No one belongs here more than you.

by Miranda July

I read this back in August and wasn't ready to write about it then, so I put it on hold again with the thought that by the time I got it back (there were a lot of holds), I would be ready. Now it is one day overdue.

Five things:

1. I read this collection of stories in one sitting. Well, almost one sitting. There was a two hour break somewhere in the middle.

2. I wish I knew why I didn't like it more. She writes really well, but with the exception of a couple of stories I didn't feel like I was connecting with anything. Maybe a phrase or a fleeting emotion here or there, but a lot of it felt weird for the sake of weird, which is normally not a problem -- I like weird and I do think she's on to something about the innate strangeness of being alive -- but it just misses for me. I wish I felt like reading it again so I could try to identify WHY. Reading it was often like petting a cat the wrong way.

3. Her name is beautiful.

4. She used to live in Portland and the city makes cameos throughout this collection. (also in her movie, which I was similarly conflicted about.) Fact of Dubious Interest: two locations featured (Fabric Depot and Mr. Peeps/ The Peep Hole) are right across the street (SE 122nd Ave) from each other.

5. The Swim Team is wonderful, generous and strange -- definitely one of my favorite stories. How To Tell Stories To Children is difficult, raw and complicated but stuck in my head a long time after I'd read it.

Billy Hazelnuts

by Tony Millionaire

Last night on my way home I stopped off at JoAnn's to get some necessary crafty doodad that somehow, despite having more crafty doodads than is reasonable, I did not have. While there I was subjected to the most godawful noodly "lite jazz" version of a vaguely familiar but ruined Christmas song. Oh, it made me mad! I was ready to commit violence by the time I finally got to the cash register. I'm generally pretty easy-going, but I worry sometimes about how easy it is to manipulate my mood with music. Some things make me instantly and inexplicably happy, other things drive me to robot rage so fast it takes me completely by surprise. What if this information fell into the wrong hands? I could be turned into a violent criminal by excessive (aka: any) Kenny G!

This has actually come up before. Not so much with the violent crime, but being driven to speak when I would have preferred to be silent. (I will save my tale of boarding school, religion class, getting hopping mad and speaking out to defend Billy Joel (!) and by extension all popular music in an atmosphere of religious fucknuttery and Let's Burn Records insanity for another time, although that's pretty much it. It was much less Footloose than it sounds.) (I must be having some sort of age crisis -- I keep thinking of things that happened a long time ago.)

Believe it or not, this does have a tenuous relationship to Tony Millionaire's delightful and insane graphic adventure novel Billy Hazelnuts. Billy has a bit of a short fuse; he's a hot tempered homunculus prone to shaking his fists and shouting things like "Come and get us, boys! I'm a barrelful of hate! Come open me up!" I may not share the feelings, but I can relate to the impulse.

Here's a paragraph from the back of the book which I think gives enough information to trigger either the "HELL YES!" or "oh, god no!" response. I'm (obviously) in the hell yes category. Here's the quote: "In the all new graphic novel BILLY HAZELNUTS Millionaire dishes out a story about Becky, girl scientist, her pal Billy Hazelnuts (who was created from suet, yeast and discarded mince-meat pie by mice in the basement), and their journey to find the missing moon while battling an evil steam-driven alligator with a seeing-eye skunk." I was intrigued by the time I got to the parentheses (made by mice in the basement, you say?) but then came the STEAM DRIVEN ALLIGATOR, at which point I was completely helpless. That blurb doesn't even mention Adventure on the high seas! Finally, a book for those who have been longing to read about an ill-humored hero made from suet.

I picked this up browsing at the library and it turned out to be one of those wonderful surprises. The story careens along from one crazy thing to the next, but adheres to a rigorous internal logic. Billy Hazelnuts is a dark and creepy story, yet maintains an innocence you might not expect from a story with an evil steam-driven alligator and a foul-tempered protagonist. I found it to be charming, surprising, disturbing and in possession of an oddball kind of grace. Also funny. Recommended!

