Wednesday, April 30, 2014

APR - The Casual Vacancy

April review for the Eclectic Reader's Book Challenge 2014: The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling, 2012. [Cozy Mystery category]
I'll admit, in retrospect, that this book isn't exactly the "cozy mystery" type, as such. I think the death in the first pages kept my hope up for longer, because I desperately wanted to read this book and thought it might fit, but I'm going to write this review anyway. Because this is my thing and I can make or break the rules. Right? Anyway, The Casual Vacancy by the in/famous Joanne Kathleen Rowling was a substantial investment and I can say that I believe it paid off. Admittedly, I didn't get what I got in for, but I reveled in the treasure trove of characters and the obsessively detailed description--two things that turned many a reader off this book--as well as dorkily enjoying the writing style shift as circumstances did. For those who have not read this book, it is the story of a "casual vacancy," defined at the beginning of the book as a seat that is vacated during the term of a council by accident. The "casual vacancy" in The Casual Vacancy is the death of one Mr. Barry Fairbrother, who has a seat on the Parish Council of Pagford, UK. Pagford is a small town, one where everyone knows everyone's business, as becomes increasingly apparent with every turn of every page. There are far too many characters for me to go into detail about every one, so from here on out I think I will assume readers have at least Wikipedia'd the names for brevity's sake.
The death of Barry Fairbrother happens at the beginning. This is the first odd-mystery thing that struck me. Reading any synopsis or description of the book, I knew that Fairbrother's death would be the impetus for pretty much every single action in the rest of the 500+ pages, but what struck me was how intensely little time was paid to the event or its cause. This death gets the wheel in motion, but not in a gotta-find-the-bad-guy-and-vindicate-stuff kind of way. It really turns the concept of mystery on its head--even though it becomes abundantly clear later on that this is the least of all the mysterious things that happen here. The other conceptual turn that I noticed was the very idea of mystery itself. In a standard mystery novel, there is one protagonist, the detective, who acts as a sort of portal for the reader, a way for us to get all the information we need, but only at the speed with which the detective accesses it. In the case of Vacancy, we, as readers and sidekicks to the omnipotent and omnipresent narrator, know all sorts of things that the characters do not know. And we get to watch those characters not know, as we pinball between families and storylines and heartaches to paint the intricate and somehow still muddled sort of society that makes up Pagford/The Fields/Yarvil and the desires and iterations involved.
In the beginning as well, there seems a sort of division of sorts, each chapter having its own character or storytelling purpose, as we are introduced to the players. Divided into seven parts, each featuring a passage from Charles Arnold-Baker's book Local Council Administration, this book has an interesting sense of itself and the way in which it gives voice to each member. Toward the end of the novel, as characters and desires get all the more mixed, so do the chapters and the perspectives, sometimes spending as little as a paragraph on one person before jetting off to another one. I liked the way this melding of disparate characters' narration echoed how intertwined they had all become as a result of this Parish Council election business.It reminded me of the little things I love to read for in tricky stories like this, the verbiage and the construction of each sentence, each person, each feeling. Rowling generally does a pretty good job of this (although sometimes I can't help but laugh and shake my head at the damn "lion in Harry's chest" image representing his desire to kiss Ginny....scratch that, I always laugh...) and I appreciate books that can trap me in the words like that.
One (rather negative, it pains me to say) review I read of this book made a note that they read this book because how could they say J.K. Rowling is one of their favorite authors with only having read a single series/world undertaken by said author? And I wholeheartedly agree. I am a loyal and avid reader, collecting an author's works like mementos, and I was excited to see things I loved about Rowling's style shine through in Vacancy. It is the quintessential test-of-mettle story, drop someone who is good at what they do into an entirely new situation and see how they fare, how they shine. While Vacancy may not have been the book I intended to read for this month's challenge, nor entirely what I expected as the next edition of J.K. Rowling-wins-the-writing-game, but I can truly say I enjoyed this book. I got sucked in, even when it was moving at its slowest, and I really recommend it.



