Different Kind of Fighter
Title: The Immortal Class
Author: Travis Hugh Culley
Publisher: Random House
Genre: Memoir
Length: 324 pages
My bike club went camping this weekend. I love bikes and I love camping, so it was excruciating knowing I had a pre-Halloween event at my store, bills to pay, and a general inability to leave my husband and child to go on a frivolous trip that would inevitably involve a lot of drinking and riding.
I love books more than anything, and I adore Chris Rogers (the author we had in the store Saturday), but my mind was off in the distance with my new friends – family really – their tents, their bikes, and the dirt and grit far away from my rows and stacks of books.
This isn’t about me whining about not getting to go on a camping trip, though. This is about the discovery I made because of where my mind was not and my body was… in the city, longing for my cycling friends who were partying it up and having a blast.
The stars aligned, the shelves at the store all seemed to point me in one direction, and a copy of The Immortal Class seemed to fall from the heavens.
So overly marketed as to appeal to the counter culture, zine reading crowd, The Immortal Class is one of those small square-shaped trade paperbacks. With phrases like “adrenaline-spiked” and “frenzied rawness” slapped across a black and grey jacket in egg-yolk yellow.
Months after becoming obsessed with the world of cycling and setting goals to really hunker down, figure it out, and join this world – I discovered this weekend why it appeals to my soul so completely.
“[T]he world down here was remarkably organized. Even if it was loud and bombastic, rebellious and unconventional, the people were often fixated on levels of personal status. With one another, messengers were highly cooperative, and yet competing against one another, they were fighters to the bone. It was a tight society where one could promise lasting respect and recognition for what one could offer to the community.” – pg. 230
Of course this appeals to me – this whole world of simultaneous independence and camaraderie. I grew up in a Kung Fu studio. I trained, I relied on muscle memory and instinct. I know so well the feeling of not remembering what it feels like to not be sore somewhere. I built very specific familial relationships that were directly tied to how much blood, sweat, and tears were spilled in each others’ presence.
I still do my work outs. I still teach occasional students. But I am no longer that kind of fighter. I remember when I knew I would never go back in the ring – at least not in the way I used to. It wasn’t the hairline fracture on my sternum. It wasn’t the broken and busted fingers. It wasn’t even the shin injury that twelve years later hasn’t seemed to heal just right and still swells up when it rains. It wasn’t any one thing, really. It was actually before I got my third degree, something I only got because I promised myself I would. It was actually a summer before that when after working out no less than 55-60 hours a week for months on end, after more than a decade in uniform and sash, I realized I was tired – mentally and physically. My mind was ready for something new and my body needed a break from the routine.
I love hitting the streets at night!
I started running more avidly. For a few years I ran 3-5 miles a day. I enjoyed that thoroughly, and I still run periodically. (You may remember a post about Born to Run, a book on barefoot running that kick started the running bug again recently…) But there’s always been something missing from my running – speed. A rush I can’t manufacture on my own two feet, that I used to get in the ring, has been absent. Running didn’t fill the void Kung Fu, my years of being a tournament junkie, and finally the days of bleeding for money had left behind when I said ‘Enough.’
Cycling, though, cycling has suddenly lit up my world and started to warm my soul in a way I haven’t been warmed in a long time. Probably since I fell in love and got married… yes, it’s that good of a rush! Seeing all that I have to learn excites me. Inspecting bruises from crashes and the act of getting to know my bikes (or loaner bikes until I own my own, rather) fills me with the pride that though I am a far, far cry from being any good at this sport – like a white belt dropped in the midst of advanced ninjas – I am at least one step, one bruise, and one fall closer to the perfection I seek.
I have no illusions of grandeur. No presumption that I will be great at this. I’m pushing 30 and my body feels 50, but I’m sure as hell going to try.
Inevitable black eye commencing in one… two… three… GO!
Haven’t felt so myself in a long time.
I dare you to read The Immortal Class and not get the urge to hop on a bike. I dare you. And just remember this: The more you ride, the more you’ll want to ride.