The Yiddish Policemen's Union

by Michael Chabon
If you know anything at all about this book, you probably know that it's a detective novel. (The title, after all, has Policeman right in it.) You might not know that it takes place in an alternate history. In this timeline, Jewish refugees settled in the Federal District of Sitka in 1948 after the collapse of the state of Israel. This settlement came with a ticking clock; as the novel starts, the process of Reversion to the state of Alaska has already begun. Everything is in flux, everything is about to change and has been changing. The earth is slipping beneath Meyer Landsman's feet, although Reversion is the least of his problems (he has many).

This book includes but is not limited to the following: family, community, faith (and lack of), despair, loneliness, guilt, longing, unexpected humor, language, politics, sex, grief, dirty deals, fleabag hotels, eruvs, bodyguards, acts of surprising kindness, acts of surprising violence, religious law, chess, continuity of spirit if not of location, hot tempers, miracles, string, love, alcoholism, endurance, loss, secrets, lies, end of times, bush pilots, rehab, pickles, the wild, the wooly, the wholly unexpected, fathers and sons, husbands and wives, blended culture, afraid of the dark and police work. handbags and hair. drunk and disorderly. heroin. hope. messianic fervor.

I really liked it. I was a little trepidatious after I went to hear Chabon read. The reading was so fun -- he had a great store of personal charm and charisma that he spent freely on his audience. Would the book measure up? It does! I know there has been some hubbub over so-called literary writers working in so-called genre. I haven't read much about it because the conversation gets so heated and touchy I end up mad at everyone. As long as the author in question is respectful of the work (which I think Chabon is), I don't care. I get that it must be very irritating for someone who has been writing genre their whole career to hear someone say "well, MY dragons and wizards novel isn't fantasy," like fantasy is some dirty word, but ultimately what I care about is this: is it good? I think this is good.

There are many memorable characters in this novel. I love how Chabon is able to paint these people in just a few words. Some of them we'll never meet again, but I appreciate the care that went into creating them for their brief moment. A few days after I finished this, various characters kept popping back into my head. I wish someone would make an HBO series based this novel -- there are so many corners of this world that remain unexplored. They just hang there being all intriguing and mysterious yet believably real. I want to know more! He's a very visual writer. Here's a little bit from when Landsman and his partner Berko are in a 3rd tier dive bar (trying to avoid other police and reporters): "Landsman pretends to spit three times over his shoulder. Then, right as he's wondering if this custom has anything to do with the habit of chewing tobacco, Mrs. Kalushiner comes back, dragging the great iron leg of her life." The great iron leg of her life! Of Mrs. Kalushiner it is later said "it takes a sour woman to make a good pickle," which just fills me with questions of what constitutes a good pickle (I have my own opinions) and what exactly made Mrs. Kalushiner so sour. (There are tantalizing hints of this, but I would love to know more.)

"Landsman gets paid--and lives--to notice what normal people miss, but it seems to him that until he walked into Zimbalist the boundary maven's shop, he hasn't given enough attention to string...... But the boundary maven lives and dies by the quality of his string.

Don't you want to know more about someone who lives and dies by the quality of his string? I do. (and there is more -- I edited out a lovely long list of types of string --something to look forward to!) I thought the mystery was pretty compelling too, which surprised me since lately the puzzle parts of mysteries have been the least interesting to me. So, if you like string, mysteries and/or compassionate and humane but not doughy and lifeless writing, I would recommend this novel.

Dime-Store Alchemy: The Art of Joseph Cornell

by Charles Simic

When I first read this book I didn't know what to expect -- was it just a title, or was it possible that one of my favorite poets was going to take on the subject of one of my favorite artists? Was it poetry based on the work of Cornell? Was it criticism? I didn't really care because I like both artists so much I didn't see a downside. My instincts were correct! This is a delightful but slender volume if you are a fan of Cornell, Simic or both. There are poems and prose poems, sometimes just fragments of thought -- but it all adds up to a sympathetic reading of some of Cornell's most famous work.

