Last refuge of a bibliophile

So, Sharkette sent me out to pick up some soap at Sam’s Club today. Personal hygiene is exceedingly important, especially if you are in charge of multiple babies prone to spit, vomit, and poop. Driving past the Decatur Public Library, out of the corner of my little eye, I spied:

Decatur Public Library

A book sale, oh my!!!

To the true bibliophile, they might as well have given gasoline to an arsonist or handed out Bud Light at an AA meeting: a used book sale sign gets them every time. I immediately commenced a U-turn maneuver, doubled-parked, and blocked in the Book Mobile. Actually, I didn’t do any of those things, I just said that for dramatic effect. But I did decide to investigate the book sale while grabbing my handy Friends of the Decatur Public Library canvas tote bag!

The badge of honor

You see when you carry around a canvas tote bag, whose sale supports your local library, you automatically say to the world, “I can read, and I promote literacy.”

Books, books, and more books!

As I walked through the doors I got a welcome surprise: today was fill-up-a-grocery-paper-bag-with-books-for-$5-dollars-each day! Not only that, it was Non-Fiction Day! Say it ain’t so, librarian? Some of you might know that I’m a huge fan of non-fiction, so this was pretty much close to bibliophile nirvana for me.

Non-Fiction FTW!

I felt like a bandit hauling away three bags worth of books for only $15 dollars, but this was truly a win-win situation for everybody involved. The Friends of the Decatur Library got some more cash to support their operations, and I got thousands of pages worth of reading. What was even more encouraging was the amount of people, including plenty of children, that were hauling away books. It’s heart-warming to know that in this age of cellphones, the internet, and television, people still enjoy turning the pages of a good book!

my non-fiction haul!!!

Curtis Mayfield

Curtis Mayfield grew up in Chicago’s infamous Cabrini-Green housing projects in the 1950s. He saw music as both a calling and a way to escape the grinding poverty of the projects, and dropped out of high school to sing with The Impressions, an established gospel/soul/doo- wop group. A strong vocalist and budding writer, Mayfield eventually wrote and sang the Impressions signature hit “People Get Ready” in 1965. Although it had a traditional gospel feel, “People Get Ready” was also an allusion to the social and political upheaval of the time.

By 1970 he’d gone solo and released “Curtis”, a record that showcased his many talents as he wrote, sang, and produced the album himself on a record label he owned. “Curtis” found Mayfield adding funk and psychedelia to his r&b roots, along with a continued lyrical focus on social issues. Mayfield felt that like his contemporaries in rock, he could use his lyrics to offer social commentary and often discussed racial and cultural themes in his songs. Along with Marvin Gaye, Mayfield became one of the prime movers in the “message music” movement in early ’70s r&b.

In 1972 he supplied the music for the classic blaxploitation film Super Fly. While the film is somewhat ambiguous about its stance on the morality of drug dealing, Mayfield’s songs are a damning indictment of the evils of drug addiction and those who profit from it. Super Fly is one of the few films in history which was actually outsold by its soundtrack.

Mayfield continued making music, though his popularity eventually waned from his ’70s heyday. In 1990 he was paralyzed from the neck down when a lighting truss fell on him during a concert. Though this rendered him unable to play any instruments, he remained undaunted and managed to painstakingly record a final album “New World Order”, which saw release in 1997.

Curtis Mayfield died on 12/26/99. The influence of his work can still be seen in the rap/r&b music of today (some of which directly samples his grooves). The socially conscious lyrics of Public Enemy, NWA and their progeny owe a great debt to Mayfield’s pioneering work.

Music Appreciation

Some of you may remember a blog I had a few years ago called The Cutout Bin, which focused on obscure rock bands. For this new venture, I’ve decided to take a different approach and start a (semi) regular column focusing on influential popular music from the rock era (starting roughly with Chuck Berry). The idea is to post a few youtube clips to give you a sample of the featured artists’ music, and a brief explanation of who they are and why they’re important. So if you’ve ever thought “hey, I know that name but I don’t know anything about them and can’t place what they sound like”, welcome to Music Appreciation.