The Evolution of Everything
Title: The Evolution of Jane
Author: Cathleen Schine
Genre: Fiction
Length: 210 pages
The perfect fall day in Texas: a spinach and onion soup with lots of cheese mixed in, coffee gone cold, Huckleberry Sage in my Scentsy Warmer, all the windows open because it’s so nice outside, Tethered by Sleeping at Last playing softly on repeat, and The Evolution of Jane in front of me.
In a week of epiphanies, nostalgia, cold fronts, random spurts of rain, and recuperation after sheer emotional exhaustion, Schine’s novel is perfect and lovely. Soft and defined at the same time. A little more perfect than I expected.
It’s supposed to be a comedy… “A cerebral comedy of manners,” the Boston Globe calls it. I find that in itself humorous, as I haven’t laughed since the first page. Instead, it feels (oddly) exactly like life. It’s a mish-mash of inappropriate feelings, unexplained drama, stress where there should be none, and complete nostalgia.
It even has a delicious quote that made me swoon as it so much reflects how I feel about my own life. “I loved my job, for it allowed me to rub shoulders with ideas, to listen without having to retain, to gather information like flowers.”
My job, this job that is part author, part homeschool mom, part event coordinator, part reader and reviewer, part so many things… this job feels like that… like gathering flowers. My life feels like that in general. I am a forager, I pick up and discard things as I go, looking for any bit of nutrients and beauty I can get along the way.
I bought this book years ago at the height of my Darwin and Evolution studies. When I was trying to squeeze every bit of information on anything that briefly fascinated me. When I was trying to retain everything. How appropriate that I wait to read it now, when I can read it with more of a passing fancy, where I can absorb a story without trying so hard to remember it all.
Life isn’t meant for you to remember every single moment. If we were meant to remember it all with such clarity, I think that we would. Some things are best left discarded. This book, however, is not one of those things. If you buy it, you should keep it. It will get added to the re-read sometime pile.
Magical Thinking and the Vortex
Title:The Year of Magical Thinking
Author: Joan Didion
Publisher: Knopf
Genre: Memoir
Length: 227 pages
‘I want to go to Malibu. I would have especially loved to be there in 1976… but alas, I am not a time traveler,” I think as I look at the black and white photograph of Joan Didion with her family on the jacket of The Year of Magical Thinking.
I’m holding a first edition, twelfth printing from December 2005. It’s a hardback and does not yet feature the gold emblem in the upper right hand corner you see there. I’m assuming where it announces that Didion won the National Book Award for her memoir about grief.
Didion describes ordinary moments when lives change with such detail and such sadness. All I can think is that I find people who go out of this world in ordinary moments sort of blessed.
I know too many who have departed at the height of some drama or another… a gun to the head, horrible bodily functions that caused them to drown in their spit, people who spent their last moments screaming in horrible pain of the body or the mind.
These other people who depart happy… well, let’s just say I hope I go out that way.
Reading this book brings back the nausea of my own grief. Every description she offers sounds familiar in some way. No, I haven’t lost a husband, or a child, but I’ve lost. And I anticipate their loss every day.
Grief comes to you in a number of ways. One of which is the way you find yourself trying to fill in the hole that missing person left behind. And doing it badly. Leaving not a filled in hole, but nauseatingly burning questions you can never get answered. Song lyrics you can’t un-hear.
When someone dies you are to be there for the family. You are in no way to interfere with their grief. You provide. You silently help. You be there. You do not intrude. I was taught this. I was taught not to draw the attention away from the people in real pain – just as Didion describes.
But reading this, I weep.
What about the people who have no rights? No claim? The person sitting there who viewed the deceased like family but clearly meant less than the real family?
What do you do when one of the best people you have ever known is dead and you have no claim?
You stay silent. Or have inappropriate anger toward the deceased.
You find yourself trying to make new friends to fill their place, only to realize the relationship was entirely unique and can never be replaced. Because they were unique.
Didion speaks of the Vortex – of memories – in a way I know so well. Her vortex are stories of her daughter – her husband – snippets from their lives.
Mine is my own private cage. That world of private thoughts that I don’t have. Mine come in deja vus and too much whiskey. Mine come in always hearing the right thing at the wrong time and the wrong thing at the right time. Mine come in conversations that remind me of silences, and silences that echo long gone conversations.