When I think about it, Simic and Cornell slot very near one another in the filing cabinet in my brain. I don't know that I would have made the match myself out of thin air, but the connections between them are there and they're strong. (Not least of which is that they both are fluent in the language of insomnia, which I have always thought is not unlike dream-language. When you're tired enough, things get really weird and words fall away until you're left with not the thing itself (whatever that may be) but a symbol for the thing -- who better to express or explore it than a poet or an artist?)

Before I had the book in my hands and realized that there were photos included (there are!), I checked a couple of other books on Cornell out of the library so I could have some on-paper photo examples. As you might imagine, many have similar titles and I got ahold of one that was so terrible it almost made me cry. It was essentially a book on how to be a ten-minute expert on Cornell and by extension the surrealists. (tragic! and the pictures weren't even that good.) I have a lengthy tirade on this subject from which I will spare the internet, except to say that one of the problems with our current society is too many people are content with being ten-minute experts, or worse yet are content with leaving even ten-minute expertise in the hands of someone else. (See: current administration for an egregious example.) But if I'm honest I must admit that I don't mind being a ten-minute expert on things I don't really care about. For example, I would be content being a one-minute expert on the alleged art of Thomas Kinkade, whom I would be happy to know nothing about at all, except my grandmother loves him so for her sake I have gleaned some trivia. Cornell deserves much more thought and attention, and this book provides it in just the right and perfect beautiful words.

It is difficult to choose something to quote because they are all SO GOOD for so many different reasons, but right now I am being drawn to the title The Magic Study of Happiness, so that's what it will be.


The Magic Study of Happiness

In the smallest theater in the world the bread crumbs speak. It's a mystery play on the subject of a lost paradise. Once there was a kitchen with a table on which a few crumbs were left. Through the window you could see your young mother by the fence talking to a neighbor. She was cold and kept hugging her thin dress tighter and tighter. The clouds in the sky sailed on as she threw her head back to laugh.

Where the words can't go any further--there's the hard table. The crumbs are watching you as you in turn watch them. The unknown in you and the unknown in them attract each other. The two unknowns are like illicit lovers when they're exceedingly and unaccountably happy.

The Art of Drowning

by Billy Collins. Another book from the teetering pile. Can you believe this is the biggest picture I could find? It's been a while since I read this collection, and since I've written previously about my affection for Billy Collins I'm going to skip trying to come up with a new way to say "oooh, I like it!" (Although scanning the book flap does provide a lovely list of descriptives: wonderful, thoughtful, sly, moving, deft, droll, outrageous assertions whizzing past, brilliant, rueful, playful, warm-voiced, easy to love, unalloyed pleasure, metaphysical poet with a funny bone, sly (he's twice sly!), witty, playful, beautifully turned, etc.)

Thesaurus is the poem that caught my eye this morning as I was flipping through the pages. (on another day or another hour it might have been a different poem, but I thought this one seemed just right for right now.)

Thesaurus

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast
that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up
on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,
or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held,
house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs
all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;
hairy, hirsute, wooly, furry, fleecy and shaggy
all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,
inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile
standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

Here father is next to sire and brother close
to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.
And every group has its odd cousin, the one
who traveled the farthest to be here:
astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven
syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.
Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word.
Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever
next to each other on the same line inside a poem,
a small chapel where weddings like these,
between perfect strangers, can take place.

~ Billy Collins

The G-String Murders

by Gypsy Rose Lee: Good grief! I'm back up to over 50 items checked out at the library (CURSE YOU, poetry section at Central Branch! In my defense, poetry books are usually small). Anyway, many of them are books I keep renewing with the thought that one day I will write them up. Oh, how they laugh at me from the teetering pile on my desk. But let's get back to the strippers and murder! (How many chances do you get to say "let's get back to strippers and murder?" "All the time on CSI," is one answer... but I have to say I enjoyed this novel with its show-biz pizzazz and personable stripper detective much more than the relentless pole dancing and gruesome murder on CSI.)

