Over a year ago, I stumbled on Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Circle of Quiet” in the basement of a used bookstore in Chicago. It’s something of a journal, and it appealed to me because sometimes, I don’t want story. I just want a person who will talk to me, say good and interesting things, make me think and feel alive.

It shouldn’t surprise that a lovely story teller has many other wonderful thoughts, about writing, about growth, about selfhood, about love. And I think the most moving part is that for everything I underline, thinking “She is so wise,” there is another that I underline, thinking “Wow, I have that flaw, too.” She’s honest, accessible, and lives with insight and a sense of humor. What’s not to love?

In lieu of underlining the crap out of my copy, I’m going to keep some of my favorite bits here. I fully intend to add more as I keep reading, and who knows, maybe I’ll even do it.

The moment that humility becomes self-conscious, it becomes hubris. One cannot be humble and aware of oneself at the same time. Therefore, the act of creating–painting a picture, singing a song, writing a story–is a humble act? This was a new thought to me. Humility is throwing oneself away in complete concentration on something or someone else.

∞

If I thought I had to say it better than anybody else, I’d never start. Better or worse is immaterial. The thing is that it has to be said, by me. We each have to say it, to say it in our own way. Not of our own will, but as it comes out through us. Good or bad, great or little: that isn’t what human creation is about. It is that we have to try.

∞

Mostly, no matter how inadequate my playing, the music is all that matters: I am outside time, outside self, in play, in joy. When we can play with the unself-conscious concentration of a child, this is: art: prayer: love.

This is the title track of The Low Anthem’s latest album, and it’s fast becoming my morning hymn, my yoga music, my it’s-dark-outside transition into the waking, living world. A trio of acoustic guitar, vintage pump organ, and clarinet (and probably some other instruments as you go along), with beautiful vocal harmonies, their music feels folksy and reverent and modern. I like them very much.

Today I found this video, a little outdoor recording of “To the Ghosts Who Write History Books.” I like them as much raw as in studio (maybe more). Lyrics to both below.

Charlie Darwin

Set the sails I feel the winds a’stirring
Toward the bright horizon set the way
Cast your reckless dreams upon our Mayflower
Haven from the world and her decay

And who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin
Fighting for a system built to fail
Spooning water from their broken vessels
As far as I can see there is no land

Oh my god, the waters all around us
Oh my god, it’s all around

And who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin
The lords of war just profit from decay
And trade their children’s promise for the jingle
The way we trade our hard earned time for pay

Oh my god, the waters cold and shapeless
Oh my god, it’s all around
Oh my god, life is cold and formless
Oh my god, it’s all around

To the Ghosts Who Write History Books

To them ghosts that write history books
To them ghosts that write songs
Everyone asks would you write one about me

To them ghosts in the train yard
All them ghosts in my drink
Your money’s no good here just write one about me

And when you go, where the winds are strong
When you go where flowers bend
Please take along all the best of my luck and come back unchanged
Your demons all tamed
Your flowers uncut

And when you go where the winds are strong
Where soldiers carve their stones
Please take along all the best of my luck and come back unchanged
Your demons all tamed
Your flowers uncut

To them ghosts that write history books
To them ghosts that write songs
Everyone asks would you write one about me

To them ghosts in the train yard
All them ghosts in my drink
Your money’s no good here just write one about me

Found sentence:

Other items which are inconvenient for left-handers include tin-openers, potato peelers, corkscrews, rulers, number keys on keyboards, watches, chequebooks, boomerangs, measuring cups and pencil sharpeners.

Phil Mickelson’s a rightie who swings left. I knew a guy in high school who trained his hands to write equally well. And, less impressively, I’ve learned to skip down steps on the opposite lead foot.

I suppose we’re meant to spend our energies on other obstacles. After all, the un- and re-learning means nothing to our hands and feet and, if anything, just slows us down. But there’s something of determination, and patience, and hope in re-routing things so tiny. Change is possible!

