if it didn’t work for him?

“Because you don’t want your fucking brain to fry. Because this shit can dry up the fluid in your spine, that’s why. People die from taking this shit and not—what do they call it? Hydrating. You gotta stay hydrated. And drunk, of course.”

“Did you already take yours? Are you feeling it? What does it feel like? How long before I feel anything?” He asked, knowing he sounded like a goddamned idiot, but still hoping it was sooner than later.

“Jesus, you ‘tard. Do you hear yourself? You sound like Baby Fucking Huey. Duh, which way did he go, George? It’ll take a half hour tops, but less if you eat something. So go get some pussy, you pussy.” Billy punched Henry’s arm and got up from the table to continue delivering his happiness. Henry stayed with Keith, helping him roll joints which they stood up in a bone china gravy boat they lifted out of the engraved cabinet. The music thumped through the whole house and through Henry’s body, especially in his ass on the chair. He rolled, licked and stacked, broke up another bud into tiny pieces, picked out the seeds, rolled, licked, and stacked a few more, all while riding the waves of the music and the constant chatter around him of people stopping by the table for a hit or to buy a joint for three bucks. A fat stack of singles grew up in the middle of the table and the bag of weed shrank until there were just a few fat buds remaining. Keith sealed the bag and stuffed it into his back pocket. He stood up and watched Henry bouncing and swaying lightly in his chair. “You cool, man? You look totally fucked up.”

November 16th, 2006

Okay, so I missed a day. The Great God Strep Throat brought me down, and his second cousin NyQuil Gel Caps put me under. But I had a post ready! I scribbled it on the back of a self-diagnosis questionnaire for adult ADD. See?

Does posting my messy notes from yesterday count for a post for yesterday? If I post twice today will it make up for it? Does it even matter? Am I really that anally retentive and self-competitive that I have to do this the right way? I’m pathetic. I blame it on the fever.

I haven’t been this sick in a long time. I’m so glad I decided to go to the Dr. as soon as I realized my throat was swelling shut instead of throwing a hundred dollars worth of vitamins, herbs, homeopathic remedies, essences and essential oils at it. Two doses of Avelox and I’m able to sit upright and type, although my brain still feels a bit mis-wired because I’m making a lot of mistakes. I wouldn’t inflict that on you, but I gotta tell you it’s tempting. This 132 words has taken me ten minutes.

So I suspected I had a fever coming on at work, right after we had our Benefits Debriefing from the new owners, and thought maybe I was just all hot and bothered (not in a good way) by the cattle herding mentality. But the throat was no longer just scratchy, and I was having waves of chills running up and down my body. I couldn’t think on my feet at all.

I knew for sure it was a fever when I arrived at home and stood a foot away from my kitchen door (having come home for a quick lie-down before the strep swab) and I pointed my car lock/alarm clicker thingy at the door. I waited to hear the sound of the lock popping, but it didn’t come so I tried it again with similar results—and yes, I tried it one more time before it sank in that this would take a tiny bit more effort on my part if I indeed wanted that short nap on the couch, rolled up in the thirty year-old hot pink and green afghan my Nana knit for me. When I finally managed to get inside, I took my temperature: 100.5—low grade fevers are the worst because you think you’re mostly okay, are fairly functional but still a tad delusional.

It was about a half degree higher at the doctor’s office where I waited for an hour to be seen, flipping through a July People Magazine and watching the slow parade of Pharmaceutical Representatives move through dropping off samples. I swear there were ten of them in there, and the same thing the last time I went.

I’ve never had a long-term relationship with a family physician before because I’m always relocating or changing jobs; a pattern that keeps me floundering in a sea of shifting medical plans. I always wait to find a doctor until the very last minute, when I actually need one. I always end up at some half-assed strep swab quick stop for the downtrodden, the waiting room reeking of the stale cigarette smoke pouring off of the other patients. It takes all my mental faculties to not stand up and shout out that they’d all reduce the number of doctor visits they have to make by half if they’d just quit the Philip Morris Gravy Train Cancer Stick.

But it’s a bad pattern this only going when I know my only option is an antibiotic. I’m so lucky that I don’t have any major health issues at this time, but I’m going to turn 40 in May. It might be time to start looking for a physician I can talk to, who listens, and start building a relationship. Every time I finish a prescription all thoughts of a doctor go right out of my head. I complete my ten day diarrhea, yeast infection roulette and tally ho!