Where was I? Oh, yes... back to the strippers and murder! The mystery is not what is compelling about this novel -- did I care who the g-string strangler was? Not really, although the answer did surprise me. Part of this is because I often find the puzzle aspect of mysteries/crime novels the least interesting bit; part of it is because even with that in mind, the plot is not particularly inspiring. But I did L-O-V-E getting the inside view of backstage at the burlesque house! I loved the lingo (very Runyonesque), I loved the names (Lolita LaVerne, Biff Brannigan, Gee Gee Graham, etc.) I loved the tiny details of how the girls build their own costumes and the particulars of stage makeup (wax mascara!), the fact that there is a guy who sells g-strings to show girls out of a suitcase, how an act comes together, how a show comes together and the larger social view of how burlesque was viewed from outside of that world. (Show business is already on the fringe of what Other People in this book would consider polite society, burlesque is the fringe on the fringe.) I loved the character of Gypsy (written by Gypsy), and I must admit there were some moments of genuine suspense.

Here are some quotes from the back of the book that sum it up better than I can: Burlesque is the background... [and] the background is perfect. Recommended for readers who feel better when their eyebrows are raised." -- The New Yorker

"A lurid, witty and highly competent detective story... Rich show business vocabulary and stage door gags make her book almost a social document..." -- Time

Max in Hollywood, Baby

by Maira Kalman

This book is ridiculously fun. I should know, because it chased me around for two weeks until I finally gave up and checked it out. First, it was just sitting innocently on display in the children's picture book section of the library. Cute! -- a dog in a director's chair and the gratuitous use of the word "baby" -- amusing, but not enough. Then it was on the wrong shelf while I was looking for something else. Then it was in a bin in another area (it was published in 1992, how many copies are there???) -- all of this in the Hollywood branch of the library. Clearly, I had to read it before it fell off of a shelf and on to my head! I flipped it open and was immediately charmed. (later that day I went to the park and a brass band (normally not found in the park) was playing Hooray for Hollywood, I kid you not. I hate to think what might have happened if I had NOT read it.)


(birth of an obsession: I cannot rest until I either send or receive a telegram with the word "shillyshallying" included.)

As I was saying, this book is a lot of fun. Max Stravinsky is a poet, a lover, a dog -- soon to be director of his own Hollywood vision. He and his lovely dalmatian bride Crepes Suzette have been called to California by his agent to write and direct a movie. (because all bohemian poet dogs have agents, OF COURSE.) Anyway... it is fun, fun, fun. Max develops a bit of an ego problem while living the life and writing/directing the requested "sugar-smackin, rootin-tootin, high-spy, sci-fi, kissy-kissy, melt-in-your-mouth, madcap musical mystery" and well, you should probably read it and see what happens. (Here's a hint: after the pressures of the business start to get to him, he begins to sound like this: "I want a monogrammed cravat/ That says Stravinsky Thought of That./ I want to pout and rant and rave/ and get everything I crave/ I want to be a celebrity/ Have my pawprints in cement for posterity/ and just when it seems I have all that I adore/ I will graciously implore: I want more I want more I want more.") It's trippy, surreal, and gives a vigorous workout to just about every Hollywood lifestyle cliche imaginable. (well, the ones suitable for kids, anyway.) Kalman has a knack with language (it's very zoomy) and the colors and images are just as vibrant. (be sure to read all of the title page information and dust jacket -- so funny!)


