Teachers, keep on teachin'...

NOW READING:

• The Buffalo Creek Disaster by Gerald M. Stern
• The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco
  

As I read The Buffalo Creek Disaster, I am more and more convinced I have no desire to be a lawyer, and as I near the end I am actually questioning more and more things about this triumphant lawsuit. Like, maybe we *should* distinguish the "psychic impairment" claims of the thirty-three plaintiffs who were not even there the day of the disastrous flood from the claims of the hundreds of plaintiffs who were present and experienced the trauma. I understand that these "absent plaintiffs" also lost homes, property, loved ones, and so forth. But I think their claims are different. When I say this, it puts me on the "side" of the Evil Greedy Corporate Lawyers who represent Pittston, the deep pockets of responsibility. And that's lame. Because as with most polarized things in this world, I smell a false dichotomy.

And maybe, just maybe that's part of my problem with the lawyering and litigation process. It's really, really funny that I didn't think about this until just now. And not funny-ha-ha, but funny-freakin'-scary. I hate the "two sides" approach. Example: I hate the two-party political system. And not just because our two parties of choice are full of jackasses (as opposed to just the one party that has a jackass for a symbol). I think the two-party system is ridiculous and I resent being asked, "Are you a Republican or a Democrat?" What if I'm neither? Better yet, what if I'm both? And what if I'm both right-brained and left-brained? What if I liked English and math all through school while everyone was trying to draw some line between science people and humanities people? What if someone is both gay and straight? Kinsey would say many of us are in between, you know. What if I like L.A. and New York? What if I'm "a little bit country?"

OK. So. Litigation. This is where it gets complicated. Sometimes the art of lawyering is beautiful. Example, in Torts class last semester, where brilliant Professor Walker demonstrated clear, precise logic in all its beauty. ("What explains the coincidence is the quail." Ahhhhh.....) But today, reading about Buffalo Creek, I get angry, because sometimes I read Mr. Do-Gooder Lawyer's tale and while I love that he stands up for the citizens of Buffalo Creek, who really got screwed over, I also resent the implication that I should be on the legal "side" of the plaintiffs in the face of a good point made by the Pittston corporation, and I further resent that I should then be considered to be denying the plaintiffs' suffering. This is immature, Bush-like thinking: "If you're not with us you're against us."

Which brings me to William of Baskerville, in The Name of the Rose. He left behind the messy business of being an Inquisitor. He's wicked smart and doesn't want to go around torturing people. What's more, he recognizes that this "two sides" business is crap. In the maelstrom of debating popes, politicians, abbots, emperors, philosophers, magicians, scientists, and so-called heretics, William explains to Adso that sometimes everyone is right or no one is right and, most importantly, doctrines are bled together.

Furthermore, the fact that people are often wrong when they try to slap on black and white labels does NOT mean that there are no absolutes. I hate when people mix that up, too. Of course there are moral absolutes. Of course there are things that are inherently wrong (lying, violence, war) I hate when people are like, oh yeah, because you hate either/or labels you must think EVERYTHING is a shade of gray. No. I hate labels that show immature thinking. That show someone is incapable of thinking through the matter or the complexity of the situation. Whereas our boy William is eminently capable of thinking through complexity. Man, I like him. I so feel like I'm hanging out with him and Adso. I am positively savoring this book. Which is why it's OK that it's taking me so long to read it.

Well, that's my preliminary statement on the matter. Clearly now is not the time to abandon The Name of the Rose. In fact, it might help me get through final exams. William is like a beacon, something to strive for, a man who uses his learning and powers for good instead of evil...

"Powers, keep on lyin'
while your people keep on dyin'
World, keep on turnin'
'cause it won't be too long.

I'm so darn glad He let me try it again,
'cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin.
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then.
Gonna keep on tryin' till I reach the highest ground..."

--lyrics by Stevie Wonder

Buffalo

NOW READING: The Buffalo Creek Disaster by Gerald M. Stern

OK, so I have been trying to be a Good Student, and to that end I have not been reading The Name of the Rose. I have not touched it for more than a week. And frankly, I have not really found myself accomplishing all that much more for my classes and final exams than I was previously accomplishing. So maybe I will allow myself to read a few Umberto pages per day, even during this dreaded exam period. After all, let's be realistic here. It's hardly The Name of the Rose that's to blame for what are sure to be some hideous grades on these finals.

But for the moment, I'm quite engrossed in my Civil Procedure reading, and that is largely because we are reading The Buffalo Creek Disaster and it is a book! An actual book, not a casebook, text, appendix of supplementary legal materials, etc. And it is my favorite thing I have read for Civ Pro in two semesters of the class.

I think it's really interesting even if you're not a law student, and it's a quick read. The "disaster" in question was that the coal mining company had nasty refuse pile "dams" and one day when it rained it was just too much and tons of black water and debris flooded the Buffalo Creek Valley wiping out entire towns, settlements, and hundreds of lives. I'm curious if any of you "old fogies" who read my blog remember when this happened. I'm curious about the news coverage it got outside of West Virginia. I'm curious about your recollections. Please, recollect away.

As law students, we are reading this in Civ Pro as a kind of synthesis/review of the entire semester's worth of material, tracing all the procedural mechanisms of launching (and winning!) an enormous lawsuit. I actually think it's a brilliant teaching move on the part of my professor, and I'm rather enjoying it.

Here are some places you can learn more about the disaster...

West Virginia Division of Culture and History
The Charleston Gazette
Appalshop

...but I highly recommend the book!

April showers bring May roses

NOW READING: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

I'm not really sure that I'm going to be able to finish this book in a timely fashion. What I mean by that is: finals are coming. Oh boy, are they. They are looming so large in my entirely NOT distant future. What that means for The Name of the Rose is that I probably won't finish it until the end of May. Because I probably won't touch it for the next four weeks. Because even I, procrastinator extraordinaire, cannot justify reading that (as much as I want to!) with the vast amounts of reading I need to do for my finals right now.

Sigh.

Maybe I'll read a page or two a week anyway. It's such a good book! I so encourage you to read it. I really feel like I'm hanging out at the abbey with William and Adso, traipsing about, talking to monks, no one above suspicion, everyone revealing little things here and there, and sharp-as-a-tack William seizing upon them all. He's so Holmes-ian, that William. Sherlock or Oliver Wendell. (Wow, I've never until this moment thought about those two both being named Holmes. That's fun.)

On an unrelated literary note, in the last week I've discovered that the vast majority of my reader friends were admirers, fans, devotees of Kurt Vonnegut. I never knew. They never mentioned it, but suddenly Vonnegut died and they all spewed forth into the blogosphere their unbridled love for him. I've only ever read Slaughterhouse Five but I'm starting to think I'd best add Cat's Cradle to my as-soon-as-finals-are-over to do list, right after The Name of the Rose.

Simple Minds

NOW READING: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

It's kind of weird (but fun, interesting) to contemplate the history of the Catholic church in Europe. I suppose I should say "Europe, etc." The powers that were had this way of taking over more and more of everything and subjecting everyone to their will. They "converted," indoctrinated, tortured, and otherwise brought people into the fold. Sure, there were battles along the way and some people put up quite a fight, but they just seemed to get more and more power. Even when the popes and the emperors fought among themselves, the common people could never seem to get the upper hand. There was a lot of greedy storing of treasures acquired from the Middle East and other distant lands, all to make the rich richer and more powerful. And don't forget the total disregard for the truth if it flew in the face of the church-state's agenda.

When you consider that this went on for centuries, it kind of seems like we've got it easy with only eight years of the Bush Administation.

"He explained to me that all his life preachers had told him the Jews were the enemies of Christianity and accumulated possessions that had been denied the Christian poor. I asked him, however, whether it was not also true that lords and bishops accumulated possessions through tithes, so that the Shepherds were not fighting their true enemies. He replied that when your true enemies are too strong, you have to choose weaker enemies. I reflected that this is why the simple are so called. Only the powerful always know with great clarity who their true enemies are." - p. 192

Jesus wept laughed!

NOW READING: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

Among the other issues presented in this book, some of the monks in a chapter I recently read argued about laughter. Namely, is it OK? Is it OK to be funny? Did Jesus ever laugh?

Now, of course I'm not really expecting to agree with many monks on many fine points of theological debate, especially seeing as they tend to do this whole taking-the-Bible-literally thing waaaaay too much for my liking. But this I found interesting, and I'd like to gather with Brothers William, Adso, Ubertino, Malachi, and the like to discuss it. And Salvatore. Even though with him it's not really a discussion; he just sort of rambles in his incomprehensible language blend, but I'm rather fond of his incomprehensible language blend. Salvatore is my favorite. He has only had two scenes so far, but I'm hoping for many more.

Anyway the one part I found most interesting was the question of Jesus laughing, and specifically what one of the monks says about it: that he had no reason to, because he was omniscient. Whereas we laugh so often out of surprise, shock, etc., this divine-like being knew everything so you couldn't surprise him! No April Fool's fun hanging with Christ, that's for sure. Although, his big holiday comes right around that time anyway, so maybe you have bigger things to worry about than April fooling. Anyway, I thought this was a bizarre notion. Imagine being all-knowing, and then no longer being able to laugh.

