April is National Poetry Month. I shall post poetry. I love poetry.

In high school I got involved with our literary club. Meetings were fun - we all wrote on some topic the club leaders came up with and then shared. I met the creative people, the weirdos, the folks far smarter and more talented than me. I wanted to write like that. I tried, and failed. Even though I eventually became Editor-in-Chief (I'm that person that rises to responsibility because no one else will) I never became a good writer in the creative arts (I can rock a research paper, though). I had fun, though, creating weird short stories about a sleepwalker and books that fought back. I wrote poems about coffee and heroin overdose that were actually published in the magazine.
Being an editor for two years exposed me to the core of high school lit mag hell - bad teen love poems. Really. We'd meet at someone's house to go through the piles of submissions, sorting poetry, prose, and art into piles of great, good, please burn. These were fun times - reading the worst we could find out loud so everyone could share in the torturous pain, pointing out how many were written in some neon gel pen. Forced awkward weir rhymes flowed like cottage cheese over rocks. Piles of them. Like American Idol, we tossed the middle bad early and kept the worst to share with friends. Cruel to the writers? Perhaps. But I like to think that those people grew up, laughed at themselves, and vowed never to write poetry ever again.


http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41

I owe too many books back to too many libraries.
I have research to do for an upcoming trip, so I really need to finish reading about the Cucuteni-Tripolye culture. No fiction lately. Last thing I read was on bird bones and seasonality in Alaska two thousand years ago.

I began ready Michael Pollen's In defense of food. It's a book of common sense regarding food that every food-lover should read. He goes in to some history of the food business and how we became a culture of feux-nutrition. We chemically synthesized crap and pretend it's food because it claims to be healthy. Time and general life mischigas got in the way of my finishing it and it had to go back to the library. Don't make my mistake. Read the book. Listen to man, America. EAT FOOD.

I haven't been reading.
Isn't that most horrible thing ever?
There's some Shakespeare - more on that later.
Tis it.
Will change this.
Have a Michael Pollan book coming soon.

Bardic Reading

I love William Shakespeare. Have I said that here before? It sounds cliche, but I care not.
It began as a child. My mom would take me to plays, often performed at the local liberal arts college (with the great drama department). Then in the third grade I was in a production of Romeo and Juliet at school. The following year it was A Comedy of Errors. I fell in love with the poetry of his writing. Also, this is what induced the acting bug in me.
Over the years I have seen and read a number of the Bard's plays and sonnets, though admittedly not as many as I'd like. Unlike many of my classmates back in high school, I have never had trouble enjoying or understanding these plays. I think it is because my introduction was through watching performances, and performing it myself. In my household it was not treated as something high an mighty and beyond me. It was a part of life, and one that should be embraced.

In a college writing class, with a teacher I did NOT get on well with, I defended the Bard and teaching it in schools. My teacher felt that teaching Shakespeare in schools made kids hate writing, and therefore should not be done. I only, begrudgingly, agreed with him in part. I think the way in which Shakespeare is taught can turn kids off writing. Too often teachers put it forth in the most boring way imaginable. They make the students read it on their own and translate line by line. I recall having to do this and wanting to strangle my teachers. And this from someone who, at the age of 11, begged her parents for the complete works (I should note that, though impressive, a monstrous tome such as the Yale Shakespeare is not very conducive to actually reading the works, esp. if you are a small child). They get so wrapped up in comprehending the language that you never get to really reading a play until maybe senior year, if you're lucky. Perhaps there is just such a cultural complex surrounding him that makes people think it is complicated. I have had classes where the play was read out loud, which may work a little better, because it engages the students more. I've had to act out scenes. Then there were the ones that had the students read the play and watch clips from a popular Hollywood film. Not even one of those good BBC recordings, but Mel Gibson's Hamlet (which I guess is better than Ken Branagh's 4-hr epic, which I will get all the way through one day! I swear!).

People are often struck with a moment of stunned silence when I say that the Bard hooked me so young. Let me explain. Two teachers in my elementary school had 3rd and 4th grade mixed classes. They shared teaching - sometimes all the 3rd graders had lessons together, etc. These two teachers put on a Shakespearean play each year. When my older sister was in 4th grade it was Hamlet (incidentally, one of the girls who played Hamlet went on to become a v. successful actress). In addition to working on the play in the usual way - learning lines, blocking - we worked on understanding the action. There were no deep readings in to the psychology of Hamlet, but getting a knowledge of what the words that were saying meant. Being able to act them out made the language less of a barrier. We also went to see local productions of the play we were working on (often at the local college, which has a Shakespeare troupe). We could see the play as a whole, and then could have an idea at who our characters were supposed to be, and what happened. Along with this came learning stage fighting, and using the ubiquitous lists of Shakespearian insults in organized verbal duels. One year we even had a Renaissance fair after learning more about the time period. The process was a part of the school year, and it was FUN! We had so much fun working on it all, so that there was nothing daunting, scary, or lofty about Shakespeare's words and works.

I honestly don't have the answers to this issue, except to start the little ones on his work long before high school. Though I am highly against teaching edited versions in schools (I conveniently "lost" my textbook when we read Romeo and Juliet and Great Expectations from it freshman year) using a slightly reduced version for third graders seems fair. Our Romeo never made it up the balcony, and was happy with the kiss Juliet blew him from above. And I think that's ok for eight year olds. What's not okay is this ridiculous idea that the language has to be a barrier to the text and that Shakespeare is hard. His work is fun, and should be treated as such.

A-Coming through the ice cream bucket

While searching for a title on the library shelf, I came across one that sounded interesting - How I Became a Nun. I picked up the slender book, and the cover with a young girl eating a bright pink ice cream. My interest peaked, so I read. I was not expecting César Aira, or his unique story.