Monday, April 28, 2014

#28/30 - 2014

I have measured out my life
in bumper stickers.
Like my dear sardonic Ezra,
there is a beautiful counting in the things I have gathered
since I was 16.
Each colorful rectangle a tangible piece
of the path I have trod.
This one from a road trip with my mother
that one from a faraway place I gave my heart to
another from a team that taught me how to be.
I have measured my life out
in bumper stickers
and they will tell my tale
the tale of a 16 year old, heady with the responsibility of a new car
and a new freedom
an intoxicating poppy trail of newness
the tale of a soon-to-be-freshman-again
drunk with the moments of homesickness and the wheels that ease that pain
the tale of an almost-broke-post-grad
still in the midst of writing
changed, to be sure, from that heady girl with too many borrowed sweatshirts
and a back seat full of heart break
but adding, nonetheless

So how should I presume?

Sunday, April 27, 2014

#27/30 - 2014

crock pot jambalaya

there are so many metaphors
built into my six-quart crock pot.
So many meanings, of family, of future, of home and of goodness,
that sometimes I am overwhelmed with its bigness
and feel quite small in comparison.
Right now, I am just me
I may have another mouth or two to share a meal
on days when our Free is the same
but as a rule
I am still I.
But still I love to cook for many.
I love the whispers of future moments
that are crouching inside
--not to mention the prospect of not cooking for a few more days,
as I am nearly 23, and still fall victim to sloth
though my body is still lithe and full.
It is also a sort of magic,
to fold away ingredients and
come back later to see the sum
of its parts.
A visceral sort of secrecy that I cannot hope to understand
but can only take advantage of.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

#26/30 - 2014

[rough draft, it's about my new car that I got this weekend...]

new

there is a spot here
on this steering wheel
that my thumb
fits.
Worn away by another hand, yet
somehow it still fits my own
it reassures me that i've made
the right choice
the responsible decision
the adult step.
It fits.
It is a new thing I am embarking upon here
and even the small comfort
of a thumb-shaped space
waiting
is enough to reassure me

Friday, April 25, 2014

#25/30 - 2014

I've been bad about 30/30 this year.
Letting days slip by
without being marked
like truanting kids
from the local high school.
Much as I try
to post sentries and
have sign-in stations
sometimes the hours march on
ahead
and I stand whirling,
trying to figure out
what I hold in my hands
if not Time.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

#24/30 - 2014

Let's play pretend

My favorite name today
is Zygmunt S. Derewenda.
My mouth feels funny
around it
almost insists
on an accent
a different shape
for a different tetris of
letters
and with that accent
my mind runs unbidden to
a job, a hobby, a three legged cat,
a favorite bookstore and a proclivity for bow-ties
and I cannot stem the tide
I'm paid to do this
every day
so let's play
pretend

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

#22/30 - 2014

[I always seem to get sick during 30/30, that's funny]

waking softly
to a haze of outside noise
the Holy Spirit made me
drunk
with no alcohol.

There was no tinge of
disbelief
in that voice
no draught of skepticism
that has proved the soma of our generation
but pure
unadulterated
belief.
I am tempted
as always
to disregard such True Faith
as blind and silly
but I cannot help but wonder
in my sleepy haze
what it would feel like

Monday, April 21, 2014

#21/30 - 2014

Going home sick
is the worst.
There is a looong while of
second-guessing
of your throat doesn't scratch
or you don't need to blow your nose.
Mind railing against body
telling yourself you're not weak
but all that disappears
melts away
when your head hits your own pillow

Sunday, April 20, 2014

#20/30 - 2014

Derby Church

Every Sunday morning, I go
to a different kind of church.
One with kneepads to help when you
lose your feet
and mouthguards
to protect your precious words
the questions, the newness.

My derby church is full of
women. Ladies plucked from different lives
and mixed together in the most perfect
patchwork
imaginable. I've never had a close friend
with two kids and a commuter car
I've never had a close friend
with two knee braces and more speed than a drag racer
I've never had a close friend
who bares themselves
muscle and mind
for the sole connecting factor
of the wheels on our feet.

So thank you, derby church.
Thank you for being
a different kind
of kind
thank you for teaching me
about muscles I hadn't known
and skills I hadn't found
and women I hadn't dreamed of

Last night I went to sleep with a tickle in my throat
and a worry in my heart
praying I would not wake too sick to lace up
If I missed practice, it would be a week and a half before my next confession
and I'm realizing
I'm starting to count on it.