Luckily, I don't believe in any omniscient beings. But I do sometimes refer to The Universe, which I may or may not have characterized as all-knowing, especially when it helpfully delivers me cosmic signs about what I should do with my life by playing a song on the radio or something. However, if said cosmic signs and my resulting life are any indication, then The Universe absolutely, positively knows how to have a good laugh.

Take it away, Depeche Mode!

"I don't mean to start any blasphemous rumors,
but I think that God's got a sick sense of humour,
and when I die
I expect to find
him laughing..."

Dulce et decorum est...

NOW READING: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

There's a whole lot of Latin goin' on in this book.

I like it. First of all, I like languages. This we know. I also like being able to figure out Latin based on my 1)English fluency 2)skill in various romance languages 3)resourcefulness 4)random religious/judicial/choir-singing background and training.

But there's a lot in this book. And sometimes I can't figure it out. And then I frown. And wish for the monks to start speaking in the "vulgar vernacular" again.

That's all for now.

"I've even heard her singing in the abbey!"

NOW READING: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

This one is definitely filed under 'At Long Last.' I first heard about The Name of the Rose years and years ago when I did my brief year at ASU, in between my first "unfortunate incarceration" undergraduate university and my "final resting place" undergraduate university. I took an English class at ASU called Medieval Lyric. It was quite honestly the most specialized class I took throughout undergrad. I can't for the life of me remember the name of the woman who taught it, either, despite the fact that I liked her, and she even had us over to her house at the end of the semester. In fact, she was the first person I heard talk about Dolores Claiborne, too. And we all know what a life-changing experience watching Dolores was for me.

Well, in good ol' Professor What's Her Name's class we talked about lots of medieval things but we also talked about lots of medievel women things. In fact, that was where I first heard of Hildegard von Bingen, too. Wow! I learned a lot in there. Why don't I know her name? Anyway, the class was small. About 10-15 of us. There was one girl in the class who seemed to have read every book on the planet. She was sort of intimidating, in that college-student-feminist-granola-fiercely-smart way. I liked to read, but this girl put me to shame. She brought up The Name of the Rose during one of our medieval women discussions. She said I would love it and "HAD to read it." I was mighty intrigued and pledged to do so. Well, years later I finally make good on this promise.

In the intervening years, of course, we have seen the phenomenon of folly that is The Da Vinci Code. Now, don't get me wrong. I was all over Dan Brown's little mystery, too, and in fact was the first on my block to read it. (And I have a great story about that, too, as anyone who has spent enough time in a bar with me knows.) But I had the misfortune to work in Borders during pretty much the entire reign of The Da Vinci Code; I'm pretty sure it finally came out in paperback sometime while I was in Korea. (The movie came out while I was there, too, but near the end of my time. I still haven't seen it.)

I call the Da Vinci craze folly because I was working in heavily Catholic Massachusetts and I got really sick of people coming in all in a snit about the book. For two reasons. One, these people acted like "God" had just strolled into their bedroom and announced "he" was taking back everything "he" had previously "said," and I just wanted to say, "It's FICTION people. Get over it. When did Dan Brown become your pope/prophet/pastor?" Whatever.

Second reason, though, is because I found nothing all that contradictory to Christianity as I knew and somewhat liked it in the book. Toward the end of my time as a religious person, I was also becoming quite the philosophical feminist, and I pointed out on more than one occasion that Jesus was clearly a feminist and that The Church has hidden certain things over the years and the Bible best illustrates truths when it's not being taken literally and so on and so on. Now that I'm entirely over religion, I don't really care about most of that anymore, but I still marvel at people who are clinging to their religious fervor on whom none of that has dawned quite yet.

Anyway, this is why I am very much liking William, with whom our narrator hangs out visiting the abbey. William is a brilliant monk, inquisitor, judge of human nature and more...and he seems to be challenging some traditional notions of what is good/bad/sin/holy. I like it.

Long live the trobaritzes!

This fate has been brought to you by the letter E

OK, here's how it happened. After my glorious journey through Philip K. Dick's dystopic Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, it was time to select an 'E' author, and the finalists were Louise Erdrich, George Eliot, and Umberto Eco. Only George Eliot was probably never really more than a courtesy finalist. I mean, I may have even picked up Silas Marner once before in my little lifetime, or was it Middlemarch? At any rate, didn't get past a page or two. But as much as I've meant to read her, this little A to Z quest of mine has turned out to be not so much about "classics" and more about twentieth century modernish literary men.

Notice, men. That was one of my main thoughts going into letter E. It was about damn time I had a woman author. At the same time I didn't want to let that stop me from reading something I otherwise intently wanted to read. For example, a book by Umberto Eco. Namely, Foucault's Pendulum, or, even more highly anticipated for even longer, The Name of the Rose.

Well, but then Louise Erdrich, heard so much about her, too. So perhaps it was time for fate to settle this once again, fate having worked out so well with the way it stepped in and chose a Philip K. Dick novel for us.

This time around, I asked fate what to do by going to the Hofstra undergraduate library. After spending enough time in front of the George Eliot shelves to confirm I wasn't really in the mood for her, I moved on to Louise Erdrich, where I was happy to find The Painted Drum, the one of hers by which I was most intrigued. I flipped through some of her others and then decided to stick with that one. All right, then, on to Umberto Eco...and if The Name of the Rose wasn't there, fate would be telling me to read Louise Erdrich.

First I had to remember that what with Umberto being Italian and all, he was on the next floor down (argh, I still say, to Library of Congress call numbers), and then when I finally got there, there was in fact no Rose. That was kind of a "Pam Bachrach moment." Pam was a woman I worked with in L.A., when I spent most of my time in the throes of indecision about what to do next with my life. We'd sit chain smoking on the balcony and she'd give me lots of good advice, most of which I'd ignore. Well, one day as I agonized between two choices she said, "Flip a coin. You'll know while it's in the air how you want it to land."

Ahhh, truer words were never spoken. I've often used this piece of advice since. And while I didn't flip for Louise and Umberto, I realized after fate told me which one to read that I already knew which one I wanted to read, and fate and I didn't agree. (As for me not being on the same page as fate, see also e.g. this year's NCAA tournament.)

Later that night after I finished my law schooly things I was heading back across campus when I recalled that a friend who lives in my building is a fan of The Name of the Rose, so I texted her asking if she owns it and can I borrow it. She responded that she would look right away but wasn't sure if her copy was here on Long Island with her. Perhaps all was not lost. When I got to the parking lot of the building, there she was searching her car, but to no avail.

Well, that was two strikes. But by this point, I had talked to my partner in reading project crime, and it turned out that when I'd pitched The Name of the Rose to him a couple days before I'd been more convincing than I'd realized, and he actually was sufficiently intrigued to read it. Well, then, I couldn't go ahead with Louise, now could I, if I'd sold someone ELSE on Umberto as well?

So, yeah, that's how it happened. Erdrich's The Painted Drum is lying on my floor, ignored, and Eco's The Name of the Rose, procured at Borders, is in my bag, all 500+ pages of it. Hey, it's spring break. I'm more justified than ever in reading a nice luxuriously long non-law book!

"Now, some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate
And for them I would not disagree
But I never learned nothing by playing it safe
I say fate should not tempt me..."

--mary-chapin carpenter, 'i take my chances'

Tears and Roses

I am thinking of electing Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said to my top 10, despite my lack of being able to say anything profound about it here. A book's entry into my top 10 is always a significant event, most recently achieved by Nabokov's Pale Fire in -- what was that -- 2003? Well, unless you count War and Peace. But the W & P just sort of occupies a place of its own; it defies ranking. As novels go, it transcends the medium. About the top 10, the last contender for a spot was Lust for Life by Irving Stone, but in the end that book met a fate much like that of USC's this weekend: it tried, it merited semi-finaldom, but it did not travel to the championship. I still love Lust for Life, though, don't get me wrong. But it really brought me something beyond Top Ten-ness. It brought me Vincent Van Gogh. Totally different.

Anyway, while my mental jury is still out on Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, we have moved on to The Name of the Rose. Is it fated to crack the Top Ten as well, seeing as it makes a lot of top ten lists of a lot of people I've known over the years? I'm so glad I'm finally reading it. Actually, I have something to say about fate's role in the selection of this book...but Property class awaits...stay tuned!

About the rabbit...

See, there's this story that a woman in Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said tells Jason about Emily Fusselman's rabbit. And it's got to be the most amazing story about a rabbit, ever. Giving Watership Down a run for its money, even. In a handful of pages (unlike Adams' allegorical tome) Emily Fusselman's rabbit comes to life, breaks your heart, inspires you, and makes you shake your head at your very existence. I can honestly say that in my decades of reading I have never quite experienced a moment like reading about Emily Fusselman's rabbit. I want to tell you about it, but I also want you to read it. I want to send you scurrying off to your local bookstore/library to read just that chapter, but at the same time I don't think it would be as meaningful out of context, even if it does come out of nowhere. Would it? How do we ever know?

One Big Drug

It's funny, because earlier this week a friend and I were talking about drugs and comparing stories of big drug trips we had experienced/witnessed. And then along comes the revelation (SPOILER ALERT!!) (not that any of you are reading the book!) that Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said is basically an alternative reality concoted by Alys on a maniacal drug trip. It's really bizarre, though, because I wonder why when they come back to reality Felix still doesn't know Jason. Is he lying? Or was part of his brain killed along with Alys? This, this, this is the crux. I tried to develop a theory about this, but it fell apart.

