recommendations at random

Tonight ends a week that flew by in a mad rush of obligations. Good ones, mind you. On Monday I went with my dad for a fly-by-night roadtrip back to Shreveport. I spent that evening at my best friend's house, surrounded by her babies, red wine (for us, not the babies), and a warm blanket. By Tuesday night, I was back here at home in Austin dealing with a technological crisis--the loss of my trusty laptop. My dad bought her (I think she was a her) for me back in the Spring of 2008, and since then she's been my constant companion--through the coffee binges of comprehensive exams, the perils of research, more of hours of procrastination that I'd care to count, and, lately, the tedious task of dissertation writing. Thanks to the Geek Squad at Best Buy, my documents are safe. And thanks to an amazing friend, I'll be back up and running soon. Friday I bid a weekend farewell to my sister, who jumped up to DC for a getaway weekend with the husband. And, yep, that left me as sole caretaker for an 11-month-old. Single parents everywhere, I want to buy you cookies. And hire you nannies. The little munchkin is my world, she lights up every second, never fail, but 4:55am wakeup calls wreck havoc on someone not used to rising much before 8am...umm...really ever.

Spending time at the house with her was comforting, though. I bummed around in old pajamas and performed a story-hour for her. We ate banana cookies and clapped a lot. In the evening after she went to bed, I caught up on book and music recs. And now I share them with you.

Alan Hollinghurst, The Line of Beauty--This novel repeatedly shows up on "top books of the last decade" lists, so I found a copy for six bucks at Half-Price (shout out!) on Lamar and gave it a go. The plot descriptions don't let on, but it's a coming-out story at its core--a witty, and often erotic (which is why the BBC rushed to make it into a mini-series), tale of a gay man society-jumping in Thatcher's Britain. All 1980s and coke references, part satire of wealth and part art history tutorial, the book is ultimately a cautionary tale. Love lust, but don't let it overtake you. Love beautiful things, but don't let them drive you. Enjoy yourself, but take care of yourself too. The language is efficient, sophisticated, sometimes clipped. Couldn't put it down, read by the light of a dim lamp one night as not to wake others...that hasn't happened in a long time.

The Weepies, album Say I am You--I stayed away from them at first, because they seemed WAY too much the new darlings of the indie crowd. But, alas, the buzz is correct. Soft voices, straightforward lyrics, the whole album feels like a lazy Sunday morning with coffee and crossword puzzles with a jilted lover. Weird, huh? Not if you're me. "No amount of coffee, no amount of time, no amount of whiskey, no amount of wine...nothing else will do. I've gotta have you." How can you beat that?

First Aid Kit--Teenaged sisters-singers from Sweden. I can't even properly describe how ethereal their music is. Listen to "Ghost Town" and "I Met up with the King"--better yet, watch the videos on youtube.

More soon.

xo

hanging out in the woods with The Decemberists

Again, huh? That's what roughly 60 percent of my close friends will ask after laying eyes on this post. Yes, again, The Decemberists beckon the dark, the dank and lovely, the haunting narratives of nineteenth-century history...and beckon me to them one more time as well.

I fell in love with Colin Meloy's voice during a walk in the woods in March of 2007. I used to go hiking at the State Botanical Gardens of Georgia, just on the outskirts of Athens along the Oconee* River, with a dear friend who always understood that I wanted to walk behind him. I took the band along with us in my earbuds. The dampness of the woods, the twisted turns of roots in the ground, the faint cackles of birds returning...it all seemed appropriate for Meloy's darkly lovesick vocals. On one particular occasion I managed to twist my ankle about halfway through the walk. Ashamed to admit how much pain I was actually in, I walked through it, wincing for a good mile before I fell prey to a good sit on a log. And the song "Red Right Ankle" cycled through the playlist in that instant. Seemed perfect. Felt perfect.

I have followed them through three tours now, the climax of which was their theatrical presentation of The Hazards of Love onstage at the Tabernacle in Atlanta. With that album, they made a rock opera for the indie crowd. Meloy is a lover, a coward, a hero, a gangster, a chimney sweep.

