Another Long List Of Things Not To Do

1. Wear brand-new shoes to a book launch. My pointe shoes from the last year of high school were less painful.

2. Thanks to all who offered up their music suggestions. I’ve made a list and am going to try out Last.fm to see what’s going to stick. I’ve already found one record that I am enjoying very much from listening to concerts on All Songs Considered: Nada Surf‘s Lucky. It’s most excellent. This is obviously a GOOD point, not a BAD point.

3. Watch the same, truly lame, film I watched last night. I’m not going to blather on about all that was wrong with it, except to say that it’s a movie with parts based in Ireland, with characters who are Irish, and were there no actual Irish actors available? Only American actors with really bad accents, and one Scottish guy who had the worst accent of them all. It’s as if he didn’t even try. Someone said, “grand” and I threw up a little in my mouth. But whatever. The script contained lines like the following:

Person A: Where are all the good men then?

Person B: With all the wrong women.

Fast forward to a scene where Person B meets a handsome, interesting fellow and the conversation goes as such:

Person B: Where have you been all my life (seriously?)

Person C: With all the wrong women.

Gack.

4. Say goodbyes after having two glasses of wine and having no feeling in their feet. You’ll really, really wish you could remember what you said.

5. Wake up slightly tired and kind of hungover and watch far, far too much Tom Green TV. If I were, ahem, younger, I might even consider making a ridiculous video and trying to get his RV to come to our cottage. But I am too old for that stuff. Plus, my RRHB would mock me mercilessly. As would many other people I know.

6. Leave your hand-written edits on your desk for your slightly troubled cat to rip to shreds with her teeth. Having the m/s open on the desk also leaves room for her to barf up a hairball or two, and then get her cat litter everywhere. It’s not pretty. She needs constant management. Ah, pets.

7. Forget one of your best friend’s birthday for the, um, third year in a row. Luckily, I have written myself a giant note and pasted in on the monitor so I have to look at it everyday.

8. Have a sore throat and have no throat tea. Everyone (coworkers, RRHB) is sick around me, which means it’s just a matter of time. I feel decidedly under the weather today, my throat is killing me and I’m not happy about it. Oh, and the farking TTC went on strike.

Perhaps it’s not such a long list.

A List Of Things One Should Not Do

1. One should not drink three beers and then scream “mouse” in a crowded restaurant. It’s not that there wasn’t a mouse (there was; he scurried) but it could have upset people who would be less than thrilled about said rodent in the same place where they’re eating. Hence the hushing and talking-to by management.

2. Edit while intoxicated. It makes notation quite messy, although does inspire a feeling of acting like Carson McCullers and wanting a flask. Somehow, I think though that beer would not keep quite right in a flask.

3. Drink three beers on the night before meeting an author at the ungoshly hour of 9 AM. Also, don’t wear new shoes, trip over your purse, and then tumble into a stack of books on your desk that then falls to the floor. Because that’s not embarrassing AT ALL.

4. Wear a white shirt on a day that you’re tired. It’s just asking for trouble.

5. Ponder the fact that you’d come across not one but two people named Calvin within the space of 12 hours, note that that doesn’t even include the one whose name is tattooed on your underwear, and act truly goofy when you try to tell the story of running into all these cavalcades of Calvins. People will look at you strangely.

6. Attempt to watch PS I Love You after drinking three beers and eating nachos. Harder liquor might be required.

7. Try to read so late at night that the same paragraph feels fresh and new despite going over it at least seven times. It’s not your fault DeNiro’s Game, I promise. I am liking you very much.

8. Forget to feed your cats in the morning because your RRHB is away recording and not there to do it.

9. Buy a pair of shoes (they were on sale) that seemed to fit in the store but certainly were not comfortable by the time you got them home. Thus, ensuring the truly attractive “tube-sox” method of stretching them out so they won’t mangle your feet at the book launch tonight.