With wondering awe, I ponder a drug that can pull others into its spell. It's like when we were kids and always used to ask each other, "What if this is all just a dream I'm having?!" Except then the other would be like, no, it's a dream I'M having. We all want to be having the dream. It keeps coming back to that, to these questions of self, and identity, and I-think-therefore-I-am. Even on a big drug trip, eh?

Who am I?(Or, "Jukeboxes never made mistakes")

I love to ponder things such as Los Angeles, celebrity, and the so-called shallowness found in the glorious locale that is SoCal. This may be part of why I connected strongly to certain parts of Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said (which I loved, have I mentioned that?) I find it annoying when people, especially people on the East Coast, talk about Los Angeles with a dismissive wave of their hands of judgment. They accuse people there of being shallow, of driving everywhere even if it's only three blocks away, of being obsessed with celebrity culture, and just generally doing things that everyone else in the nation/most of world also does. I have long since determined that most of the scathing indictments of L.A. that you hear are born of ignorance, jealousy, or both.

I love it there. I miss it, even though I had to move on. I feel conflicted about it in many ways. I was miserable there for a short time, and I was deliriously happy with life there. I would say that it was in fact life in Los Angeles that taught me how to live.

On the other hand, I can totally be self-deprecating and also I can laugh at quirky things, and L.A. is nothing if not quirky. So, for example, I rather appreciate lines from Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said such as this:

"'I hate L.A.'...
'So do I,' the pol said...'But we must learn to live with it: it's there.'"
-p. 122

Yet I also appreciate the much bigger and broader statement that this book makes about celebrity, identity, and self. The whole plot of the book, of course, questions whether without your identity you would really exist. Think about that for a second. The answer probably goes the other way, really, in that once you exist you begin to construct your identity. So, Philip K. Dick probes this and takes it to another level. If you were Jason Taverner, a celebrity performer whose television show is seen every week by 30 million viewers and one day you woke up and suddenly, inexplicably, no one knew who you were, even the woman(en) you'd been sleeping with, and there was no record of your birth, your fame, your place in the world, what would that mean for you?

In the imagined dystopic police state Dick has created in Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said (which, by the way, have you noticed I'm not abbreviating that title? I really like the title) it would mean for starters that you need to get your hands on some identity cards, and quick, lest you be shipped off to a forced labor camp or taken out by a pol or a nat. And that is what our hero sets out to do, setting the weird book's plot in motion. But later when his identity is regained (and didn't we know it would be, really?) you're forced to think about what it would mean to lose yourself like that.

Like, if a celebrity fell in the forest and there were no paparazzi there to snap pictures, would it really matter? That sort of thing. But what if YOU fell in the forest? Don't we all just want people to care about us? I used to think about this all the time. Especially when I lived in L.A. and I started knowing more and more people who were related to/dating/working with famous people, ever reducing the degrees of separation. Or who had some notoriety and/or became famous themselves. It never really bothered me that people are interested in someone who knows someone famous. I think it's a lot like high school. I mean, how do there get to be popular people? Sure, some people are friendly and outgoing and involved, and exponentially their "fame" grows, but that doesn't explain it all. At some point popularity feeds upon itself; that's why by senior year you can often predict the same four people who will get nominated for homecoming queen etc. It's the same as someone like Paris Hilton, who becomes ever more famous just for being famous.

Jason is so happy when he gets his identity back, and the reader is SO happy for him. With him. It's quite the exciting moment, there in the coffee shop, when Ms. Pottery Thang innocently strolls back from the jukebox and is like, OK, I'm playing your song. Suddenly, Jason (not to mention me along with him) is in a daze, What?! It's there?! And he continues to marvel, through many playings of the song, at his very existence. Which has been reinstated.

"'Again I'm real,' he said. 'But if it could happen once, for two days--' To come and go like this, to fade in and out--
'Maybe we should leave,' Mary Anne said apprehensively.
That cleared his mind. 'Sorry,' he said, wanting to reassure her.
'I just mean that people are listening.'
'It won't hurt them,' he said. 'Let them listen; let them see how you carry your worries and troubles with you even when you're a world-famous star.'"
- p. 180

We have this great thing here at law school called anonymous grading. On our exams, and on this most recent (huge, dastardly) assignment in our appellate advocacy class, we put our given final exam number instead of our names, and only after the thing has been graded is the product linked to our identity. I see why it happens. It amuses me none the less. Also they are five digit numbers and mine begins with two, so I kept writing 2-X-X-X-X, and in my head then I would start singing from Les Miserables, "Who am I?! Who am I?! Two!-four!-six!-oh!-one!!!!!!!" What a dramatic moment it is when Jean Valjean reveals himself, he who has gone into hiding and come out of hiding, always protecting people he loves and striving for the greater good. Well, I mean, Valjean has a lot of dramatic moments of course. Anyway, I was also thinking during one of my exams last semester as well as during this appellate brief we just wrote that my professors who KNEW me would know it was my exam whether my name was on it or not. I've long been told my "voice" (the figurative one) comes through in my writing, and I can see it happening, usually.

Well...look at me. More information, but still a lot of rambling. I must say, though, that I LOVED this book. When I read the ending, on the subway last night, the last words made my heart skip a beat, made my spirit swell. And I'm totally going to say more about that. Tomorrow.

MADness

All right. It has come to my attention that since my recent discovery of my love for Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, I am giving a lot of random and vague ramblings, without giving a lot of information. Although, hello, isn't that what blogs are for? But that's not the point. The point is: I'm BUSY, people! I'm also almost done with the book. Which I love. And about which I plan to say something specific and enlightening and profound. Soon. Very soon.

For now, another fun quote:

"'Is she insane?' Jason asked him.
'I'm not in a position to know, sir,' the man in the brown uniform said."
-- p. 160

Tear-flowin' love

Love it. Love it love it love it. So much love for the Philip K. Dick. I totally want to go read other things he's written, like right now! I might do that. Speaking of what to read next, for anyone who cares to vote, I'm looking at Eco Eliot or Erdrich for 'E.' (That's Umberto, George, and Louise.) Speaking of voting, and Georges, today I got the brilliant inspiration in the midst of the signs posted for all the "Vote for me for president of law school student government" etc. signs that are up right now, as the campaign for next year's officers is in full swing, that why don't we vote George W. for president of Hofstra Law SBA and then he can step down from "his" current position? That got me a dirty look. Anyway, I digress. Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said is so good!

It's funny, like, "I hate L.A., too, but we have to live with it. It's there."

It's totally amazingly deep, as I tried to at least mention in my last post.

And furthermore I totally want to know what is going to happen!

I LIKE this Alys character, a lot. Except now she's ... well, bones? Maybe? What exactly happened there?

I definitely recommend this book.

Off to Indigo...

Love gained

First of all, I now love Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. That's right, I said love. I also love that I'm reading it. I don't know what great secrets of the universe are contained in Valis and the others, but this one is transcendent. WHO KNEW. Love it.

And speaking of love, how brilliant is Philip K. Dick? Because oh, you know, along about chapter 11 he just completely defines love. Hello? Have we not, collectively, as a species, been trying to define love via song, philosophy, scripture, poem, art, action, thought, drug-induced frenzy...for millennia? And along comes Philip to just throw it out there. Love: it overcomes the instinct for survival!

Thing is, even if I didn't have to dash off to Property at the moment, I'd have an incredibly hard time explaining this, and my attempts to paraphrase him would be pathetic. But it is so intense and so good, this book!

And dash I must.

Emily Fusselman's rabbit. Holy. Crap. I will have more to say here.

The Writer's Last Sigh

First, Kathy is MESSED up. Just putting that out there.

Second, I've been giving some more thought to my dislike of sighence fiction and what I think of Philip K. Dick. I have fleshed out my theory. You see, what bugs me is that nearly all sigh-fi writers have the same weakness. They've got this wacky world going on where people live on Jupiter or where there are no more murders or where there are microtransmitters planted in everyone's brain or where the fire department burns books or what have you, and you're reading along, and they drop some hints and provide some things with subtle exposition and good storytelling and context, and then it's like suddenly they go Oh, crap, I have to explain to my readers that in this world everyone has a brain transplant when they turn twelve so suddenly two characters have a totally implausible conversation and one says, "You know how in this world we all have a brain transplant when we turn twelve?" and the other says, "Yes, right, that's so they can collect our old brains for the aliens who come to take the best cells out of them" and it's like -- THEY WOULD NOT BE SAYING THAT! And not because I can't suspend my disbelief about the brain transplant but because they ALREADY KNOW that and it's stupid and it just shows the weak sigh-fi writer has become lazy about subtly exposing and wanted to take a shortcut and I hate it.

So that has happened. On the other hand, I think this book is rather literary. He is forever making literary allusions. Sometimes he comes out and cites "'And leaves the world to darkness and to me,' he thought, reccalling a line from Thomas Gray's Elegy. A long cherished favorite of his..." (p. 79). Other times he just alludes. "Another loser, among many. Many are called, he said to himself, but few are chosen. That's what it means to be a pro." (p.62) One can tell that Philip K. Dick is smart and writerly. But I did sigh a little bit. I haven't sighed for many pages now. We shall see what happens...