(the whole of this quote is "I'm crazy for movies/ I'm weak at the knees/ English Mysteries,/screwball comedies/ spaghetti westerns/ three bowls please/ it doesn't matter what, it doesn't matter who/ If it's Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers/ It'll absolutely do I worship their allure/ If I'm sick, don't find a cure/ A Hitchcock scream, a Fellini dream/ Film noir, Mel Blanc/ And all that's in between/ Flood my senses/ make me weep/ Kiss the heroine/ Kill the creep/ The credits, the edits/ Houdini! Whodunits!/ Musicals that dance/ and dancicals that muse/ I'm filled with hope watching Cinemascope/ cause I'm no dope/ I love movies.")

I don't think I'm giving too much away to say that it has a satisfactory conclusion and an entertaining argument between Max's yes-man and his yes-man's yes-man about Schopenhauer on the last page.

(words of wisdom from my new favorite illustrated secondary character, Ferrrnando Extra Debonnaire.)

Now I must look into Max's other adventures ( Ooh-La-La (Max in Love), Max Makes a Million) and the rest of Kalman's books. If you are going to be chased around the library by an illustrated children's book, this is a delightful way to go.

Ten Poems To Change Your Life

By Roger Housden

I picked this up on a whim while browsing an unfamiliar branch of the library. Usually seeing a title like this makes me think "Oh, really!?" (which is my polite visiting library version of OH, YEAH??? like when anyone tells me "this is the best book/movie/cd ever.") But, I pulled it off the shelf and flipped it open anyway, since that's my library/bookstore habit. The poem I landed on raised my temperature a few degrees so I decided to bring it home and give it a chance. It's been sitting around, waiting. I have so many other books waiting to be read. (in fact I just had to do a purge because I had almost SIXTY items out from the library -- about 12 of them were DVDs, but still...) Something about this one kept me from sending it back. That's disingenuous. What kept it around was the implied promise to change my life. As I've said recently (probably too many times), the past few months have been difficult. I'm trying to make big, positive changes for myself and it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. (Mostly it's the not knowing if any of this effort will make a bit of difference.) I've cried more at the drop of a hat in the past 6 months than I have in my entire life. I hate it because crying gives me headaches and I am not a dainty weeper. It gets snotty! (I realize this is extremely indulgent and that 80% of the world's population does not have the luxury of crying over stress that doesn't involve food or shelter.)

I must admit that I found many of these poems to be not only moving and wonderful in their own right, but just what I needed to read, just when I needed to read them. I would have never sought out a book about ecstatic poets on my own; in fact, if I had seen that written on the dust cover I probably would have put it back. I know some people roll their eyes at the idea of synchronicity or coincidence or whatever you want to call it, but it has happened too many times for me to dismiss it out of hand. Those crazy mystics are sometimes just the thing.

Each poem gets its own chapter, and Housden then takes them apart for analysis and a little modern spiritual spinning. More than anything the structure reminds me of Poetry Sermons with Housden at the pulpit examining THE WORD, but I don't mean that in a pejorative way. He takes the text, pulls out lines, and lets loose with his interpretations. Of course (IMHO) really great poetry leaves itself open for more than one interpretation so this is just his take on it. In my current state of Needing Reassurances, his takes are mostly comforting. (much of it boils down to: feeling crazy and out of control isn't necessarily a bad thing.) For this feelin' crazy individual, it was like someone smoothing my hair and saying it will be all right, although reminding me I may continue to feel crazy.

here are little excerpts from five of the poems:

From The Journey, by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you kept shouting
their bad advice---

From Last Night As I Was Sleeping, by Antonio Machado

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt---marvelous error!---
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

From Zero Circle, by Rumi

So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally,
With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.

From The Time Before Death, by Kabir

If you don't break your ropes while you're alive,
do you think
ghosts will do it after?

So if you are feeling crazy (my friends and family are begging me to quit saying 'crazy' but 'completely neurotic' just doesn't have that zingy z zang that I get from 'crazy'), or if you are feeling like you want to read some ecstatic poets (remember, these are only excerpts and there are five others!), a little of both, or just want to read poems that have sentiments like these for reasons entirely your own, I can recommend this book.