On January 8th, 2011, they'll unveil The King is Dead. In celebration of the upcoming release, they've offered a free download of a B-side called "Down by the Water" (featuring the haunting Gillian Welch, to note). Just go to their website (http://www.thedecemberists.com) to get it.

*correction courtesy...you know who you are

time travel

It's been the theme of my life this past week. No, I haven't gone crazy, and no, I'm not building a time machine in our back bedroom. We do have a digital robotic vacuum cleaner though.

My dad called me a few days ago and asked me if I'd seen the "time traveller" video on youtube. Okay. My father doesn't introduce stories gracefully or...sufficiently. What he was attempting to tell me about was the video that went viral recently involving the 1928 Charlie Chaplin film The Circus. Some filmmaker in Ireland freeze-framed a shot of an old woman walking past Grauman's Chinese in the movie's premiere footage. He claims she's holding and talking on a modern cell phone, and that must mean she's a time traveller (I mean, duh). Well. I watched it. Admittedly, it's freakish looking--one of those black and white images that ends up looking creepy because someone told you it's supposed to be creepy. But if you have a right mind (which I pride myself in often, given my troubling genetic pool), then it's easy to rationalize. Old-fashioned hearing aid, crazy lady talking into some random object...anything. Got it, check. None of this is the point. That day, I went to lunch with my dad and humored him for a bit about the topic. Then I saw and seized a perfect opportunity to try and learn something new about the man that raised me. I asked him where he'd go, if he could go anywhere back in time. Here's what he said, almost verbatim:

"Well...I guess the real answer is that I'd go back to Boston at the time of the American Revolution. You know, see how the people actually wore, what they seemed like. Understand what this country actually looked like back them. I'd just walk the streets."

I didn't expect that one. Not from him. Maybe from me, self-professed history dork for life. But what I realized deep in my gut, listening to him say that, is that he and I have more of a common thread than I had ever believed...and we share it with most Americans. It's an innate sense, a pulling force, a need, to mine the past for the answers to who we are. What else made me think about this? Halloween of all holidays. Kids love it, for sure, but most adults who celebrate Halloween use it a a chance to dress up as a character that they feel projects some part of their own internal monologue. That's why so many people dress up as historical figures, I think. Three of my friends were Frida Kahlo this year. Where did that come from? But they're all artistic, smart woman who, I'd imagine, admire the artist's individuality, spunk, and tragic narrative. Call me cynical, but I do think we all secretly hope to be part of some epic, haunting narrative. It's like the Irish guy trying to scare us with 80-year-old movie clips. The historic is often the haunted.

One more thing. My dad just revealed to me on the phone a few hours ago that he knows the location of several VHS tapes of my childhood. My sister's fifth grade graduation. A trip we took to Colorado when I was ten. I told him I wanted to watch them immediately. Will it be a little strange to see myself so long ago? Yes. The past scares us because it's a truth (often quite beautiful) that can no longer be argued with.

it's too hot to be October

Um, yeah, what's up with this Indian summer? The fall seemed to be creeping in rather steadily over the past few weeks, but today's sun reminded me that nothing is for sure in the South. I think we'll be wearing shorts this Christmas.

Don't think I'm not celebrating my birthday week and not just my birthDAY. So...here we go. Today I shall eat a lot of ice cream, be as lazy as can be (which will be difficult given that I'm due at work in an hour), and lament my youth a little.

I miss my Georgia. Because the country roads there are starting to look a little like the photo above right now (especially further North headed into the Carolinas, which also have my heart). I remember one partiular autumn drive up through the Carolinas and into Richmond, Virginia. I had a red scarf wrapped around my throat when we arrived, fighting the brisk, cold air. That afternoon I stood on the banks of the James River with the burnt colors around me, and life seemed really, really good. Le sigh.

the art of losing

I've had two close friends lose a parent this month. Both are handling it beautifully, with grace and elegance, but that doesn't change the pain. It's a sting, more than a jolt really, one that dulls over time but sticks in your gut like a parasite, always pulsing, always reminding. It's sharper when the person who died was too young to be gone just yet, as in both of these cases.