Published on the Ann Arbor Derby Dimes blog here.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

#19/30 - 2014

ah the blank page
the empty slate
egging you on
begging you to
be somebody
to catch up
Its lack of defining marks
often makes the eyes slide over
and forget
not giving what is owed
promising, promising you'll sit down tomorrow
when the task seems less overwhelming

Thursday, April 17, 2014

#17/30 - 2014

I like to take the stairs to the new office.
One of the two doors to get into the stairwell is
locked, a moment of brief annoyance
that They want us behind desks all day
but won't allow that smallest bit of exercise.
But
the other door pushed cleanly
and all was forgiven.
well...not all...

As I mount the floors, giving due glance
to each exit as I pass,
I notice a sort of sad little rectangle
tiny red light gloomily blinking
a card reader of days gone by
still sadly lighting up
though its purpose is all but moot
--we weren't even told about them when we moved in

I like to think about what these readers could've been
what secrets they could've held
like a mad scientist lab hiding in plain sight
on the second floor of a nondescript office building
radioactive subjects and
secret formulas
whispering at the ignorance of every poor soul who walks by
unawares.

And then I realize
I've been standing stock still staring
at this little light
for a good ten minutes
and I'm already late for work.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

#13/30 - 2014

Photography Exhibition

It feels strange, disconcerting,
seeing yourself on the walls.
Not yourself, per se; you are not the focus
of the little framed lives laid against brick.
But yourself as parts of your soul
beautiful little horcruxes (sans soul-mutilating murder).
I manage to detach
as I hang and crimp and straighten
but as soon as I step back
breath in the stark reality of my Self on display
it comes rushing back
that nakedness
filling the void left by the cessation of manual fiddling
water surging through a breach in the hull
threatening weak knees and
should my matchstick defenses fall.
This is a big step
a point of no return
and I can't promise I won't crumble some night
but my legs are strong enough now, I think
to withstand.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

#12/30 - 2014

[this poem comes on the heels of watching one of my very best friends read part of her senior thesis on saturday. I tried for third person, as this friend loves it so and I am not the best at it.]

Watching her up there behind the podium
only tall enough, even in heels, to peek over,
the school crest on its front seemingly
emblazoned on her own chest.

Her very own

The recent postgrad swells with watching.
The feeling that grips her heart is hard to name,
a vichyssoise of mama lion pride and quiet wishful rewriting
tempered enough to break
mingling for dominance as a zebra's stripes do in the mind
Is it black with white
or white with black?

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

#9/30 - 2014

Can you imagine anything so terrible.
Seeing but not knowing
observing but not recognizing

Who was that man on the bridge...

There is a pain there
behind a wall of forced blankness
a name on the tip of the tongue
that keeps moving forward no matter
the speed with which you chase

I knew him...

There is a pain there
a sliver forced into that ice cold wall
with every still breath
the crack expands
tickling
maybe if you keep quiet
you can reach it

But I KNEW him...

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

#8/30 - 2014

[Tentative title: Sansa(?)]

Who is to say that the mask of femininity
isn't as strong
or as well-made
as the one that breaks the patriarchy

Monday, April 7, 2014

#7/30 - 2014

Ode to a Hydromassage

Seven minutes in heaven used to mean something very, very different.
I lay on the bed, hearkening back to a time
when boys were dark, mysterious creatures
who had to be coerced into dark, mysterious places like the hall closet--never big enough--
by means of a silly bottle game
the result of which was generally sitting blushing but stonefaced
in opposite corners of the dark

But now my seven minutes in heaven comes
at the end of a long workout
seven minutes of myself
seven minutes of alone
seven minutes of eyes closed, muscles loosened, mind placid
The Adult World spins me around like an empty soda bottle at the will of a 14-year-old
trying his damnedest to make it land on Elizabeth
--the bottle has no say in the matter.

Don't get me wrong,
I still love my seven minutes in the dark mystery of two bodies
but I've learned to cherish
my seven minutes in the dark pleasantry
of one.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

#6/30 - 2014

sounds

Apparently
I squeak like an old woman when I fall.
Or even when I think I'm going to fall.
Skates have become a precarious rolling barrier
between me and terra firma
not quite the extension of my feet
that I one day hope they'll be.