Today I painted a bedroom for my parents, blue, the last room of the house to make the switch to color. My back is sore from the work and the drive, but I couldn’t be happier. In high school, when things were really bad, Mom swore I’d like (or “stop hating” ) her when I grew up, and of course she was right. I’ve never had so much appreciation for them, both as parents and as people. Quirky and bickery? God yes. But also generous, hard-working, intelligent, and genuinely interested (and interesting). Everything and everyone means more in context, and I feel so lucky that they are mine.

Fifteen years ago today a doctor told me I’d be dead of a brain tumor. It’s in there but it’s not growing, and look at me here today. Sons of bitches! Who are they to tell you when you’re gonna die? We don’t know, nobody knows. I could go home and choke to death on a Twinkie! So we smoke and drink vodka and do everything they tell us we’re not supposed to do because we’re all gonna die anyway. Fifteen years! I showed them! Everybody dies.

Sometimes there are dry spells or soggy flood spells, and sometimes balanced sunniness ensues. I’m pleased to be in a particularly sunny phase for reasons that include, but are not limited to:

• The Wicker Park Choral Singers (rehearsals start tomorrow)
• A big new work gig (which will pay for glasses, yoga, and then some)
• UWP Foreign Film Festival
• Re-discovering open mic at The Nook
• Unitarian Universalism (I just dig it)
• Vegetarianism (I feel good)
• Kroll’s Corn Maze and fall in general
• Upcoming fall activities (including a birthday party, Paint the Town, hiking Starved Rock, Homecoming, and possibly catching David Sedaris and Ani DiFranco – separately)

Llama watching over her kingdom

Corny corn pose.

Baby goat!

That is all. I hope this finds you all well as we head into fall. May I ask, what things are seasoning your season?

I finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road on Monday, and my initial impressions are good. It follows a father and son for a portion (a few months? a year?) of their journey in some sort of post-apocalyptic America.

The dialogue is short and the landscape ashen and endless, and I’m impressed that he could keep that going without becoming tedious; it always felt vivid.

This may not be the best piece of fiction ever written, and it did come up a little dry/disappointing in the “why” and “how” departments (McCarthy doesn’t tell us what happened, and that’s okay, except I’m not convinced he ever decided himself).

But this book reads unlike anything else I’ve read, and I really enjoyed it. Sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Finished Saint Joan just in time for book club tonight. A few thoughts:

Shaw’s introduction lays out [among other things, not all flattering to the author] a pretty feminist ideology, but as ReaderAnn pointed out, “Because God told me to” isn’t really agency, and rejecting “woman things” to live like a man hardly makes her a feminist role model by today’s standards. But for the 1920s, this would have actually been fairly forward-thinking. It’s interesting to see how far we’ve progressed since then, how much more complexity we can handle on the subject.

Actually, the play’s text has a lot more to say about everyone around Joan–feudal bigwigs, church bigwigs, military–than it does about the girl herself, and to be honest, they’re a lot more interesting. Shaw goes as far as he can from romanticizing Joan, instead painting her as so narrowly driven, so simple minded, and so often obtuse, that she’s hard to relate to at all.

But I admit I found that simplicity compelling. Shaw paints a world of shifting power and priorities: Feudalism vs. nationalism and Catholicism vs. direct-line-to-God, plus leaders who lack leadership and soldiers whose motives have little to do with victory.

So in all that muck, I can totally see the appeal of someone who comes in, proclaims “This is black, this is white, and this is God’s plan. Let’s go.” It’s SO easy to get behind, because it frees you from any responsibility or complex thoughts- falling in line is effortless, especially with friggin’ Joan of Arc out there leading the way.

But of course, it’s completely dangerous. The rigid black/white, good/evil worldview is what makes me so uncomfortable with some forms (certainly not all) of organized religion. That’s not how the world really is, but people identify so strongly with these frameworks that they will fight to the death (their own or others’) to hold onto them. And don’t all fundamentalists believe they are doing the right and good thing?

So where does that put Joan? I like her, I really do, and she is easy to romanticize because she lived such a long time ago, but that doesn’t make her any less unsettling.

