little big follows my ántonia

Just finished reading Willa Cather's My Ántonia. A wonderful story. Here is a subject that held little intrinsic interest for me: Nebraska pioneers. But there I was, enchanted by the characters and the landscape. I love her strong female characters. I love that she wrote this in a male voice. Some particularly lovely quotes:

Grandfather's prayers were often very interesting...Because he talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not worn dull from constant use.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early races.

Prayers said by good people are always good prayers.

A bottomless pile of good books is my definition of security and optimism. I started the next book in the stack, Little Big.

I'm not 50 pages in and I have such a crush on this book. In addition to the gorgeous prose, the text layout (see left) has me beguiled.* The small illustrated pull quotes (for lack of a better description) are utterly delightful. Form and function beautifully meshed. I gush shamelessly.

The main character at the beginning of the story is named Smoky. Which speaks to his invisibility, his anonymity. The woman he loves is called Daily Alice. She is six-feet tall and lives in place not seen on maps: Edgewood. This is her morning prayer:

O great wide beautiful wonderful World
With the wonderful waters around you curled
And the beautiful grass upon your breast
O World you are beautifully dressed.

Lastly, for today, a final quote from John Crowley's Little Big:

The gargoyle faucet coughed phthisically, and deep within the house the plumbing held conference before allowing her some hot water.

The simplest definition of the mystery word phthisic is asthmatic. It is pronounced TIZ-ik, or 'tis ick, if that helps mnemonically. It seems like every page holds gems like this. I've fallen in love with a book on the first date.

* I happened upon a pdf text-only version of the book online. The whole thing. I'm not going to argue the merits of open source or whatnot, though I sympathize in both directions. But it's just the text and what a loss. The perfume and grit of the book is sanitized and the magic stripped away in Courier 10pt type.

new technology crab

Twitter sucks up the "real" blog writing.
Facebook sucks up the personal emails.

I miss that shit.

Feel like a tech-loving luddite. An oxymoron if there ever was one.

And someone get those damn kids off my lawn.

vortex

Ach. I finally re-amped up my Google Reader after losing the original list in an email change...had a peaceful period of ignorance-filled light reading there...and now I'm whorling (yes, I verbified it) into a high-calorie, full-fat maelstrom of TED, boing-boing, fail, cake wrecks, make and all the words of my favorite bloggers, famous and infamous.

My head overfloweth.

DIY ends needing to be tied up. Post DIY detritus still clinging to every room of the house. A protest with my local property tax board looming. My project lists copulating (fertile little fuckers are they). The delightful anticipation of my son and a dear friend coming to visit...must clear a space.

Haven't seen any of the award-nominated movies. Cinematic mouth-breather that I've become. Want to. Feel compelled to see Milk but the time, man, where do I find the time?

And the grocery shopping! The uninspired meal plan! I am loathe. But daylight's burning and there's urgency on every horizontal surface. Fuck, fuck, fuck, where's the housekeeper cook chauffeur accountant gardener personal shopper when you need her? And why is the call to write loudest when everything else is screaming? Don't answer that.

Symptomatic of the State of Chaos I've relocated to: lost my tenant's rent check while walking in the tunnels this past week. Her first rent check. Out of my back pocket (where checks NEVER live). Freaked me the fuck out. Not the potential $35 stop payment fee, just the fact that I would do something so uncharacteristically careless. Good ending, though. Cynical as I sound, I think most people are honest. I mean in a 60/40 sense. Still good odds of getting fucked over but erring on the side of optimism. Someone DID find my check/deposit slip and turned it in to security at one of the corporations that anchor the tunnel. All is saved.

The odd side note: every security person I ended up talking to in the rescue effort reacted to my relief with a bit o' ol' time religion. "God is great." "Have a blessed day." And the weirdest, upon stating that I was pleased that there were still honest people in this big city, "well, honey, we all worship the same God." WTholyF? Is that a sensible rejoinder? How does one extrapolate to universal theism by the return of a lost item? But I'm not going to argue with the person holding my check ransom. PTL and pass the negotiable instrument.

premature preview

I don't usually review a book when I'm only 10 pages in...but I picked up In the City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer (recommended by my dear and fabulous little sister) and couldn't resist.

The main character gives this description of his friend Rose:

Drop-dead freshly fucked gorgeous.

Maybe a book shouldn't be judged by a single phrase but man, this does bode well.

five years

I overheard my coworkers begin their morning chatter and reached for my headphones just as one of them exclaimed, I haven't read a book in ages. The other responded, It's been five years since I read a book!

A moment of brain-recoiling horror. I can't imagine not reading books. All the time. Sometimes several at a time. And real books, fucking snob that I am. Books that have vocabulary and plot. Books that challenge my viewpoint and pull me into another world.

But, I thought (trying to regain my equilibrium) there are things that I haven't done in five years that might horrify someone else. Let me think. Five years since my last manicure? Okay. Maybe something more substantial...five years since I went to a concert?...since I've worn heels and pantyhose? Okay, that isn't really substantial. Five years since I danced? That actually is a tragedy...except I can't dance. Five years since I've bought a car...since I've gone hiking or camping (I'm stifling my applause). Five years since I've ridden a bicycle. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Five years since I've flown a kite or gone skiing or used differential calculus.

Now I'm exhausted. But none of these things seems as critical, or mutually exclusive to giving your brain regular stimulation. Of course, we always see as most important the things we like and are good at...

Aw, bullshit: people, your brains are going to mush and you need to feed them something decent. Not the Weekly World News. Not romance novels. Or not just the Weekly World News and romance novels.