Also, I still love Heather. She is my new Myrtle Clare. (And p.s., how rad is it that the real Myrtle was IN THE MOVIE In Cold Blood?!) Heather is so cranky. Psycho Kathy had some Talking Tina-esque doll that knows about people and it told Jason to find Heather in an attempt to get out of this "why don't I exist, suddenly?" predicament. So he calls one of Heather's unlisted numbers, and turns out she doesn't have any more recollection of him than did his agent or the birth certificate files or anybody else, but there is clearly more to come there. Their conversation is hilarious, and she thinks he's some "twerp fan" and keeps calling him that and demanding to know how he got her private number, but it's just so randomly hilarious how she is so feisty. I love it. He's like, Heather, Heather, I'm a six! And she responds, "A six what? You have six legs, is that it? Or more likely six heads. " (p. 58) I can just hear her spitting those words at him. I LIKE her. Immensely.

I'm also rather on the edge of my seat to find out more about this whole six business, I must say. All we know is that they're some kind of elite group of people who were made to be sixes. No idea what that really is about.

Sigh.

Flow My Tears, the 1st-Year Law Student Said

So, yeah. We chose Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. By "we" I mean, variously: me, the whims of fate, my fellow reader/partner in comprehensively dorky crime, the buyers who are responsible for inventory selection (or lack thereof) at behemoth bookstores...

Here are my findings, so far.

• I like the cover. (My edition is ISBN: 0679-74066X) It reminds me a little bit of our poster for The Vagina Monologues, come to think of it.
  
• I can pronounce the title. But can I understand it? It is supposed to come from a poem that composer John Dowland set to music in something like the 1600s. But the references to that piece write his lyric as "Flow, my tears..." In other words, it's a command. So where's Philip K. Dick's comma? Yeah. Exactly. He only puts one, later, preceding "the Policeman Said." Maybe I will understand this when I meet a policeman character later on in the book. Maybe I won't. Stay tuned.
  
• I've read four chapters and have met as many weird characters.
  
• I don't know what I think about it yet. When I first started reading it I was in a wretched mood, brought on by the Evil Appellate Brief Consuming My Life On Which I Am Making Substantial Progress. The other day it was more like the Evil Appellate Brief Consuming My Life On Which I Had Barely Started. I hated everyone I saw, but really I maybe just hated the world of research and procrastination in which I dwelt. And in the first chapter of Flow... there was a cranky woman who hated everyone and perfectly matched my mood and I loved it.
  

  "He had never understood her dislike for fans; to him they were the lifeblood of his public existence...'You shouldn't be an entertainer,' he said to Heather, 'feeling the way you do. Get out of the business. Become a social worker in a forced-labor camp.'
  'There're people there, too,' Heather said grimly."
  

• Yeah, forced labor camps. Why? Well, because it's a weird world. It's a science fiction book. It necessarily has weird flying machines and mind control and a dystopic society and all that other crap. I don't dislike it; it's just so -- well, science fictiony. Sigh. Science fiction makes me sigh. Hey, I should call it sighence fiction! Brilliant! Oh, I'm so going to do that. But I digress.

  My old reading pals in L.A. and I would talk about our Walls. We each had a Wall with regard to books. I think one friend's wall was Latin American magical realism and such. Another person might have a Wall with romance. We're voracious readers, but stop short of reading "everything." My Wall, I think, is usually science fiction. Even when it's good, it takes a lot for me to read it. Plus, I'm not entirely sure I think it's all that good when it's Good Science Fiction. Example, Fahrenheit 451. Loved the message, but frankly I liked the interview with Bradbury included in the back of the 50th anniversary edition better than the book itself. (In the interview he commented among other things on the insidious aspects of television and their similarity to things in his book).

  The only science fiction book I've ever really liked, really, is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Often when I say that, people say, "Well, and that isn't even really science fiction..." Exactly. Nonetheless, I have long been intrigued by Philip K. Dick, and I really wanted to read something by him. Plus I had this idea of him that he was kind of scisighence fictiony, but also kind of postmodern weird fictiony. And I like that very much. Pynchon and the like. So I'm still reserving judgment, and I'm trying to break down my Wall, but so far when I think about whether or not I like this book, I just think, "Well, it's really sighence fictiony..."

• Also, I don't really have time for much of anything until I finish this dastardly Evil Appellate Brief Consuming My Life On Which I Am Making Substantial Progress. But I sneak in a chapter of Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said here and there on the train. And it makes me happy. Because, well, anything is better than the Evil Appellate Brief Consuming My Life On Which I Am Making Substantial Progress. To which I must now return.

Which one, which one, which one?

If anyone has anything to say to me about which Philip K. Dick novel to read (he has been elected to represent 'D') then text me in the next few hours or forever hold your peace. Sara, I have taken into consideration your pitch for Valis, even though we really had narrowed it down to Ubik or Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said... Quite frankly, I'm leaning toward Flow My Tears... if nothing else because I know how to pronounce it. (oh, hush, don't take me so seriously all the time)

By the way, this is fun: http://literature-map.com/

Hangman game!

from tori amos:

"And if I die today, I'll be the happy phantom
And I'll go chasin' the nuns out in the yard
And I'll run naked through the streets without my mask on
And I will never need umbrellas in the rain
I'll wake up in the strawberry fields every day
And the atrocities of school I can forgive
The happy phantom has no right to bitch

Ooo-hoo, the time is getting closer
Ooo-hoo, time to be a ghost
Ooo-hoo, every day we're getting closer
The sun is getting dim
Will we pay
For who we've been?"

When I was in Korea, I had great moments, profound moments, sad moments, shitty moments...all kinds of moments. I'm thinking Perry Smith's time in Korea was filled with more of the sad and the shitty, what with him fighting in the war police action and all. I only hope he had some of the profound, too. I'm also thinking that in my time on Earth, I have been privy to more great moments, overall, then he had in his time on Earth.

"So if I die today, I'll be the happy phantom
And I'll go wearin' my naughties like a jewel
They'll be my ticket to the universal opera
There's Judy Garland taking Buddha by the hand
And then those seven little men get up to dance
They say Confucius does his crossword with a pen
I'm still the angel to a girl who hates to sin

Ooo-hoo, the time is getting closer
Ooo-hoo, time to be a ghost
Ooo-hoo, every day we're getting closer
The sun is getting dim
Will I pay
for who I've been?"

One thing I had in Korea, one thing that was more than a moment, was in fact a thing that filled my mornings, my thoughts, my evenings and occasional weekends (what with field trips and telephone teaching and graduation...), and in the end also filled my heart: this thing was pre-school. Ahhh, my pre-school. I love those little five-year-old nutcases. I might add that they were some of the sharpest tools in my Ding Ding Dang shed. I have chronicled many of our (mis)adventures, but today I recall a particular thing that delighted them.

They liked to play hangman. They liked it a lot. And I, in turn, liked to play hangman with them. Liked it a lot. Because it was easy, and ate up like fifteen minutes of the class, and it was in fact a great way to learn the language. Without exception, my older classes hated it. If I turned to the board and started drawing the little upside-down L-ish thing, they would chorus (here, imagine the tone of an eye-rolling teenager), "Ohhh, teacher. No hangman game!" But preschool? Quite a different story. As soon as my dry-erase marker had drawn that 90-degree angle, fifteen little voices, a couple of whom could ordinarily be counted on to speak about as much English as I spoke Korean, would cry in unfettered delight, "HANGMAN GAME!!!!!" And we would play.

(Don't forget the added benefit it had of helping them practice an important sentence structure: "Is there a D?" "No there is not a D" etc. Correcting the ones who said, "Is it an A?" and so forth)

I just finished reading In Cold Blood. First, some of their fellow inmates on death row, and then, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith themselves went to the gallows. It was pretty intense.

I was thinking about the game of hangman. I was thinking about how sometimes people admonish me and sometimes I admonish other people to be careful of their word choice, even in seemingly innocent instances of usage. For example, the other day I was irritated in Civil Procedure when my teacher spoke of an "astonishingly sexist article by a feminist professor," eliciting a laugh with his loaded words, which laugh I think he cultivated. Even if he was trying to prove an opposite point, he was playing into dangerous characterizations of the f-word, a word people willfully, obstinately refuse to understand. For another example, the other week I dashed off one of my law school "e-newsletters" to friends and family in which I self-deprecatingly referred to myself as "hippie-dippie," contrasting this state with the "just plain ignorant" state of some of my classmates. My friend Kim rightfully called me on it, urging me to be careful with my word choice, lest I bolster the negative perception of a certain free-spiritedness come to be known as hippie-dom. You can agree or disagree with me about hippies and feminists (I rather like being known as either of those things, actually, and I loathe most labels) and you can still understand my point.

Which is, how is it that I can have a room of five-year-olds ecstatic over the prospect of a hangman? A detached, literally disembodied, dangling "man" on a dry-erase board, his fate in the hands of some children who have no idea that they'll have better luck with R, S, T, L, N, E and should stop guessing Z, X, and Q right off the bat. And then, when either he is dead or they are triumphant, they whose fates are briefly intertwined with this hanging man, then the points are distributed to the winners and everyone cries, "Let's play again!"