My Vortex is the panic attack that starts in my pinkie and the moment in which I forget something I used to remember… or suddenly remember something I forgot.
The Year of Magical Thinking is a bit of a Vortex too… best kept under wraps in a comfy chair, with my journal nearby for the uncontrollable vomit of thought and tears that will arise as I turn the page to the next chapter.
To Be Released October 15th 2013!
Title: Just One Evil Act
Author: Elizabeth George
Publisher: Dutton
Genre: Crime Fiction
Length: 723 pages
Elizabeth George has the uncanny ability to spend pages detailing the aura of even the most minor characters. I admire this ability to dive into hefty and lengthy character developments, no character too small for complete notice (“A persons a person no matter how small” if I may quote Dr. Suess!). It reminds me of when I read Karleen Koen, different genre, same attention to characters, same knack for writing tomes.
I was pretty excited that Dutton chose to send me a second Elizabeth George book. They sent me Believing the Lie before it was released, and now I’ve been gifted a chance to read and review Just One Evil Act prior to its being available in stores. Naturally, I procrastinated and didn’t start reading it until the other day. Good thing Inspector Lynley and Detective Barbara Havers are quick to digest.
The book will be on shelves everywhere tomorrow, October 15th. It’s a good one to read if you’ve never read an Inspector Lynley novel before because George goes outside her comfort zone and finally leaves the UK. So it’s new and different whether you’re new to George, or have been following her stories for years.
Random Post on Random House
Normally I post on the quality of the topic of a book, not the quality of the book itself. Sometimes I mention these factors, but usually only a line or two within a rant about how impressed I am with the content.
I’ve been reading Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power
I didn’t notice it right away. It took me holding it for hours to truly appreciate the matte finish of the dust jacket. There is a lot of feeling missing from my fingertips from years of me abusing my own hands with activity; but during rare moments of my hand brushing against the jacket just so or turning the page and letting the weight fall in my left hand just right, I felt with pleasure the smooth grit of a not entirely slick dust jacket. I love that feeling.
The binding is nothing special. I’d like to report that it is sewn AND glued just how I like it, but it’s just glued in sections. But the classic photograph and illustration pages in the center found in almost all history books and biographies, they are lovely. They aren’t the typical glossy finish ones that you find in most biographies. They are not the twelve year old girls’ room poster quality. Instead, they appear to be printed on acid free paper. The ink quality is something to behold while the pages maintain a slightly matte appearance as well. It’s pretty gorgeous. It is the book I’ll use to show my daughter pictures of many of the men who laid the framework for our independence. It’s where we will look to see a depiction of the surrender of Cornwallis.
I read a lot and I acquire a lot of books, but not everything I acquire are good quality copies. I am notorious for reading coffee stained, marked up, dog eared paged crap that someone else was throwing in a recycle bin. It does not phase me to peruse something that smells like my grandmother’s attic (or your grandmother’s attic, or my dog’s grandmother’s attic…). So it was a little different and refreshing to read something so…. nice. And it sounds silly to be saying this to such a large publishing house, but: Good Job, Random House.
We’ll be discussing the actual content of the book tonight at the Half Price Books Humble book club meeting at 7:30 pm. Come join us.
Where the Windwalk Begins
Title: Where the Windwalk Begins
Poet: Todd Dillard
Illustrator: Paul K. Tunis
Too cute. These poems are ideal for lazy breakfast reading or luncheons on the patio. We love to read over our meals and kiddo has really enjoyed Where the Windwalk Begins.
I personally loved Airlephant, mostly because I have a ridiculously large soft spot in my soul for all things regarding elephants. Kiddo’s ears perked up the most, however for Flock of Flying Carpets, which I admit is pretty awesome. The alliteration of that particular poem fascinates little people, and her eyes lit up with delight at hearing the same sounds over and over again. We’ve been working on our phonics lately and you could see the recognition of certain letter’s sounds all over her face.