…chapter one

Alas, it was bound to rear its ugly head at some point. Why not write when provoked? And why not dump as many clichés as humanly possible into the mix while I’m at it.

On 20 December 2010 at 17.26 my world metaphorically collapsed. With the preview of one email, it was as if the roof fell upon me, 9 million tons of cement following. I clearly remember processing the following from my pop up email alert: Tom. Daughter. Kate. Dead.

I cannot cogently describe the next few hours of my life. There was a phone call placed to Kate’s parents. I was standing on the front stoop, in the cold, shitty wintry weather, smoking a cigarette. I remember catching a glimpse of my reflection in the storm door. I was smiling but it was that forced smile that I make whenever I’m on the phone. I remember pulling on my hair. I remember hearing the words and it reminded me of my first day in Sweden – a whole lot of gibberish that I would never understand. I remember answering questions. Asking questions. I remember saying good bye.

I think I sent Magnus the email from Kate’s parents but without going back and looking, I don’t know when.

Then, somehow, I ended up in our dining room, near the door to the kitchen. There were no lights on as the sun had set not too long before. I stood in the dark shaking and gasping for air. I remember Dock and Milkface coming home from work and school respectively. Barely above a whisper, I said the unthinkable “Kate is dead.” I remember being led to the living room and put on the sofa only to spring back up and run outside because I didn’t want my child to see me upset. This time it was the back porch, a cigarette and my red pea coat.

For the life of me, I wish I remembered which outfit I was wearing. By Jewish law, you’re supposed to rend your clothes. Not by any stretch am I a good Jew or an observant Jew but I like the tradition of destroying the outfit you were wearing when the world as you knew it ended. It’s a simple, cathartic rite. To this day I eye the laundry pile, suspiciously, wondering which shirt was on my back. Kate would have said “the shirt is laughing at you.”

December 20th was a Monday. I have little recall of how I got through the week. Sparky, Monica and DeeDee brought food and booze. I reached out to dear friends for some direly needed support. I managed to keep focused on work and preparations for Christmas. The first week was surprisingly easy. I suppose that is the blessing of shock.

Rather than make our half-assed version of the julbord, I had Dock pick up a ham and I threw some crab cakes in the oven. As I was puttering around the kitchen, I started making more and more food. I par-boiled asparagus and let them bathe in a light olive oil glaze with lemon juice. I think I even made bread. I may have made boiled potatoes. Daddy came and left. Presents were opened. I sat on the sofa and stared.

I tried keeping my shit together at work the following week. Sadly, it all became too much and I ended up taking time off. I wasn’t sleeping. I was crying at the drop of the hat and if I could have figured out a way to get out of my own skin without making a bloody mess, I would have.

The only thing in my favor was self-medication. As my back was giving me a world of trouble, I had various forms of painkillers at my disposal. One can find a good amount of peace in an opiate induced fog. Unfortunately, the calm was temporary. At some point, notifications would be made and the floodgate of questions would open. After all, it’s not every day that an otherwise healthy and happy 39 year old woman ends up dead. Even if most deaths come without warning, this one was sure to jar. And jar it did.

A death around Christmas is unusually cruel and not for the obvious reason. A death around Christmas causes all of us to look around the room and wonder who may not be in their rightful place next year. A death around Christmas provokes feeling of survivor’s remorse. A death around Christmas makes you feel like absolute hell knowing that someone’s parents are not opening presents with their children or toasting a good meal with everyone present and account for.

From time to time, I’m going to chronicle my journey. My journey with Kate who is closer to me than any other creature on the planet. My journey of losing her and my attempts to build a life without someone who played such a critical role in my existence. While certainly therapeutic for me, I hope people will be interested in the tale of two girls growing into women and a very special friendship/sister hood. These installments will may not always be life-affirming. They’re certainly not novel. But, for me, they are necessary.

We are paranoid for you!