"And if I die today
And if I die today
And if I die today
A-ha, chasing nuns out in the yard..."

---'happy phantom' - Tori Amos---

"The killer in me is the killer in you..."

Perry has this to say about the expected outcome of his trial: "Those prairiebillys, they'll vote to hang fast as pigs eat slop. Look at their eyes. I'll be damned if I'm the only killer in the courtroom." -- page 289

Later, his Army buddy who has come to Kansas to be a character witness questions whether Perry can really be as cold and lacking in contrition as he appears. Perry tells him, "Why? Soldiers don't lose much sleep. They murder, and get medals for doing it." - page 291

Oh, I like that last one quite a bit!

True, much of this is the posturing, to say nothing of the lashing out, that you get from a murderer on the verge of conviction. The in-your-face and yet I'm-not-that-bad writhings.

But it's interesting to contemplate nonetheless.

As are Smashing Pumpkins lyrics!

"Disarm you with a smile
And cut you like you want me to
Cut that little child
Inside of me and such a part of you
Oooh, the years burn
I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my choice
What's a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you..."

-- from 'Disarm'

Perry, Perry, Perry...

I am so fascinated by Perry's little life in the "girls' cell" off of the undersheriff's kitchen. I am fascinated by the letter from his Army "buddy" he vaguely knew in Korea. I am fascinated by the two tomcats prowling courthouse square, and I am fascinated by the Garden City pastors' and reverends' and such-like folks' general opposition to the death penalty. This is the one thing I have always liked about some religious leaders, like, say, the Pope. Especially the recently deceased pope. I didn't agree with him on family planning, but I always appreciated his anti-death-penalty and anti-war stances. (I know historically popes have waged war. That's not the point. At least it's not mine.)

I am a bucket of fascination with regards to In Cold Blood. I love this book and I am so glad I chose to read it! I have just read the part where motion after motion was denied. The poor defense attorneys. Of course, I loved that chapter and related to it differently than I would have prior to coming to law school.

And, I LOVE what Capote did in the driving-across-the-Southwest-confession chapter. Did anyone else notice this? As they are bringing the prisoners back from Vegas to Kansas, in separate cars, they finally get Perry to start talking. And he writes the scene in present tense! The book has been telling the story in past tense, but this one part switches to present. It was so intense. So visceral. You're totally there in the car. Duntz says...he lights a cigarette...Dewey looks back...etc. What a brilliant writerly move.

I love this book.

Wow.

I'm off to go see how it ends...surely my appellate brief can wait a few hours more...

Holy CRAP!

ohmygodohmygodohmygod. This book is SO good!

Omaha, Kansas, hitchhikers, barns, bad checks, Miami, blond boy collecting bottles by the roadside while poor sickly Gramps shovels in the pancakes...it's all so amazing...and then, and then, and then...
---> hear the fever pitch to which I build <---
they've so got them! in Vegas! and they drop it, that word Clutter, and it elicits the desired shocking reaction, and then WHAT?!
"It was Perry...He killed them all"

Oh really, Mister Wild Dick Hickock?

I want to keep reading!!! How can a girl be expected to go to class at a time like this?!

"Open a map...point your finger--maybe that's it"

OK, now that we've got all that childhood reminiscence out of the way, and now that I've had my first official Law School Classmate In Cold Blood Encounter, in which she approached me in the library upon seeing my paperback on the table in front of me and we entered into a discussion about how this isn't really a true crime book ("I realized," she said, "that this is what all those other true crime writers are trying, and failing, to do"), yes, now that all that is done -- can we just talk about how awesome is the landlady of the Las Vegas rooming house?!

She is just fantastic. "Uh-huh. Came all the way from Kansas on a parole case. Well, I'm just a dizzy blonde. I believe you. But I wouldn't tell that tale to any brunettes." -- p. 176 I love it. She's so funny. She also, apparently, misjudged Perry. (Or did she?) She, even though she chugs her beer and gives it some thought, doesn't think whatever they want Perry for can be anything too big. She thought he was a little punk, is all.

So, did Dick corrupt him? Or what? I know, I'm not there yet. Then again, maybe I am. I don't know if we ever get to delve as deeply into Dick as we do into Perry. Also, I found myself impressed, almost like pleased, that the prisoner friend decided to inform. I picture him so vividly, lying there in his cell hearing the news reports, and knowing that the information he handed on to Dick about the Clutter family has in some way led to their deaths. I am aware that snitching is much to the dismay of hooligans everywhere. Alas, part of his fear was that he might be an accessory to the crime. Of course I look at that differently after taking Criminal Law last semester. The difference between knowing about a crime, as opposed to knowledge plus aid and purpose, which is to say, wanting it to succeed, can be a huge difference. Capote points out that the Kansas investigators would have soon made their way to this fellow anyway, as they tracked lead after lead after lead. Well, whatever. I was somehow proud of him. I wonder how it would have turned out differently had he not told?

Like - how would it have changed the encounter with my new favorite character, the skanky rooming house landlady in Vegas?! I think she's eclipsed Mrs. Myrtle Clare the postmistress, at least until we wend our way back to Holcomb and Garden City. But now, in the far western states, we're on our way to go see sister Barbara in California. Dear sister. Dear, dear sister of the not-quite-a-lecture letter.

It would seem that two of the characters in whom I most delight -- Myrtle and Ms Landlady Thang -- are kind of similar. Sassy, tough, middle-aged, seen a lot of shit pass them by in their day, laughed at most of it, remembered some fondly. But where does Perry fit in? Does everyone - or anyone - relate to him, too? Is it just me?

My kick-ass law library has a new thing: law-related feature films that we can check out! The other day, a cart appeared with a selection of DVDs, everything from Inherit the Wind to Erin Brockovich. And, guess what, In Cold Blood is among them. That is so fun! I love the law library. (Remember last semester when I rejoiced as they urged people to chill out for two seconds of their stressbag rising blood pressure legal lives?) I am excited to check out the movie, once I finish reading the book. This week, I checked out Regarding Henry instead. I applaud my law library. It's up there with Torts and the LIRR in contention for the Best Thing About Life Since Coming to Hofstra award. I really just want to go read In Cold Blood instead of, say, all the pages of Contracts and Property I should read for tomorrow...

What--I was supposed to be writing some appellate brief this week? You want me to think about school? With Al Dewey and Perry Smith and Dick Hickock galavanting about the nation variously chasing and escaping each other? And themselves?

God/murder clarification, plus geeks and freaks

Let me just note, in case my last post was unclear: I applaud my mother. I applaud her for introducing me to many things (traveling the entire country, good music, fabulous books and movies being just a few). I applaud the support for free speech, new ideas, and critical thinking that went into her letting me watch scary movies (but always the GOOD scary movies) when I was young. Rosemary's Baby. The Shining. Not insignificantly, she repeatedly denied my sister's and my requests to rent Faces of Death on our little sojourns to the video store. (Also she did NOT allow me to watch Platoon, which I really, really wanted to go see, for reasons of too many f-bombs, I think. Funny, to think about now, if you think about how prevalent that word is in my random conversation...)

I applaud her recognition, as well as my various teachers' recognition, that I was smart and had kind of moved beyond Beverly Cleary. (We basically skipped right over the whole Judy Blume debate. Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret had nothing on Jaws, or Squeaky Fromme.) I find it hilarious that my sister and I would sit there prattling on acting out The Shining during the day and then I would be scared at night, and then the next day I'd act it out again like nothing had happened. And isn't that why we watch those movies, anyway? We want to be scared, even though we don't want to be. And now, since I've outgrown movie-induced anxiety, I no longer a)want to be scared b)get scared by movies. So I don't watch them. But I fondly remember when I did.

For a recent example, let's take The Ring. Not something stupid and random gore-ridden like Saw, but let's say The Ring, which came out and it was garnering critical praise and people were swearing it was "really, truly scary" and I was like - whatever. I just have no desire anymore. It's weird. I think it's funny. As a child, I would have been, like, ditching school to go see it I think. Mom would have taken me to see it and then we would have gone to lunch. Now, I haven't even bothered to rent it. Or The Blair Witch Project. Everyone but everyone was up in a snit about that movie. I would have been ecstatic at age twelve. But I saw it in my twenties. I thought it was stupid.

My elementary school best friend also has ended up here in New York. Not long ago we got together for lunch and were reminiscing about various childhood things, as we are wont to do, and I found it amusing that she remembered me being allowed to watch those movies and she remembered being jealous, too, even twenty years later. And by the way, she was the other smartest-girl-on-the-block type of thing, so it wasn't about that. It probably helped my case that I was the youngest in my family, and she was the oldest of six kids. She had good examples to set. Not me. I copied my sister in everything right as she did it and refused to ever accept the suggestion that I should "wait my turn" a couple years, and was often exposed to or involved in things ahead of my time, as it were.

And I almost forgot about The Amityville Horror! Who could forget that! The freaking flies! My sister was totally onto that one. In fact, I remember her actively trying to get me interested in that one, despite initial resistance on my part. How happy and nostalgic does it make me now, every time I'm at the station awaiting my train on the Long Island Rail Road, when the LIRR conductor calls out the train bound for Babylon, "making stops at...Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville..." Someday I will ride that train to Amityville. Just to ride the train to Amityville. Maybe when my mom and sister come to visit?