The poems are really fun and the illustrations are equally so. I was pleased with how well paired the illustrator was to the over all vibe of the book. Sometimes you can have a great illustrator and a really great storyteller or poet, but they don’t necessarily make the best pairing, but these two seemed pretty in tune to each other. Spunky and very light heart-ed, moms and dads everywhere should keep this title in their personal library stock.
Love is a Choice
Title:Love Is A Choice
Authors: Dr. Robert Hemfelt, Dr. Frank Minirth, Dr. Paul Meier
Publisher: Thomas Nelson Publishing
Genre: Psychology/ Self-Help/ Christian Living
Length: 275 pages
Back in college I read Happiness Is A Choice with a few girls I knew. We went to a Baptist school, but clearly weren’t behaving like the other little Christian girls we knew, so of course we devoured a book that seemingly addressed all that was wrong with us and how to fix it God’s way. Mostly, it just made us feel better.
Naturally, I spotted this in a giant giveaway pile, knew it was by the same authors, and impulsively picked it up. Approximately 3 years later (now), I got around to reading it.
It did not make me feel better.
At least not at first anyway.
Reading Love Is A Choice from a parental perspective can be daunting and, to say the least, overwhelming. The first half of the book had me completely convinced that everyone on the planet has been abused in some form or another… active abuse, passive abuse, this abuse, that abuse. Unless you’re Jesus, NO ONE IS SAFE. I am not Jesus, so essentially, all I determined was that my kid was going to grow up to have issues. NO MATTER WHAT I DID. For that, I kind of hated it.
However, because all these very human issues and mistakes run rampant in the world – because we are human – it ends up being a good read. Handy. Fair warning, so to speak. Be careful of this, be careful of that, be warned that these kinds of actions effect your children this way or that way into adulthood. And above all, put God first.
I can get on board with that.
Just remember when looking at this cover and judging whether or not you think this applies to you, codependency probably doesn’t mean what you think it means. I know I was fooled. Essentially the core sort of means the same as what I thought, but all the nuances are different. If you’ve read my blog for long, you know I love a few good nuances!
Anyway, it took up the better part of a week after my kiddo was asleep… when I wasn’t reading a Thomas Jefferson biography or going over homeschooling stuff… and I don’t feel like my time was wasted. Self-help isn’t typically a genre I care much about, so that means if I mostly like it then it’s probably pretty stellar. Check it out.
Below is a picture of me and my kid, who along with my husband, I choose to love every day – the best I can. P.S. The first week of October is Banned Books Awareness Week. BE AWARE! Read a ‘banned book.’ As far as I know, Love is a Choice isn’t banned anywhere and this statement has nothing to do with the review, just my t-shirt.
Photograph by Michael Palmer
Introducing the Octopus… and Tolkien Week
Weekly Low Down on Kids Books and Adventures in Homeschooling with an Octopus and Tolkien…
Title: Squishy the Octopus
Author: Mary Reason Theriot
Illustrations: Zoie Mahaffey
The last few weeks have been exciting. With the start of fall and the new school year and kiddo turning three in October, we’ve been diving more heavily into “school time.” There was a video floating around on facebook, courtesy of the Libertarian Homeschooler or maybe Practical Homeschooling – not sure which, dealing with the camouflage abilities of the octopus.
The video we watched (Where is the Octopus?) is here: http://www.sciencefriday.com/video/08/05/2011/where-s-the-octopus.html.
Add in discussions of legs, all things regarding the prefix “oct,” and an a event where Mary Reason Theriot debuted her children’s books, we’ve had quite a big week!
Authors Mary Reason Theriot & Jennifer Theriot
Theriot is quite a popular novelist on Amazon. Living in Louisiana with her husband and daughter, she avidly writes spooky thrillers with a southern twist that only the home of the Cajun seem to be able to offer. But most recently, with the aid of her extremely enterprising daughter, she’s branched out and started writing children’s stories as well.
In Squishy the Octopus, a little octopus with a big anger management problem learns to control his temper with the help of his other sea creature friends. On various pages, like in the video above, Squishy changes color. My own little kiddo got really excited when this happened, “Let me see the picture!” she’d exclaim, “What color is he now?”