With a budget crisis looming in the United States, and the possibility that thousands of government workers will be furloughed, few people realize how much of an impact this will have on the people that are supposed to be paranoid for you. Yes my friends, I am talking about the people that work in the emergency management, disaster response, and public safety arena. The selfless bureaucrats that spend countless of sleepless nights planning for every eventuality, ranging from air crashes to terrorists striking the food supply of the United States. Terrorists in the Midwest, you say? Why yes, terrorists are everywhere, and they can strike at our very heart and soul… including our stomachs, at any time! Luckily for you, trained professionals are busy planning for this.

Consider this: In 2002, the World Health Organization (WHO) published a report urging governments to draw up farm-to-fork contingency plans to protect against terrorism using the food chain as a potentially devastating weapon. In 1991, 300,000 people in China contracted Hepatitis A from eating infected clams, just imagine how many people can be affected should a group of terrorists utilize chemical, biological or nuclear agents on our food supply.

These days Farmer Joe needs to not only worry about whether he has enough fertilizer for the season but also the possibility of some evil-doer slipping chemical agents into his milk vat. But have no fear, my fellow patriots, Uncle Sam has his finest people working on this. Or rather he had… Let’s stop this squabbling over the budget and get the paranoid people back to work! Your hamburger safety depends on it!

DUELLING GODOTS

Ken: is wondering what the heck is keeping Godot. I’ve been waiting for ages.

Steve: Well, it’s not like he’s at your Beckett and call.

Ken:
As many people know,
While waiting for Godot,
There’s a tendency for life to be frustrating,
The secret, oft implied,
Is one must be occupied,
For the silence then tends not to be so grating.

Steve:
To wait for Godot
is a farce, you must know,
a comedic display of our lot.
The only sure bet
to beat death is a wet
Pilsener: that and a shot.

Ken:
What was it he meant?
What was Beckett’s intent?
Was Godot death? Our ultimate fate?
We can muse through our rhyme,
And indeed pass the time,
At the tavern, with Pilsener, and wait.

Steve:
Beckett said Feckit when asked
the meaning of life, so that task
is assigned by default to mean ‘fate’.
Existentially speaking it’s crass
to expect us poor bastards to pass
all our time with a drink and a wait.

Ken:
With meaning it’s rife,
Some say death, I say life,
The distinction lay in the details,
Interpretations abound,
So you buy the next round,
While we wait to see which one prevails.

Steve:
When I’m laid in my family plot
(id est Death–not some casual slut),
I expect that I’ll offer a toast:
‘Bottoms up!’ I will cry
though I don’t mean to die
with rump placed well uppermost.

Ken:
Beckett posed questions essential,
Both serious and existential,
Though complex and rich,
Life can oft be a bitch,
With shitstorms that are most torrential,
Still we search and always are gleaning,
Trying to give life some sort of meaning,
We sometimes lose our bearings,
With all sorts of red herrings,
For it’s only we that can give life potential.

Beautiful Libraries: Old Library, St. John’s College, Cambridge

the pale side of insomnia via flickr

Doesn’t this just make you want to go back to university? There are times I wake up in cold sweat wishing I was back in college. How I would have done things differently, had I known then what I know now. I think I pretty much breezed through college and university. I was never a stellar scholar, but I was not an academic failure either. I just did what I had to do to pass the class and keep on trucking. If I had it to do over, I think I would take the opportunity for education more seriously. Oh well, c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?

An Ode to Spring

You shine away my winter woes and thaw my frozen heart.
You warm my toes and gently force the flower buds apart.
You also bring the pollen breeze,
Which gets up my nose and makes me sneeze.
But, I’d rather have you here than not.
No spring would be an awful thought.
So, I’ll stockpile antihistamines,
And trade winter blues for springtime greens.

The British Prime Minister pledged to invest £650million in Pakistani schools

Today’s rant is about the British Government, which is most unusual for me because I generally keep those comments to myself but I am currently outraged so much so that I had to put fingers to keyboard.

A recent study by the UN’s education arm UNESCO revealed corruption is so rife that many classrooms, teachers and school children for which cash is being claimed have never existed. And, even if money pledged by David Cameron does end up in bona fide schools, they are at risk from the Taliban – who have already destroyed hundreds. The vile terrorists target girls as they do not believe women should be educated. And they even use children to carry bombs into class. Experts estimate some 5,000 children – some as young as seven – are trained as suicide bombers.