But you know I was at best on the periphery of the cool kids circles, what with my being "comprehensively dorky" and all, and even at a tender age already roundly digusted by people I didn't consider smart. I would make friends at Girl Scouts or softball or wherever, but at some point I just didn't care about Care Bears/shopping/Michael Jackson and later boys/parties/trying pot, unless I was intellectually challenged as well. (This is why the thespian crowds of high school were sweet relief.) So sometimes if my sister didn't know a particular thing, then I had no hope. Like one time, that smart best friend and I came across the word "geek," scrawled in graffiti on a skateboard ramp. I think we were maybe eight. We immediately decided it was a cool word, and we started making up all sorts of uses for it. In the dictionary (clearly outdated?) we found only the definition of a circus performer who bites the heads off live animals. This, too, struck as cool. We even started some sort of club with Geek, as we conceived him, as our mascot. This all lasted until my older, daughter-of-the-hippie parents, far more worldly, other best friend (with whom I did things like discover in the gutter a discarded issue of Hustler magazine which we hid in her room and secretly looked at later) informed me that I was an idiot and a "geek" was someone totally nerdy and uncool. Duh. Touche.

My point? Did I have one? I hate censorship. So the whole notion of refusing outright to let your child read something makes my blood boil. Harry Potter, anyone? Although I personally have no interest whatsoever in the little wizard, I will passionately defend him when the book-burners start their rants.

My other point? I really did always wait for that projectile vomiting scene in The Exorcist. And now I hate vomiting. And spit. Shudder. Is there a connection? Who knows?

Still another point? Do we really know when our kids are ready for anything? When I was in Arizona over winter break on my "21 Days, 21Movies," quest, I was thinking of taking my three-year-old nephew to the theater, to see either Happy Feet or Charlotte's Web. (Since he owns Cars on DVD he had already inducted me into the world of Lightning McQueen.) Well, this necessitated discussion with my sister on whether either of those flicks would be appropriate for him. In the end, I ended up going to see Happy Feet without him, and while I don't think it would have been inappropriate, it might have just flat-out not held a 3-year-old's interest, because it packs such an "adult" moral/political punch. And p.s., I love it. The penguins rule.

As for Charlotte, my sister of course knows that story intimately (because we did also read the children's classics, before we moved on to Helter Skelter -- let's not forget that my parents had my sister and me reading by age two! I don't remember a time when I didn't know how to read) and she and my brother-in-law were worried about the ending. Was my nephew ready for death? Well, I didn't really press the point. I don't really care if nephew gets to see Charlotte's Web this year or in three years, and besides if I don't take him to the movies, that's just more popcorn for me. But I remember thinking, just sort of philosophically, how do we know? How do we know when he's ready? What does it mean to be ready? What about when someone dies in real life, and the fact that no one is ever READY for that?

Like in Holcomb, Kansas. Or Benedict Canyon and Los Feliz. And I was thinking about this as I read In Cold Blood some more in the last few days. First of all, I really, really like this book, OK. A lot. It's so good. I'm currently in the chapter where Perry is going through his belongings as they prepare to leave Mexico, and the letter from his father to the parole board as well as the letter from his sister to him made me nearly burst. It's so hard to explain the effect reading those words has. This book is so good. As I've been pondering these questions, such as why do we read about crime? and criminals? and why did I used to love to and now can't be bothered? and what is the point of the True Crime section? Well, I think it's kind of bizarre that I was several days into reading and blogging (you might say rambling) about this book before I realized it's about the humanity of the killers.

Like, I still relate to Perry, even as we learn more about how messed up he is. Maybe because we learn more about how messed up he is. He's a packrat, trying to get rid of his earthly possessions that he might travel on unfettered, but there are some things to which he simply must cling. And his guitar! I cried for him and the loss of his guitar! And sure, I might not believe in literal maps and chests filled with gold, but don't I really operate as if somewhere out there, on some level, a buried treasure lies just waiting for me to find it?

It's like the movie Downfall (Der Untergang), Oscar-nominated a couple years ago but bound to lose to The Sea Inside. Der Untergang is about the final days of Hitler, in the bunker, and I remember that as it garnered its slew of awards there was the usual (censoring? moral? "moral"?) outrage that someone could play Hitler as a human. When in fact, that was the point, as the actor said on several occasions. You would do well to remember that Hitler, and Osama bin Laden, and Perry and Dick, were/are humans. They're not machines, robots, or monsters. They are humans, and they are deeply, tragically flawed, and it is humans who do things we label evil, not random evildoers who are somehow not human. There but for the grace of God go...all of us?

And then--oh my god oh my god!!--Korea, and Worcester, and New York!!! So Perry was in the Korean war. He spent time in Korea. This, I know, affects a person. (See: historical origins of this blog, etc.) And then he's off trying to find his Army buddy in Worcester, and is this about the best description ever of a city or what: "a Massachusetts factory town of steep, up-and-down streets that even in the best of weathers seem cheerless and hostile." -- p. 137 That is SO Worcester. And Worcester is an intricate part of my family on the Napikoski side, so I'm totally allowed to say that.

And then it's New York, and his room at 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue, in which neighborhood I have spent much quality time, wandering from Penn Station after I disembark from the Long Island railroad in pursuit of whatever thing I'm in pursuit of that day in Manhattan or beyond... Perry recalls:

"In over three months I practically never left the Broadway area. For one thing, I didn't have the right clothes. Just Western clothes--jeans and boots. But there on Forty-second Street nobody cares, it all rides--anything. My whole life, I never met so many freaks."
- p. 138

Perry's mother went alcoholic and left. She left on many levels, both before and after she physically left his father, and her family. Two of his siblings killed themselves. The one who remains alive and writes him the long, amazing letter while he is in prison, the letter he keeps with him and can't bear to discard, even if he's angry at it, the letter she's sorry (or is she?) has to pass through the hands of the censor -- well, that sibling is the one who ended up leading the "normal," married, picket-fence, devoted-to-children, baths/bedtime/clothing sizes, no-time-to-read-anymore-raising-a-family life. Do I see my sister in there? Do I still see myself in Perry? His prison friend Willie-Jay comments on the letter (in still another amazing passage) and urges Perry not to be too upset and to consider what it's like to be his sister, and what kind of dialogue they can really have with each other. She inhabits an utterly different world from Perry, even if she started out in the same one as him when they were young.

What happens to us? How do we make our choices and our life paths? Is there a freak, a geek, a murderer, a traveler, a parent, a censor, the potential for a horror show, the potential for redemption, lurking somewhere in all of us?

"I will hide and you will hide, and we shall hide together here, underneath the bunkers in the row. I have water, I have rum, wait for dawn and dawn shall come, underneath the bunkers in the row." -- R.E.M.

God and murders and things

I think that part of the reason I've never read In Cold Blood is that I don't really like reading about murder, really. Capote's masteful writing makes me want to keep reading this book, but it's so disturbing, on so many levels, what atrocities people are capable of. And I'm not even very far into it; they've just found the bodies and are in day two of the townspeople's reflections.

When we were young -- too young, some would say, for it to be healthy -- my sister and I developed what might be called a small obsession with the Manson murders. We pored over our mother's copy of the book Helter Skelter, although I definitely skipped most of the actual reading apart from the descriptions of the killings, and I just kept going back to the section in the middle of the fat paperback which had the crime scene photographs. Then there was the TV movie. It really is quite good, as TV movies go, and who could not love the Vincent Bugliosi character after the way he puts "Charlie" in his place? My sis and I could proudly recite the details of those August 1969 nights, including the victims' names, the places in the house where each body was found, how Linda Kasabian got immunity, who shaved and carved what into their heads...

Yeah, I know. Creepy. I was, like, ten. I also was, bizarrely, allowed to watch pretty much any horror movie I wanted. (But The Last Temptation of Christ and Fatal Attraction were out of the question.) I saw, admittedly at home under Mom's supervision, Nightmare on Elm Street...The Shining...The Exorcist...and boy, were some of my friends jealous. I think I have friends whose mothers STILL don't want them to watch The Exorcist. I grew up with that movie. I even remember the first few times; my sister (two and a half years older than me) was pretty into it but all I wanted was to watch the intense scenes with the priest and the head-spinning and, yes, the projectile vomiting, but my mom would be like, "Come on, get in here and pay attention to the movie" as I wandered about to, oh, I don't know -- maybe play with something more appropriate for a NINE-year-old?

The consequence of all this? I think there are two. One, I was pretty much constantly terrified at night during my pre-teen years. I was forever checking behind the shower curtain as I got ready for bed (Psycho, one of my mom's all-time favorites). During the light of day it was all well and good for my sister and me to imitate the twin girls in The Shining -- we'd stand at one end of our hallway and call to our mother to watch us do "Come and play with us, Danny! Forever. And ever. And ever." -- but at night I would lie in bed petrified, heart racing. If I wasn't healthy and in good shape from gymnastics, swimming, softball and the like, I might have catapulted myself right into heart failure. As an adolescent, desperate for independence, I had decidedly mixed feelings about staying home alone. None of this affected me during the day, but at night? I was a goner.