Unrelated to sea creatures, but highly related to our homeschooling life, is the fact that this week is Tolkien week. September 21st was the 76th anniversary of the publication of The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien. An day that was celebrated with the first annual Fall Festival at
Archie Rocks Acoustic, little Theriot and my own kiddo in the garden at GBITW.
Good Books in the Woods. There was a costume contest, a toast to Tolkien, Mary Reason Theriot doing a book signing, Aoristos portraits being drawn and more. It was a pretty neat event, which we wrapped up at home with the kiddo indulging in a long time favorite The Lord of the Rings cartoon (the 1978 one, we have it on VHS… and yes, we still use our VCR).
September 22nd (yesterday) was Bilbo and Frodo Baggins’ birthday! They were born in different years, but on the same day! Something, I suppose, only truly geeky Tolkien fans care about. So this week is Tolkien week.
I may work for Half Price Books, a company I absolutely adore for so many reasons, but I spend a good chunk of my spare time at Good Books in the Woods. It is definitely my home away from home these days. My kid plays in the garden and with the toybox set up in the kids section while I absorb the ambiance of a house taken over by books. If my husband ever let me, the inside of my house would look exactly like Good Books…
Not So Surprised by the Joy of Lewis
Title: Surprised by Joy
Author: C.S. Lewis
I don’t remember when C.S. Lewis was not a part of my life. Really, I don’t. I am sure at one point in time, possibly even recently, I may have remembered that first moment that I discovered the world beyond the wardrobe – but I can no longer recall it’s newness. I only have the strong sense of having always been to Narnia before. I can only remember various occasions that I visited, like a beloved vacation spot that has become home.
But now I am a grown up, and often when I have a longing for Lewis and his darling brain, I dive into his grown up things. It started with The Screwtape Letters, which I read for the first time in high school or so. Then I moved onto Til We Have Faces, kudos to a fellow named Brian Franklin, who somehow got that into my hands although I don’t recall by what means. Then, finally, most recently, I really started to grow up… and I started reading his nonfiction.
In my mid-twenties I picked up Mere Christianity. Something I wanted to read together as a family. I think I was newly pregnant. I recall being pregnant, maybe, but I don’t recall the big-as-a-house-belly. (After all, when you are pregnant, you are a house – literally – for the tiny human you are growing.) Either way, we read most of it aloud together, I think I ended up finishing the last half on my own, impatient for a conclusion. Now that I’m thinking of it, perhaps I wasn’t pregnant yet at all. Perhaps I just have a hard time imagining life without our little person, even in the memories she wasn’t present for…
Image from Jesse Furey
So now, during a month of what Holly Golightly would refer to as The Mean Reds… during the stress of true adulthood… during moments when my brain (as the brain of the ‘creative’ is wont to do) attempts to dive into a deep melancholy… I have picked up Surprised By Joy: The Shape of My Early Life.
Am I suddenly ecstatic? Does Lewis propel me into a sanguine excitement, heart all a flutter with happiness? No. Not even close. But Lewis has reminded me what a lack of joy can really look like. He has reminded me that my joy is never truly gone – even when I don’t feel it.
Sitting here in the wee hours of dawn, because I couldn’t sleep, debating how soon I should brew my coffee while the sun just barely peeks up into the tree branches and a haze of Houston smog, I am with Lewis. I am with him at Wyvern and Chartres. I am with his father. I am with his atheistic sadness and in turn his Christian philosophies. I am with his love for fantasy, satyrs, heroes, and mythologies. I am with him in his distaste for other children and his desire to be alone, except for one good friend.
What I am not with? My own bad mood, which I like to call The Funk. Apparently, Holly, we all have silly names for it and I stopped borrowing yours long ago. Am I surprised that Lewis can scoop me from my mood, at least temporarily, with such ease? No. (Although I admit he had the aid of my daily endorphin dose… the morning kick of pushups and crunches…) Would I do almost anything for the most gorgeous set of leather bound C.S. Lewis books for sale at Good Books in the Woods? Probably, but if I had the money there would probably be a throw down for it in the parking lot between me and my Emily, but at least I know she’d share if she managed to win.
Anakalian Whims 