In the Wake of Loss

A few years ago a person very close to my family passed, much too early. I wrote a poem after the service. It was the only way for me to deal with and express the feelings I was having.

On Friday I began to think how that poem, though written for a different person, and completely different situation, expresses again the feelings that I'm struggling with. I'm sure it is because my oldest daughter was born the same year as most of the young children that were slain at Sandy Hook elementary school. All weekend I looked at her and thought of the beautiful person that she is becoming and saw the light in her eyes and couldn't bear to think of the anguish it would cause me. I'm making the best out of this for myself. Each day I will strive to treat her in a way that if it was the last there would be no regrets; I know it should be that way already, but in the face of frustration I'm not always perfect. I've spent too much time already mulling over this weekends discoveries, making it too much a part of my thoughts. I need to try and move past thinking about it, and I'm so thankful that I have that ability, that this isn't going to be something I have to carry with me everyday for the rest of my life. But there are so many families this week without that choice. This poem reflects the pain that we see them carrying, and that as outsiders we can only understand a fraction of that.

The hollow thud; shattering.
Empty, I toss my load aside.
Aching with the finality,
crushed under it.
Unsure; I go.
Alone.
A memory.
That echo

A Thousand Splendid Suns

I wrote this a few years ago when 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' first came out. If you haven't read his second novel yet you MUST.

Khaled Hosseini, author of 'The Kite Runner', has written a second amazing novel. It may seem unimaginable that this book could be as strong as 'The Kite Runner,' but be ready to be surprised; this novel is so beautiful and perfectly told. 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' may even outshine her famous older brother.

'A Thousand Splendid Suns' is set in Afghanistan and tells the country's tale of devastation through war, and the compelling survival of its people through not just one invasion, but three. The story opens with an Afghanistan full of culture and a sense of self a country that appears to have a balance of old and new, culture and religion. This all changes when Russia invades. The people of Afghanistan are forced to relearn their way of life literally overnight. These changes don't all appear negatively; women are encouraged to be equal to their male counterparts and are allowed to go to school, and to hold jobs in all fields. Then the Taliban overthrow their occupiers, it's a story that we all think we know, but can't on an intimate level. All the liberties and freedoms that were known under the Russian occupiers are stripped away, and everyone is fearful for their lives. One misstep, one look astray and you may disappear. None are more affected than the women of Afghanistan who must give up their veils for one ruler, then are forced to cover their entire body by another, un-allowed to leave the house alone, or even receive medical treatment. It is here, with the women of Afghanistan that this story shines.

Two women, born a generation apart, who have known two entirely different Afghanistans, one a girl raised in the rural country-side by her mother during a time of relative peace and freedom. The other, born in Kabul on the night of the Communist invasion, knowing nothing but a life filled with war. These two unlikely companions are brought together by the appalling circumstances of war; they must face the loss of freedom, the trials of war, an arduous husband, and the regulations of the Taliban together.

In a life where one must learn to mould oneself to society's changing standards, and be subservient to the very people who have usurped your life, we learn that in exchange for love, no price is too high. We also find that real family and personal identity can be very fluid ideas. But above all that some things are too precious to lose. This is an astonishing tale of love and the survival of Afghanistan itself, mirrored beautifully and tragically in the lives of its women. Hosseini alone can weave a sympathetic and heroic tale of injustice in such a masterful way. This is a great story, from the storyteller who has opened the hearts of the west to the suffering of Afghanistan.

Snuff said.

The next look back is of a book that many probably won't have heard of. It's author, Chuck Palahniuk, is more famous for his novel, turned cult movie favorite,  "Fight Club", but his CV is full of many strange and dark novels.