10. Forget to bring an extra post-breakfast snack to work because it means you’re starving and unable to concentrate by 11 AM. A quick trip to Noah’s solved that problem.

11. Wear brown makeup. See #4.

12. Bring an umbrella and then promptly leave it at your desk before going outside.

13. Openly mock. You’re just asking for karma to come and bite you on the ass. But sometimes it’s hard when two ad guys get into the elevator with you, obviously pumped up on their ad brilliance, and swear like truckers. How do you keep quiet in your head? How do you not smirk?

14. Imagine, blissfully, having a sandwich for dinner because it’s awesome. See #8.

15. Squish your brain so hard to try and remember the name of the documentary a friend recommended at lunch a couple weeks ago so that you almost run into oncoming traffic at Yonge and Bloor. It would be an easy question to answer in an email, but somehow, you don’t want to seem stupid or like you weren’t paying attention. Hence, the brain squishing.

16. Not fully read the emails before forwarding them along.

17. Listen to this trailer. The song, the song will get in your head for hours, days, weeks. It’s not a bad thing, but when you’re already tired, songs seem to echo in your head in ways that make you quite uncomfortable.

18. Make inane lists on your blog.

19. Drink massive amounts of licorice tea. Just trust me on that one.

20. Put your head down on your desk and try to act like you’re not hungover from the three beers and amazing conversation.

21. One thing to do: openly mock your own self yesterday when you show up for work with full-on rocker girl hair. Evidence that it is so? The 45+ dude with his own layered and longish hair wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt under his jean jacket giving you a smile at 9 PM on Landsdowne Ave last night. Party on Garth. Party on Wayne. Two words: awe and some.

Oh, and Barney? And Robin? Wha?

November (Rice Lake)

[I don’t think this one is quite done yet; still percolating]

A passing glance at the calendar
leads to hours spent flipping photos
examining the evidence of your existence

Your birthday–one of the few things I recall–
along with the smell of your cigarettes, how
you slapped my ass that one day, and your
prickly, adolescent chin.

I fell for the softness of your skin,
gentle like the lake water, Diego Luna,
Pacey, my Trip Fontaine, all the boys
of an over-active imagination.

Our time ran out like a rainstorm: quick, fierce
and uncontrollable on my part, lying in wait with no
sun to pass through.

It rains today. The same kind of rain,
thick, crisp like toast, and I crave an Export A,
Jay’s hotbox BMW, and the sour smell of your ball cap,
but the cold shoulder of my youth has passed.

Music To Write To

I am dire need of some new music to write to. Does anyone else out there need a writing soundtrack? I feel like I’ve played every song in my iTunes 100 times and I’m still coming up short. April as poetry month is totally inspiring me.

I finally tracked down the folder that had all the drafts of the poems I worked on during the one class I took with Ken Babstock, many of which were on the computer that was stolen from our house two years ago. In my insanity, I had printed many, many of them up many times, so at least I’ve got copies, and I’ve been going through them tonight. A part of me wants to post all of them, just to see which ones are more successful than others, but I’ll exercise restraint and keep going with the poem a day (I missed yesterday, so that’s why there are two posted tonight).

The air’s warm. The candles smell yummy. We ordered pizza for dinner. And I feel like my fingers could go all night. So instead of posting all of my cycle, 12 poems based on each (you guessed it) month in a year, I give you a highly illegal version of a William Carlos Williams poem that knocks me to my knees every single time I read it:

Nantucket
(William Carlos Williams 1883-1963)

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtain–
Smell of cleanliness–

Sunshine of late afternoon–
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying — And the
immaculate white bed.

February

[One for yesterday and one for today. But this one’s for Sam. She’ll appreciate it.]

The recipe called for confectioner’s sugar
Dusty, super-sweet, and melting on top of your tongue
Light as a natural laugh and a joke that’s easy to remember.

We all secretly yearn to avoid the middle of every month,
Not just this one. Would it mean more or mean less?
Days later, I wrapped my legs around you and squeezed tight.