So that's the first consequence. The second is that I think I got them out of my system. Both the horror movies, and the murder fascination in particular. I can't remember the last time I went to a scary movie or even a creepy one in the theater. It must have been The Sixth Sense, or 8mm, I think. I liked the former, but the latter just disgusted me. And when I do watch them, which is rare, I don't get scared. I am 100% blase. I see now that you work yourself up into that anxiety; it's a conscious choice. I have no concept whatsoever of how adults can be scared by movies. It so seems part of childhood to me. I have no interest.

So here I am reading In Cold Blood and thinking -- wow. The writing is great, and I'm glad I've finally got around to reading it, but why didn't I read it when I was an adolescent? I remember my mother reading it. Maybe I got burned out after The Shining. I'd been watching that movie for years and when I was twelve I decided I was going to finally read the book, for my book report. We were all in the junior high library selecting books and I informed my teacher that nothing appealed to me and I was going to read a book I already had at home. When I told him which one, he insisted I get a note of permission from my mother. Which she happily provided. But of course I was up until forever late the night before the report was due, so not close to being finished. That was a long book! My pals selecting young adult fare like Cages of Glass, Flowers of Time may have been on to something!

So now I read and I just shudder. Creepy creepy creepy. Murder is creepy. The fact that the True Crime section exists is kind of weird. However, as I said, Capote is remarkable. And the book is not even that creepy yet. There's been hardly any description of anything disturbing at all. And that's what's almost more creepy of course, because you know these people were murdered, and you know vaguely how, and you're just floating along reading about this until-now-idyllic town in western Kansas, and you really get the sense of how it is for the townspeople, that this event is just so misplaced, so shocking, so wrong.

Quoting people's responses, a lot of the Holcomb and Garden City folk express their dismay and horror and shock that it was the Clutter family of all people. One schoolteacher says,

"But that family represented everything people hereabouts really value and respect, and that such a thing could happen to them--well, it's like being told there is no God. It makes life seem pointless. I don't think people are so much frightened as they are deeply depressed." -- p. 88

Now, of course, in my youthful, blood-and-gore watching, fearmongering, terrified, ghost story and Ouija board-loving, convinced-something-was-coming-to-get-me-in-the-night state, I happened to believe deeply that there was in fact a god, a God the Heavenly Father to be precise, and I also was pretty well convinced that his son Jesus was murdered and bled and died for us all. Is it a coincidence that both of those worldviews have disappeared from my life? Who's to say?

But I do think it's interesting that when I read that line, I knew exactly what that woman meant. Even if "no God" doesn't resonate with me as some sort of ultimate betrayal by the universe.

Also, I must say that I rather enjoy the postmistress Mrs. Myrtle Clare. She's all tough and sassy and weathered and thinks everyone is just working themselves into a needless frenzy.

But I wouldn't have related to Myrtle when I was ten.

"Oh, the dissatisfied with the satisfied..."

Is it scary that I relate a little bit to Perry at one point?

I mean, I find him sinister of course. I was just last night noting how masterful Capote is; he can describe without slanting his writing or passing any judgment, and he's already conveyed that Dick and Perry are sinister, while Nancy and Kenyon and the other Clutters are not. Such evocative writing. Astonishing. But in the letter Willie-Jay writes to Perry on the eve of the latter's departure from prison, he says:

"You exist in a half-world suspended between two superstructures, one self-expression and the other self-destruction. You are strong, but there is a flaw in your strength, and unless you learn to control it the flaw will prove stronger than your strength and defeat you. The flaw? Explosive emotional reaction out of all proportion to the occasion. Why? Why this unreasonable anger at the sight of others who are happy or content, this growing contempt for people and the desire to hurt them? All right, you think they're fools, you despise them because their morals, their happiness is the source of your frustration and resentment. But these are dreadful enemies you carry within yourself -- in time destructive as bullets." -- pp. 43-44

I mean, come on. I think people have said some of those exact words to me. Not the least of which people were a couple of my Borders general managers. Which, if you think about it, could be fitting because working at Borders was kind of like being in prison sometimes. And here I am at law school all the time regarding the fools around me with utter contempt.

Yet, I have decidedly mellowed on some levels. I still think "if you're not outraged you're not paying attention" and all that, but I'm also remarkably content on the whole emotionally, and I don't know that I would have described myself as remarkably emotionally content, say, ten years ago. Is it because I discovered mindfulness and meditation and yoga and other buddhist-tinged things along the way?

I took a lot of flack when the "morals" and "happiness" of the BYU Happy Valley people were the "source of [my] frustration and resentment." But I also think I changed things for the better by fighting back and standing up for our persecuted selves during my freshman year. AND changed myself for the better.

Can it be that this is a dangerous tendency, that toward passionate outrage? It often makes people uncomfortable, I'll grant that, but I always just think those people are secretly jealous that they don't stand up for what they believe. You know, another friend of mine was just blogging about this: why is it acceptable for people who don't care to tell the people who are outraged they're out of line, but it's not OK for the outraged to condemn the apathetic?

Back to Perry. Are we the same, and only the circumstances of our lives (or was that the whims of fate?) drove us to different results?

I see the other side of the coin, too. In my aforementioned remarkable contentness, I feel like people are often put off. Example, law school, where it's like a daily challenge to find someone who can actually relax and not take everything so seriously 24 hours a day. I feel like when I'm galvanting through the world road-tripping to Indigo Girls concerts and trying new things and moving to Asia and doing what I like and really believing that we can all change the world if we put our minds to it, people who are settled in their cozy homesteads behind their white picket fences are peering out at me and silently disapproving. Sometimes even not so silently.

I never wanted to hurt anyone though. Willie-Jay definitely calls Perry out on wanting to hurt people.

I think maybe I have more to say about this, but I first need to sort it out from its current state of total jumble inside my head.

But I think Perry and I both do give a damn, despite any indications to the contrary. And I think the same can be said for a lot of humans who do and who do not go astray.

Dude, where's my human hive?

On page 32, Capote describes Dick and Perry as "scrubbed, combed, and tidy as two dudes setting off on a double date..." This is interesting to me because of the use of the word "dude" and how it has evolved, about which some of you know I've long had a theory.

First of all, reading this today you might skip over the word "double" entirely as the notion of "two dudes" on a date is not that strange, if thinking of two men, although then you would say wait a minute, Capote so didn't write that then did he? Then you realize it's a double date they're setting off on, of course. With girls, presumably.

But also, "dude" is not just a guy here; it's that whole city-slickin' and primped connotation, right? I would be so fascinated to go back to the 1950s and early 1960s to hear that use of the word "dude."

Now, in the 80s, "dude" joined the Valley Girl-style speech. "Like, omigod, totally fer sure" etc. My generation will say the sentence, "Dude, that was amazing!" And we are nowhere in there referring to a male of any sort. It's just an exclamation. It's perfectly synonymous with "Wow, that was amazing." Or, in the 50s, maybe, "Gee, that was amazing!"

I discovered that we differ sharply from the previous generation in that respect --and I developed my theory -- back when I worked at Marketplace. One day I said, "Dude, something something" and my co-worker friend born in 1967 said, "Don't call me dude." Only, I so wasn't. And it was interesting to me that she would even hear it that way. I began to explore. I knew my sister (born 1972) used it the way "my" generation did. Where was the cut-off? I've since decided anyone born before 1970 lives in a different world vis-a-vis the word "dude" than those born during the great and glorious decade of bell-bottoms, shag carpet, and disco.

Also, I think the pendulum has swung back, though I think the early 80s kids still use it in that not-referring-to-any-person way. I hear, Hey! Where's my car?! while people around me hear Hey, buddy! Where's my car?

I'm reasonably certain this is endlessly fascinating to only me.

I also like the next two pages, wherein Capote describes sleepy little Holcomb, Kansas, which we all know is about to get not-so-sleepy, and the neighboring bigger town of Garden City, where despite citizens' denials class distinctions are in fact observed as clearly "as in any other human hive." Capote talks about people praising the good schools, friendly people, fresh air, and so forth of the community: "I came out here to practice law. A temporary thing, I never planned to stay. But when the chance came to move, I thought, Why go? What the hell for? Maybe it's not New York -- but who wants New York?"

I might venture to answer that. It's funny how often this has come up lately. I have such a major, vast appreciation for the wide open spaces and the small towns from which my family members hail and all that. But I do think, in the end, I could raise my hand and say, Me! Me! I want New York! I just don't need that so-called simple life that Capote is really evoking during these first few dozen pages. So many people want that. Are nostalgic for it even if they've never had it. I like visiting it, and then moving on.

East is East, and West is West

So far, reading In Cold Blood, I am struck by many things, not the least of which are Capote's excellent writing and how much reading this 50s/60s-evoking book reminds me of reading Peyton Place. But I am also struck by how vividly I picture the West and am so glad I have lived both in the West (all over it, in fact) and on the East Coast.

I have more to say. Don't worry. But, as my friend Maija's t-shirt said, "Don't mess with Kansas, either!"

Love it.

In Cold Blood, that's good enough for me!

When it came time to select a C author, I did consider a few. Colette, for starters. Always have meant to read something by Colette. And the big one, whom I consider the runner-up: Conrad, specifically Heart of Darkness. I have no idea why I've never read that. There are a lot of people in my life who have no idea why I've never read that. I have even owned it before -- and failed to read it. Suckage!