Chuck Palahniuk's newest novel 'Snuff' is firmly located in the grotesque, defined in the OED as (1) comically or repulsively distorted (2) incongruous; absurd. Palahniuk alone is capable of setting a story around a world record breaking gangbang, and keeping the tone only mildly sexual, focusing instead on the dark humor of the situation at hand. 'Snuff' is narrated by four characters participating in the sex film aimed at being the last, and most spectacular record setting sex act ever. In Palahniuk's other books the characters are all fully fleshed and believable, each one having some mental or emotional instability which allows the reader to connect with them. In 'Snuff' the characters seem to be very shallowly created, to the point of Pastiche.
Mr. 600-Branch Bacardi-is the stereotypical ancient male porn actor; he is hoping to resurrect his career with this film. He judges everyone by their tan, Acapulco vs. San Diego, and is surrounded by TVs showing him and Cassie (the star of the show) in many of their previous films; including Blow Jobs of Madison County, The Da Vinci Load, and To Drill a Mocking Bird. He is the leather skinned, loose waisted, wrinkle covered version of the handsome man on screen, so changed he doesn't even recognize himself. Mr. 137, the washed up TV star whose show has been cancelled because of rumors of homosexuality. He figures if he's seen in heterosexual porn his reputation will be cleared. From him we learn all about Cassie's movie career, and learn that he is obsessed with her in a purely aesthetic way. His real desire is hidden away in his closet along with the life like dildo molded from the perfectly proportioned Branch Bacardi erection. Mr.72, the youngest participant we meet is hoping to lose his virginity to Cassie, we think. To him she's the perfect woman, and we begin to see oedipal tendencies that would put even Freud on edge. Finally there is Sheila, the only female narrator. She is Cassie's assistant and allows us our only insight Cassie's state of mind. Sheila finds men ridiculous in general; this is most obvious by her continual reference to men with hilarious euphemisms for masturbation, Hoagie Honker being my all time favorite. She is the brains behind the whole operation, yet continually ridicules it at the same time. Don't be fooled by her seemingly innocent appearance, she has a dark secret driving her actions, just like every other character we meet.
The dark humor that Palahniuk is so known for is rampant in this novel, but without the intensely real characters to bolster the plot it simply doesn't compare to his earlier work. Although I must admit it is worth reading simply to find all of the hilarious ways Palahniuk comes up with for saying, well, Palm Pilots or Bacon Banger, these are laugh out loud funny even if the novel itself falls short.

A look back on past work

Life has been busy, and I've been negligent. I've been wanting to create something new and fun for this spot, but haven't been able to find the time. This month, in light of my packed schedule, I'm going to post some older pieces, book reviews that I wrote  a couple years ago. The books may not be new, but the great thing about print is it's timelessness. So, with no further ado, today's look back in time is my review of Knockemstiff, a collection of short stories:


Welcome to Knockemstiff, Ohio, the unhallowed playground of Donald Ray Pollock's imagination. This group of short stories is different than most, as the stories are all interconnected creating an almost novelesque story line. Each story is located in Knockemstiff, and is narrated by a different resident, except the first and the last; these are both narrated by Bobby. Doing this provides a frame to the intriguing collage Pollock creates with his snapshot like stories. In the first story we see Bobby as a young boy; he's at the drive in with his mom and dad. His mom forgets dad's favorite cup and he refuses to drink out of the bottle, like an alcoholic, so he drinks out of the ashtray instead. We begin to see that this type of thing is pretty common, and that both Bobby and his mom become more leery the more dad drinks. Bobby and his father share a rare bonding moment, what appears to be their first and last, when they get into a fight with another father and son, and Bobby is praised for whopping the other boy. Bobby is never able to regain that connection with his father, which becomes apparent in the last story. Here Bobby is a grown man, trying to fulfill his AA obligations, but can't seem to come clean where his family is concerned. His dad, although he's lost his physical prowess, still manages to browbeat his family into submission. Of all the stories in this collection this is the most optimistic.
Knockemstiff, named after a fight between two women over a man, is a place where money has no value, sex and drugs are the only currency worth anything, and a useful inheritance is a prescription. The cycle of abuse is so strong here that it is virtually unavoidable. The characters all have a unique voice and each one reveals a different, depraved aspect of Knockemstiff. Characters meander in and out of each other's stories, allowing us a more complete picture of each other than is provided by the characters themselves. What is clear is that nothing good can come out of Knockemstiff, Ohio; nothing that is except Donald Ray Pollock and this spectacularly bleak set of stories. You'll love to read this book, the writing is superb, and even learn to love Knockemstiff-which is a real city-despite, or maybe because of its self destructive nature.