I didn't know my body made that sound before
so many hits to my center of gravity must've
shaken it loose from me
made me Miss Marple before my time

Saturday, April 5, 2014

#5/30 - 2014

Bout Day

My very first.
I love these moments.
The calm before the storm, the peek behind the curtain, the x-ray under the skin
I love to see the bones knitted together to become a whole person
a floor at once a jumble of measurements and lines and ropes
that snaps into entirety with one last smoothing of tape

I've been up since 6
and dressed since 8
but my ride didn't get here til 3
I have my league shirt
and my sister's number on my face
and a foolish grin that will not be swallowed
I go where I am directed
bent to the whims of Aimless
excitement mounting until that first call
"Ladies and gentlemennnnn..."

My fingers curl around my badge
STAFF proclaimed in big black important letters above the league logo
and I feel like I am a part of it.
I am a part of it.

I watch skaters gear up and show them where the roller-skate sugar cookies are
I bring bottles of water to the announcers and hawk some hoo-rags
but my elation takes flight as I settle down to watch the first jam.
Bodies that once looked to me like no more than a tangle of limbs and elbow pads
now focus into a formation, their movements purposeful and deft
I scream for my jammer with the rest of the crowd
and thank god that I've read the rules

Friday, April 4, 2014

#4/30 - 2014

Two cups of tea

One in the morning
to prop up eyelids
after too many hours of reading in the half-light
until the half-light slipped outside

One in the afternoon
to remind the stomach
it is not nap time quite yet

watching closely as the first shift of the teabag
sends curlicues of flavor swirling
through the hot water

Thursday, April 3, 2014

#3/30 - 2014

[Today's poem brought to you by this image.]

Princess I am not 

The Princess and the Pea
was one of my favorite stories
as a girl.
I wanted to prove
to someone
that I was not the one who was not bothered,
the chill one, placated.
But I was.
free-spirit private school til fourteen,
my eaglet's wings compressed in on themselves
when confronted with the terror that is high school.
No longer did I breathe Devil's advocate
or correct my father's spelling--
No longer was I sure.

That story has sat quietly, as I did,
in the back of my mind
for years.
But
I now realize, I am no longer the placated one
the girl who didn't raise her hand to disagree.
Now I pass sleepless nights
because I can feel something far beneath me
a pea
a thought
a word
I try to find that missing...something
I slurp my soup and revel in the sound
I fall small and kiss every bruise
I bury my nose in a thousand thousand books
praying for a pea wedged between the pages
I learn to speak up
dust off those vocal cords with a stiff brush made of
horsehair and valid opinions
Misguided, sometimes, maybe,
but valid all the same
because I feel them
and I read and I read and I read
and feel

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

#2/30 - 2014

[found this quote today and it set me off. I'm not sure if I want it to end here, though, I might need another stanza]

a writer is a world trapped in a person. --Victor Hugo

can you imagine--
a whole world
fills you to bursting, lifts the back of your throat
as if your body means to vomit
world vomit
beautiful, intricate, universal bile
that cannot stay inside one moment longer.

a writer is a world trapped in a person, he says,
and I can see that.
I can also see the days where that world is asleep
and that person despairs because she feels so
indelibly empty

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

#1/30 - 2014

[#1/30 2014: Write a beginning poem. It's cheesy and it's rife with cliches and almost-rhyme scheme, but hey. It's done.]

Fresh Meat

This year is to be the year of new things,
I can feel it.
But more than that, I can
do it.
For the first time
in a long time,
I have followed through--
For the first time
in a long time
I've started something completely new.

I haven't worn roller skates since I was maybe eleven,
elbows dragged on carpet walls
as I tried to stop with grace
and no muscle.

I never quite knew how to use them--
my wheeled feet, I mean.
Muscles too weak to keep them in any one direction at a time
joints not forgiving enough to allow for every direction at once,
balanced as precarious as a gawky middle school giraffe
with just as many knobby knees.

My brother cracked his skull on that sparkly roller rink floor once.
I remember going to the hospital
and following my rock to the bathroom--
Dad couldn't handle punctures in his young one's skin.
My brother, always the injured,
a constant state to which I played the sarcastic
albeit meek, and ultimately less intrepid counterpart
My always-broken brother took the fall enough for us both.

But here I am
padded to the gills
and feeling just as helpless.
I feel my legs give out and a single instant of pure fear
when a hand comes out and grasps my own
If ever I thought I couldn't begin again
and needed a stubborn push
it was in that moment.
But I held Slam's hand for the lifeline that it was
and pushed off once more. 

I can do this.