But really, as I perused the 'C' shelves, when my eyes fell upon Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, in that moment my decision was made. Everything else that was on the table was cleared off, in one fell swoop, like so many shattering dishes and clattering spoons.

And, well, there is the point to consider that In Cold Blood isn't really a novel. Well - oh well. It's such a literary book. It hangs out with novels. It's written by a writer of novels and just lots of other things too. (Funny, that's what I aspire to be.) I accept it for my literary A-Z blog quest.

My edition: a paperback, with ISBN 0679-745580

(Happy) (ending)

OK, um, I finished Naked Lunch. I think. It's hard to tell, really. I mean, it's not as if there's a plot, or story. That would apparently be too traditional. And my man Burroughs was clearly about breaking with the traditional.

Furthermore, the edition I have, the so-called "restored text," has seen fit to include NINETY pages of "original additions and introductions by the author" and "Burroughs texts annexed by the editors." None of which, I might add, I feel particularly compelled to read. But the book itself (as it were) is only two hundred pages. I don't think the additions and such should be half again as many pages as the book. That's just asking too much of my poor, graphic-images-addled brain. And p.s. it's kind of like when someone buys Cliffs Notes for, like, The Catcher in the Rye. The notes are longer than the book. What's the point?

Anyhoo, I could rant about Cliffs Notes, or I could rant about Burroughs. Or maybe I'll rant about nothing and just go enjoy my snow day.

I did read one of the "original introductions and additions by the author," before I read the book. I read "Letter From a Master Addict to Dangerous Drugs" which is dated 1956, before the publication of the book. I decided to save the other "original introductions and additions by the author," which were apparently written in the 1960s, after the book, for after I read the book, see? But now, I'm like, um, OK, do I really care? Yeah, not so much.

PERHAPS I will idly read some of them only while I am on the train on my way to the bookstore to purchase In Cold Blood. That's right, the man Truman Capote is my choice for 'C.'

And yes, I am ashamed to admit I haven't read Capote yet. But I am suddenly far less ashamed that I hadn't previously read Burroughs. I'd still hang out with him, I'm pretty sure. But now I picture it'd be like, me and Allen (Ginsberg, you plebes) in one corner of the bar totally getting all passionate and arguing about something, much to the eye-rolling "There they go again" dismay of our gathered friends, and maybe Neal(Cassady of course) would hang at our table, too, but he'd kind of be bouncing around talking to everybody, while then Jack(Kerouac. tell me you knew that one) and William S himself would disappear for hours at a time into the darkened back rooms and crevices of our world to indulge in other things, and I'd be all, "Where'd they go?" all the time and roll my eyes right back.

That's what I'm doing, I guess, to Naked Lunch, to appropriate a concept (and half a quote) from Pretty Woman. William Burroughs is disgusted with the world? Indeed. Me too. But I roll my eyes right back.

I'm amused by how much this book could offend people...

And I imagine that Naked Lunch did in fact offend many people when it first burst onto the scene, as it were. I still find it so repetitive and random that it's tiresome to read at times, but occasionally I come across really wacky and hilarious passages. No need to explain who's speaking or what's happening in the story, because there aren't really characters or a plot per se in this book, so I'll just share the fun.

A random person randomly starts talking about religious figures. He's like, Christ? He should have been at a trashy carnival... "Step right up folks, the one and only Son of Man will cure your..." Well, and then he gets a little vulgar, which wouldn't be appropriate for my family blog, so I'll leave it to your imagination.

Next, he says Buddha is a "notorious metabolic junky" who is sitting there in the lotus position manufacturing his own junk in his cells to keep himself high, and getting away with it because he's declared himself to be a holy man, now, dig?

And then, "Mohammed? Are you kidding? He was dreamed up by the Mecca Chamber of Commerce." - p. 96

It's really funny. But maybe you had to be there. I don't see how that could possibly be the case though, as that would imply some semblance of continuity or sense in this book, both of which are decidedly lacking.

Good times.

What can you say about a maniac?

When I think about this book, I want to say things like, "Wow, Burroughs is a total freakin' maniac!" but then it's like, well, duh.

It's such a weird book. Its random, fragmented, crazy-vision, piecemeal approach to storytelling is so not what I'm in the mood for right now. I didn't realize that until I started reading this. So, once again in my little literary project I have found myself reading slowly. But it's not that I don't like the books I've selected. It seems like that, doesn't it? Oh, well. Things aren't always what they seem. As any of these psycho addicts(or all they are just Burroughs?) in the book would surely tell you.

Also I have learned the spelling, or at least a spelling, of slang words that I now realize I have only ever heard spoken and never seen/written. I would share, but this is a family blog. Although one could make a convincing case that by deciding on Burroughs as my B author all notions of family blogness basically went out the window.

Oh yeah, and sometimes the things he writes are just painfully cringe-gross. I'm talking not just violent sex acts but also all these maniacal doctors and surgeons pop up from time to time doing really weird things and they are rendered quite vividly. I have involuntarily made some intense faces on the bus and subway while reading. I have possibly even gasped. I have elicited looks.

I would love to comment on the plot, but I have yet to discern exactly what that is. I'll get back to you if I figure that out.

Spinning Heads

Some aspects of reading Naked Lunch are amusing.

But I still suspect it resonates better with people who've done crazy obscene amounts of drugs. Or who really want to.

Anyway, it's a little boring, nonsensical and repetitive, but it has randomly brilliant passages that pop up here and there. I imagine life with the Beats might have been like that.

"They didn't know the music was in my soul..."

Yeah. Well. Did I mention I haven't done enough drugs to catch all the endless references in this book?

I don't have much to say so far, thirty-something pages in. Except, at the risk of blaspheming all that is beatnik and holy and good, my initial reaction is a very Catcher-in-the-Rye-like "What's the big deal?"

The great thing about the above paragraph is that the only thing I could say here to offend more people than saying this "amazing vision" Naked Lunch is not all that great is reiterating my belief that J.D. Salinger just doesn't do it for me like he did it for previous generations. Oh, well. Onward!

"Did you do too many drugs
I did too many drugs
Did you do too many drugs, too
Baby
You were born too late
I was born too soon
But every time I look at that ugly moon
It reminds me of you..."

-- violent femmes, 'american music'

B is for Naked Lunch

All right ladies and gentlemen, if there be any among you. William S. Burroughs. I'm ashamed to say that until now I have actually not read anything by him. What indeed is up with that? And I call myself a Beat-lover. Let's see. If I were accused of being a Beat Generation devotee, would there be enough evidence to convict me?

• I read On the Road as any disillusioned 18-year-old should, while traveling across the country (specifically, from Washington D.C. to Flagstaff, Arizona)
• In Contemporary Poetry class sophomore year of college, I wrote my huge semester research paper/project on Allen Ginsberg and argued that he remained relevant (yes, I was a sophomore in college before he died) even if the beauty had faded...so to speak
• "Hey, Jack Kerouac" was in fact my favorite song on 10,000 Maniacs' In My Tribe
• I mourned when Allen died, even more than I'd mourned Jerry Garcia's death
  
• To this day, I subscribe to the "Beat News You Can Use" e-newsletter, wherein I keep up on all the goings on of the folks who run the Beat Museum in San Francisco and regularly take the Beat-Mobile out on tour
• I read Joyce Johnson's Minor Characters and even got my mother to read it
• I've participated and won prizes in poetry slams
  
• For god's sake, Douglas Brinkley's The Majic Bus and the likes of Ken Kesey are responsible for major life decisions of mine, and are the very reason I'm at Hofstra! Isn't that rather Beat-like of me?
• I do quite often like to think of the best minds of my generation as starving and hysterical, although some of them should probably keep their clothes on.

And yet somehow Burroughs has fallen through my cracks. Well, this shall now be remedied as I eagerly devour my Naked Lunch (ISBN: 0-8021-4018-1).

Here's one thing that interests me even before page one. You know how lots of books' initial pages are filled with excerpts from the best reviews, the more prominent the paper the better? Well, while this one does include quotes from The New York Times ("booty brought back from a nightmare") , Chicago Tribune, and Los Angeles Times Book Review, it's somehow more impressive to me that I find quote after praise-laden quote from some of the brilliant (albeit in a genius/madness kind of way) minds of the twentieth century: Norman Mailer, Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Didion, Anthony Burgess...

And I'll just say flat out, I'm not entirely sure I've done enough drugs to keep up with all the references in this book. Man, was Burroughs a fan of the opiates. This edition ("the restored text") includes additions by the author, including one "Letter From a Master Addict to Dangerous Drugs" he wrote in 1956. It's a very straightforward analysis of different drugs and his experience with addiction to or withdrawal from them. It's quite informative, actually; I found myself oddly entranced as he matter-of-factly explains why alcohol and prolonged sedation are terrible for curing opiate addiction, while anti-histamines are a bit better.

In the past few years, I have observed very closely from the sidelines as in more than one area of my life a person very close to someone close to me has struggled with heroin addiction. I daresay it's actually kind of creepy how in a matter of a few years I was faced time and again with people figuring quite prominently in my life who had a heroin addict figuring quite prominently in their lives. I learned a few things, but still feel on the whole rather ill-equipped to deal with such a mind-boggling, intense addiction.

This book is already interesting food for thought, and I'm still perusing prologue and addenda!