Up in Smoke

Todd and I rarely get a night without our kids, so this week, when they both were away at the grandparents we thought a Monday night out on the town would be perfect. We've recently come to the conclusion that unless we are trying to satisfy more people than ourselves we would not simply go down the street to the closest chain restaurant, instead we would search out new and unique restaurants. With that in mind we headed down to San Diego's Little Italy district. We ate dinner at "Underbelly," a ramen bar with a great beer selection, recently featured in Sunset Magazine. I have to say that I was more wowed by the portrait of Chairman Mao made entirely of succulents than I was by the food. This is mostly, I think, because I'm very particular about the meat I eat being lean. The fattiness of the pork, while mouth meltingly tender, was too rich, too unctuous for my palate; as was the broth. Todd, on the other hand was in love. We both ordered the Underbelly Bowl and he stole the meat from my bowl that I couldn't finish, slurped up the broth and proclaimed that in his whole life he's never felt so satisfied by soup. I should have ordered the kimchi, it probably would have suited my own tastes better. After our meal we felt that it would be a waste of an evening to simply go home so, instead, we walked down the street to an intriguing restaurant covered in a facade of ivy, book lined walls, trophies from a bygone safari, and chalk boards covered with too many quotes to take in. I must say that I felt as though I'd come home. The rustic decor spoke to me; I'd regretted every second spent at the sparse, clean ramen shop, this was where I was meant to be. A place where the barkeep pins his dreds into a neat clean beehive and wears plaid and suspenders - Paul Bunyan just returning from the Ashram. As Todd and I were quite full and the Monday night wait for a table was over an hour, we sidled up to the bar to see what they had to offer. It was here that we met Holt and his Alchemical approach to serving up delicious libations. There were mysterious bottles stoppered just out of reach and an enticing and seasonal display of garnishes. I started with a "Ruby Slipper" a champagne and strawberry cocktail that was sweet effervescent and tangy, while Todd tried the "Paloma De Jerez", which he characterized as less a cocktail and more a spicy fruit salad. When a little later Holt offered to create Todd a little something spicy that he had up his plaid sleeve he couldn't refuse. What he created next was truly out of this world a mixture of gin, muddled cucumber, and a snifter full of Cholula hot sauce, as strange a concoction as it sounds it was amazingly fresh tasting, like a spicy dill pickle you'd buy from the fair. Todd continued to peruse the drink menu while I ran off to the little girls room. I wouldn't normally mention that part of the night to just anyone, but in this case, it must be done. Upon opening the door the the light flicked on, as did a voice. I was a bit confused at, I thought maybe I was hearing talk radio, or a conversation from the kitchen, then I heard the word Caesar, the word Pharisee. It was the Bible, the judgement of Jesus specifically, being read aloud to me as I used the facilities. I was spellbound, caught in a strange contradiction of wanting to return to Todd, wanting to hear what happened next, of course I know what happened next and reluctantly I shook myself free from the narrators voice and returned to the bar where Todd was staring longingly at one more drink on the menu. "Up In Smoke" is described as a beer cocktail, something I didn't know existed beyond the Irish Car bomb, something ordered only with already badly altered judgement after a night of too many drinks. But this drink looked like a different species than that, at least a different breed. The beer, Allagash Curieux, is mixed with a fine Islay scotch a home made apple reduction and lime. Drinking it transports you to a peat fire on a distant Scottish Isle, confusing your senses as they try to reconcile drinking smoke, a fine peat filled smoke that then fills your other senses with longing to share in the experience. It was the perfect ending to a wonderful Monday night on the town in San Diego, one that I hope to repeat soon.

http://www.craft-commerce.com/
http://godblessunderbelly.com/

An Introduction

People have asked me for a few years now why I don't have a blog. I guess that is what outspoken people, like myself, do these days. We post our thoughts and actions up onto the ethereal world of the internet for self gratification or other people to read; maybe for both. I suppose the reasons I've shied away from it more than any other reason is simply the inability to commit. Between being a wife, mother of 2 small children, and having a full time career there isn't a ton of time to compose my thoughts in an organized and intelligent way. But the thought has been nagging at me. I've always considered myself a writer. I'm not published, and probably won't be any time in the near future, but I'm most happy when I get a minute to jot down a few words. So I've decided to do it. I'm not silly enough to create a huge blog schedule, or even promise to have a consistent theme or blog genre (do blogs have genres)? What this blog will be is a place for me to catalog all the strange and different things that catch people I know off guard about me. I have a passion for gardening which turned me onto both canning and trying to create healthy delicious seasonal meals for my family. I read constantly, and I will probably subject the blog world to reviews of the books I'm reading. I may even torture the internet with my poetry. For those who know me, you'll understand when I say there is almost guaranteed to be a rant about eucalyptus trees as well. I've named my blog "Tentatively Speaking" this isn't to say that my thoughts and writing will be timid in any way, the OED defines tentative as "Trying, experimenting; experimentation"; that is my ultimate goal, is to experiment with my ability to write my thoughts down and see if it is something that I enjoy doing, and indeed, if those reading my words enjoy it as well.