People. I have not hallucinated like that in a very long time. Not since the morphine after Lila’s birth. I had Chris drive out to my job to pick Lila up from daycare so I could get myself into bed under a three foot tower of wool and flannel blankets and a down comforter. I didn’t bother taking the temp again, but I know it climbed. I lost all track of time. Tyler was in the basement playing a computer game. Chris was gone. All the lights in the house were out and I spiraled around inside the vortex of my subconscious where I apparently think my job is to stand at the center of a circle of 400 pound naked people—they with their back ends facing me—me with a stack of dinner plates. I have no idea how long I spent loading their ass cracks with dinner plates, but when it was finally over the heat coming off of my head radiated a good foot away from me.

November 14th, 2006

I should be knitting. Usually by this time of year I have some kind of a hand-work project going, something small that I can tuck into my messenger bag for those rare but appreciated moments when my hands are both free and itchy for progress. I miss the feeling of wool sliding between my fingers, the sharp poke of the needle denting the pads (I hold them all wrong, all wrong I tell you).

I miss letting my thoughts unravel and seeing how my state of mind affects the stitches, watching my tension show its pinched face in my ruined guage in an instant. I don’t even mind tearing it out and sitting with my breathing for a little bit until I feel my shoulders drop back down away from my ears, my forehead smooth out, my lips turn up, the muscles in my body tingle. It’s good to pick it back up and start fresh with a quiet(er) mind.

I would like to remember to approach the other tensions in my life this way, rather than all the talktalktalking about it, the explaining, analyzing, second-guessing, wise-assing, bad jujuing that I tend to do when life happens. I would like to have a better awareness of my internal guage when it’s getting all fucked up. How great would it be to have something to hold in my hands, something that could show me (outside of me and away from my bullshit filter) that I’m headed for the ward. Before I’m apoplectic and foaming at the mouth.

My friend Cheril asked to borrow a couple of my knitting books and it made the ache resonate all the way down to my overtired, eight-to-five toes. Maybe I’ll start a pair of socks after the holidays, I haven’t made socks in years. Shall we do a January NaSoKniMo? Anyone?

The garden isn’t finished, I never did order that manure, and it’s rained so bloody much on my days off this past month and a half that I feel like I run out and scramble to do one little task and have to run back in for cover, sneezing and coughing all the way. We still have massive piles of sopping wet leaves all over the yard, and down by the road we still haven’t even raked. The perennial bed is in dire need of a shave and a haircut. Brr. It’s cold out there.

I’d rather sit inside with my laptop and a cup of tea, or a good book and a cup of tea, or a good movie and a glass of wine. I’m ready for winter to come on full-bore with slippery roads and slushy stains all over the floors so I can just abandon all hope of accomplishing the garden work on my list for this year and start making plans for 2007. It looks like an improvement from here.

November 13th, 2006

I found the ultimate distraction to fuel my procrastination: Jer’s Novel Writer for the Mac. Ooooh, I’m happy, happy. I spent part of last night copying and pasting every bit of Henry into a single document, then printed it out to figure out flow and relevance. Then I did the same thing with everything else. But I got so pissed off at Word because there’s no clean way to deal with notes and ideas without having to have a separate document.

Jer’s Novel Writer provides margin notes! And structure via outline, and sections, and chapters and whatever other restrictive elements you can think up! Oh my! Oh, and a database to keep track of all the fuzzy details that go in one ear and out the other and then make you have to read back through 100 pages of cack to find that one little thing about the school bus driver who has a problem with flatulence on Monday mornings that you have to refer to on page 101 or the whole damned story falls apart.

So I downloaded the freeware (for now while it’s still in beta) and now I’m trying to organize the behemoth file. I can see that this software will be fantastic to work in when I start from scratch, and that once I get it all organized, moving forward is going to be like coasting. I’ll get to just focus on spewing, get my notes out of the body of the text in ALLCAPS, amen, and have all of my distracting thoughts easily accessible in one neat document. Sigh.

Sometimes it’s good to procrastinate.

ETA: The fatal flaw in my plan is the fact that I do 80% of my writing on a ThinkPad Laptop. Boo hiss. I should have learned my lesson about listening to Chris and what he thinks I should do when I bought the grey Ecco shoes with red stripes instead of the ones I wanted (red on red). He convinced me (or I pretended to be convinced) that I should get a tower and a cinema display. I really wanted the laptop. We’re still paying off the system three years later.