I know sometimes I still wake up in the quiet of night with the shivers, angry and begging the universe to bring my mother back. I'd become God's debtor to be able to speak with her again. Yeah, that never, ever goes away.

How many losses are there in this life. Certainly at a point in adulthood we all come to terms with the realization that every beginning IS a beginning because something we loved had to end. This time of year its the season changing that reminds us of renewal, of how resilient the human mind and heart really are. The smell of pumpkins and spice has made me weepy lately, a reminder that summer turns into autumn, and there are some things I've had to leave behind. But the chill in the air, the briskness in my step, also reminds me that there is so much to love, so much excitement everyday.

Below is one of my favorite poems of all time. I dedicate it to Christopher and Michelle, and to myself as well, as seasons change and losses settle over us like winter coats. The times of renewed strength are always right around the metaphorical corner though, ready to surprise us and love us. They usually come in the form of people, people who make us smile and start over.

ONE ART [Elizabeth Bishop]

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

 so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.  

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 

The art of losing isn't hard to master.  

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant  to travel. 

None of these will bring disaster.  

I lost my mother's watch. 

And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 

The art of losing isn't hard to master.  I lost two cities, lovely ones. 

And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.  

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied.  

It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master

 though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

the lost art of letter writing

As autumn settles over me, I'm reinvigorating some colder-weather habits that I love.

I'm making my Starbucks runs for pumpkin-spice lattes (they only taste right between October and December, in my humble opinion) several times a week. I've unpacked the fall wardrobe, which for me mostly consists of skinny cardigans and multi-colored scarves. And at night, now, I read--something, oddly enough, I only really do as colder weather sets in. In the summer and the spring, books are daytime business for me. Oh, and, lower temps...always means a transition to red vino as my drink of choice. Spices things up.

This autumn, though, I have a new tradition developing. Letter-writing. Before three weeks ago, I hadn't written a proper letter in years. I'm talking, years. Maybe not since I wrote my summer camp friends back in high school and promised them we'd be soul sisters forever (yeah, that happened).

I've been sort of interviewing people around me as of late. Do you write letters? Would you? Is there beauty in it? Everyone seems to agree that they WISH they "had time" or that "people still did that kind of thing, because it's so romantic."

It is romantic. It's lovely. And it does NOT take that much time, folks. It's a lost artform, I think, that in an electronic age people need to work to revive. I found this great article from Newsweek:

http://www.newsweek.com/2009/01/17/the-good-word.html

I was thinking about how few of us even see each others' handwriting anymore. How we form words on paper, says more about our personalities that what we wear or what we eat or any other random gauge people use these days to set themselves apart. Exchange letters--real, several-pages-long, story-telling letter--with someone, and you will know them better.

Cheers to the letter! Let's bring it back to life, so that our children and grandchildren can find our words in old trunks and between yellowed bookpages.

good afternoon, aunt lesley gave me a mohawk

greetings from the brownlee-asseff-reed homestead.

eleanor took a bath in the sink one night recently. because she was being too feisty for me to let her stand in the tub. her punishment? a hawk, which she's rockin' here.

on the agenda:

-e just moved into her permanent room. she's next door to me, so it's kind of like i have a 10-month-old roommate. um, gone are the days of drinkin' mah beer and blastin' arcade fire in my bedroom. oh well, i guess i'm an adult now. or a baby, come to think of it. anyway, joan and i are in search of purple-themed decor. it's coming together.

-writing has intensified as i attempt to complete the first full rough draft of a dissertation chapter. god help this girl.

-my 26th birthday is three weeks away. i need pretty much a new version of everything. internetz, feel free to just have a mind of your own and send me shit from amazon.

-i need to have my own website. i'm sick of being out-cooled by people who do ;)