An arrow of lipstick painted my mouth the same colour as dessert,
And I giggled. We mocked wounded hearts together; then
Missed our main course to be home and watch Law & Order.

Satiated by the addition of extra cream, I was happy,
And added a heavy, over-burdened teaspoon of Mexican vanilla,
Both uncalled for, and the dish all the better for it.

January (My Violent Heart)

The temperature dropped the day I left;
hours later I smelled cinnamon and saffron,
my nose, assaulted by warm air

(but not in a way I felt violated)

The sheets tried to hard to achieve a
balance between home and away,
and gave me large, angry hives.

(“A vacation,” he said, “would restore your health)

I took the news hard, my heart
stamped and packed down hard,
sand on a beach, snow underfoot

(the waves violated an all-inclusive order)

There’s nothing worse than a tourist
who doesn’t want to tour the ruins
of a most important relationship.

(I still avoid salt water)

I saw you, you who had been mine,
with your hand wrapped in hers,
with bow-like accuracy

(Violence against self excluded from the air fare)

Raced half-way around the world
to realise that the weather
did not improve the mood.

(Sunshine to sun visor to sunscreen)

Damn you and those intertwining
fingers that will never do
what I will forever want them to.

#29 – Unaccustomed Earth

Jhumpa Lahiri’s latest book of short stories, Unaccustomed Earth, could possibly be the best book I’ve read so far this year. Achingly beautiful prose echoes through each of the stories, and they all have such a resounding and impressive narrative voice that it’s impossible to put the book down once you’ve begun. The stories are as rich and inherently detailed as the best novels aspire to be, which just goes to show that Lahiri’s skills as a storyteller are paramount. She’s one of the best writers working in English today. I know that’s a bold statement, but I’d put forth that she rivals Alice Munro when it comes to ensuring that the form of the short story isn’t relegated to beginner’s classes and college literary journals. The work is powerful, passionate, cutting and emotionally driven. And while each of her stories work with similar themes, first and second generation East Indian families in America, they’re also each distinct both in terms of their internal rhythms and the morals that drive the narratives forward.

In the first half of the book, Lahiri doesn’t really play with form. The stories are straightforward in the sense that they don’t play with time or traditional methods of storytelling, but they are rich in character development, and they do ache with the everyday heartbreak of life. In the second half of Unaccustomed Earth, Lahiri has written three linked stories. The first two use the second person, which I was resistant to at first, but once I read the last few pages of the book, I understood her choice. You will too. It’s these three linked tales, stories of Hema and Kaushik, characters linked by a common childhood, that will crush your reading soul in the same way any good book should. I don’t want to give anything away so I won’t say anything more about them, just to reiterate that to appreciate them is to appreciate writing at its finest.

PHOTO IN CONTEXT:If I have one criticism, it’s that I’m really not fond of the book’s jacket. Hence no photo, although I guess I could have taken a picture to make it seem less, well, boring.

READING CHALLENGES: I don’t think I’ve read an American author yet for my Around the World in 52 Books. This would be a great one to read for the States. It’s a rich canvas, writing from the perspective of immigrants to the great and fascinatingly flawed country. And while I had Dennis Johnson’s book in mind. I’m going to count this instead. Even if the setting is somewhat secondary to the character development, in a sense, it’s defining of it too, place defines these characters as much as it marginalizes them; it changes their lives from the moment the plane touches down and new homes are built. But it’s also a fascinating study of the idea of what it means to be a part of a second generation in the U.S. How different their lives are from their parents, how charged with being both American and Indian can be, how important it is for history to change perspective.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I was reading Huckleberry Finn on the ride home (I finished Unaccustomed Earth on a hard cement bench outside of The Bay after having a quick bagel with Sam before heading back up to the craziness that is work these days). But I’m not sure if I’ll continue. Maybe, like I said the other day, I’ll finish The Sealed Letter tonight.