First edition cover, 1940

Last week, I finished reading Carson McCullers’ “The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.” It’s the sort of book that you might pore through, or you might lose steam, and which of those happens probably has more to do with the reader than the book.

“The Heart” is driven by characters, and McCullers’ are rich, memorable, and tantalizingly underplayed. She paints a beautiful, bleak landscape of the interior life and how we look out from our “inside room” and see (or don’t see) the people looking out from theirs.

This is a beautiful and bleak story- wonderful for readers who enjoy narratives shaped by character rather than plot. McCullers’ insight into human thought and ambition is brilliant, and all the more so because it is delivered so subtly.

Her writing is wonderful and well-crafted, but so clean and so subtle to draw no attention to itself; I soaked it up like the I-miss-lit-class sponge that I am. (And really, it’s the sort of book you want to read in class, or with your awesome-nerdy book club, because there is so much going on underneath the surface.)

I don’t often re-read books, but this is one that I’m sure I’ll come back to. Extra bonus/intrigue: This was McCullers’ first novel; she was 23 when it was published.

Last week I fell in love with a new place (or fell in love anew with an old place), which is Portland, OR. And in May, I learned a new word, which is “portage,” which is to carry a boat (in this case, canoe) across land for a bit. Both are fun, one is muddy, and the other is actual the subject of this post.

S & I traveled to the Pacific Northwest because I dig it and she suspected she might. She did, I did, we did, and it was good. Bookended by a friendly airport (I love Milwaukee’s post-security “Recombobulation Area”), the following experiences brought particular joy last week:

Hostelling. We stayed at Seattle’s Green Tortoise Hostel, which is literally a block from Pike’s Market. There’s nothing cooler than a communal morning kitchen full of eggs, pancake batter, and sizzling cast iron, especially watching how different nationalities use the same simple ingredients. (Our Taiwanese roommates: “What do you call this that you are making?” “Pancakes.” “Ohhh… they are delicious!”)

Underground. Historic Seattle had an epic battle with waste disposal followed by an almost comedically unfortunate downtown fire. The whole city was rebuilt 12 feet higher, but the underground sidewalks and original 1st floors (now basements) are open for tours. Dark, dusty, fascinating, awesome tours.

Low tide. Summer solstice means lowest tide of the year, so we met up with Charlie and his girlfriend Heather to explore what’s normally underwater. Heather grew up in the area and pointed out so many cool things: jellyfish, barnacles, crabs, starfish, crazy bulbed kelp, squirting geoduck clams, and even salmon berries. It was the perfect combination of nature and people–and wonderful people, to boot.

—— (Amtrak to Portland. Choo choo!) ——

Food, Inc., etc. Our introduction to Portland was a kickass, healthy, tasty dinner followed by a viewing of Food, Inc. Nothing in the film surprised either of us, and considering everyone always assumes we are anyway, we decided it was time to actually become vegetarians. It’s official. Other food highlights included Ginny’s cooking (see below), fresh cherries, a delightful breakfast at St. Honore Boulangerie, the Portland Farmers’ Market, and the North American Organic Brewer’s Festival. Three cheers for organic brewskies!

Ginny and chickens. My close friend from high school introduced us to her lovely world of fresh food and fine company. First grilling and singing in a backyard shared with chickens, a greenhouse, garden beds, and a bee hut. Later playing Settlers of Catan with more wonderful people. Both evenings were dressed generously with wine, smiles, and good vibes. Probably my favorite part. I wish I had pictures.

Flowers. Portland is the home of the International Rose Test Garden. There are hundreds of varieties in one beautiful garden. Not much I can say: it was just really, really pretty.

Strangers! After the ubiquity of recycling containers, my final and possibly favorite thing about Portland is the openness and friendliness between strangers. People just make conversation. They comment on whatever is happening, or tell you they like your scarf. If they ask you to sign a petition and learn you’re not local, they say “Cool! Where are you from? Are you having a good time?” Our whole visit was a process of relaxing and learning to let our guard down. It just felt good.

In conclusion, here is a nice picture of Shannon at the Portland Farmers’ Market.