And how is it that Britain can afford such a generous offering of aide I hear you ask yourself, well that comes from the cash savings made from cuts to Britain’s Armed Forces – while Pakistan is spending £1.7billion on its own defences….not to mention our own education budgets has been slashed.

The Pakistani PM believes extremism is born out of illiteracy yet does nothing about it until the offer of free millions from the UK taxpayer via Cameron arrives. Why should WE pay for their inability to deal with extremism when their PM knows the reason why it is spreading? They can only afford six new Chinese submarines and 36 fighter aircraft because idiots like Cameron take our money and provides the things they should be providing.

Now don’t get me wrong I am aware Pakistan’s government has failed to provide its people with primary education, but for the country’s long-term stability surely it’s more important than spending on defence and security.

The UK will have no control of the curriculum in schools receiving funding, meaning taxpayers could see their money pumped into madrassas peddling extremism.

How do I explain to my bright 14 year old daughter, who is now questioning her further education because of ever increasing university costs that there will be no funding by our own government because we tax payers are sending £650m out to Pakistan for their children’s education!!!

What is this country coming to??

She’s a little bit psycho(somatic).

With apologies for being a bit late to the party. Work has been absolutely crazy, etc., etc. In addition to my teaching duties, I’m involved in three different projects (because I’m completely incapable of saying no to anything) as well as national exams in English. Needless to say, my most significant generator of bitching (on my part), moaning and stress is work. It’s been foremost on my mind lately so I hope you gentle readers don’t mind if I mention it frequently in my posts. Also, just FYI, I’ve stopped using The Oxford Comma as demonstrated in the previous sentence: “bitching, moaning and stress.” Note the absence of a comma after the word ‘moaning.’

That’s enough grammar for now, but please feel free to respond with your opinions regarding the Oxford comma. It can also be called the Harvard comma depending which side of the Atlantic you happen to be on.

Right now we’re in the process of giving all the English A and B students exams in speaking. The students are paired up and instructed to have a discussion on a given topic. Their discussions are listened to by myself and one other English teacher. So far they’ve been going fairly well, but naturally there have been a few problems. Some students show up late for their appointments, or don’t show up at all, and then they have to be rescheduled. It’s a hassle but it’s pretty much unavoidable. It’s common and expected for students to try and get out of taking the exam by employing various tactics.

However, there is one student who really worries me because she seems to be sick all the time. It seems that every other day she informs me that she can’t come to class because she’s sick. She might be faking it, but if that’s the case there’s not a whole lot I can do about it. So far I’ve had to postpone this student’s exam time twice because she was (you guessed it) sick. This morning she showed up for her rescheduled exam appointment fresh-faced, smiling and ready to go (no Oxford comma…ha). Then she found out who the other teacher sitting the exam was. Evidently not someone she likes very much.

After listening to (and refusing) her demands to have a different teacher or at least postpone her test again, I went to go take care of something for five minutes. When I got back, the student was crying and clutching her abdomen and she was surrounded by friends attempting to comfort her. Apparently, in the previous five minutes, she had developed an upper urinary tract infection and was in too much pain to take the test. She had to leave school and go to the hospital. Here we go again, I thought.

But the thing is, I’m not entirely sure she really is faking it. She was absolutely fine only minutes earlier, but it’s possible that she really did spontaneously develop the symptoms of UTI in response to the stress of having to take the exam. Psychosomatically, that is. I’m certain she started feeling better as soon she left the school building.

I have some personal experience with this phenomenon. Years ago I had a job as a sort of telephone sales representative. It was easily the worst job I’ve ever had in my entire life. The people with whom I was forced to work were so loathsome, the work itself so abhorrent, that the very thought of having to go to work caused me to develop a sore throat and migraine headache. I’d call the office in the morning, genuinely feeling like complete shit, and inform them that I was too sick come in. Shortly after hanging up the phone I’d start feeling better, and by lunch time I’d made a miraculous recovery.

Anyway, I’d be interested in hearing about what kinds of psychosomatic experiences any readers have had or currently have.

(By the way, I ended up getting fired from that job so everything worked out.)