How I became a nun takes place in Rosario, Argentina. Our protagonist and narrator is a child named César Aira who refers to themself as both a boy and girl at different times. She (or he, though predominately she, so I'll use that pronoun here) exists in her head and only occasionally visits reality. A world of games, streams of description and wonder, and insight far beyond the average 6yr old abounds in her head, even as she sits in stillness listening to the radio. The outside world sees her as dumb and retarded, blind of the landscape she has created for herself. César's thoughts stream past in a manner similar to Salinger, and take on a hue of the other side of the looking glass. It is the surreal world of a little girl.
When the novel begins, the writing is clear and what one expects. César and her father are on an outing to get ice cream, which César has never tried. The excitement of sharing the treat with her father is dashed when the cold substance tastes too fowl to even lie about. Aira's descriptions are thick and wild and perfect. The reader tastes the foulness for themselves. After tears, arguing, and melted pink getting on everything, the father finds that there is something wrong with the ice cream and confronts the chap at the counter about it. This confrontation leads to the ice cream clerk's death - suffocation by strawberry. After, the father goes to jail and César to the hospital - the ice cream was tainted with cyanide, part of an epidemic in the area. The child survives the poisoning, and we are treated to the wild feverish recollections of a 6yr old in a hospital ward.
It is after the poisoning that the child's imaginations and narrations go down the rabbit hole. Cesar's games and observations only flirt with reality. Whether in school or playing with her neighbor she is constantly on the verge of drama and extreme. No emotion exists in the moderate.

Though a bit confusing, and not at all a traditional narrative, How I became a Nun is a worthwhile and interesting read.

Eddings

Reading characters

I began reading David and Leigh Eddings's The Elder Gods after I heard of his death. I was very saddened by his passing. His novels, particularly his large series about Belgarion, have meant a great deal to me. I had read v. little medieval-style fantasy before my best friend sort of forced me to read the Belgariad. Now, I'm hooked. And, of course, sad that it's over.
Reading The Elder Gods has actually made me homesick (booksick?) for the world of the Belgariad, and missing some of the people in it. Eddings built worlds and people that stay with you. I dare you not to crush on Silk, adore Barak, want to bitch slap C'Nedra or fall in love with Durnik and plot to steal him away from the most powerful sorceress in multiple worlds. Dare you. Of course the story is important and well developed, but the characters are the shinging stars. Eddings used archetypes for his characters, so they always feel comfortable and familiar to begin with. From there he makes them lovable. So you keep reading. You want to see more of Barak and his jovial nature, and you wonder about all the mischief Silk can get in to. And you cry a little when they die, and a little more when they fall in love with someone who isn't you (What, besides incomparable beauty, a big heart, and nearly more power than the gods does she have that I don't?! I'm younger, you know!).

So, in the current series there are of course characters written to win you over. One that stands out to me already (about a third of the way in) is Red-Beard. Do they know that I adore the jovial big guy? They smarter than he looks burly one? Is that why they (David Edding's ewife, Leigh, now gets double billing - she's been helping for years!) keep writing this character in to the stories? It's the guy you always want a to have a pint with. That's who Barak is. That's who Red-Beard is. He makes me remember the good times I strike>had read with him. I keep fearing this means he will die when the big war comes. It's good story telling - not everyone you love can live in the end. ::sigh::

After this first Dreamers book, I think I'll go back and finish the Mallorean. I really need to close the door on that story. I need to know how it ends - how they catch Zandramas, how Belgarian gets Ce'Nedra and their son through it. Who dies. Who Belgarath and Beldin insult and how. It makes me laugh and tear up all at once.

Goodbye, Mr. Eddings. You are missed. Perhaps Leigh will write some more on her own.

Do Androids Dream of Being King?

A lot of my reading of late has been of the research variety, and I have had some trouble in writing about it. Perhaps something to work on in the future? Also, I just deleted two drafts of reviews I never finished. The short is that I never finished Sly Mongoose and I read and enjoyed Coraline by Neil Gaiman.

In the meantime, I picked up two fiction titles recently that made me think, and made me smile.

We'll start with Rudyard Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King. I have always been a fan of Kipling's short stories that I read as a child, but never really thought of him in terms of "what should I read now?" I stumbled upon this book while in the stacks. I needed a small book to read on the train, and this tiny volume from 1898 (a mere 16cm) fit in my purse quite nicely. I am one who reads a book by its cover, so why not by its size?
I enjoyed this tale of two eccentric characters who conquer the mountainous lands of Kafiristan, in Afghanistan, only to be run out again. The style is of an old, ornate speech that sometimes you just NEED to sink your brain in to. For me, this style reads quickly. Though a very slow reader, I found with this novel the words just flying by, but without losing any meaning or beauty in them. And they are beautiful. Kipling describes a man's beheading, but with grace. It was his era and his way. Too often, with piles of archaeological data and analysis, I lose that sense of beauty in the written word. I know that I will seek this title out again, and that I need to read more Kipling!
We begin with the corespondent of a newspaper meeting Callahan on a train. They make a deal, that the narrator will give a message to Callahan's friend, Dravot, on his return train journey. The narrator later realizes the two are up to no good - blackmailing a Raja under the pretense of being from the press - a puts a (temporary) stop to their game. They later come to him in his office seeking aid - information about Kafiristan and a look at some maps. They have decided that India is too small for men such as them, and they will trek to the lands of Kafiristan and become Kings there. The recollection of their adventures comes from Callahan, when her returns to our narrators office a few years later, ragged, and in need of telling his tale. They had succeeded, but then were run out of the country, and Dravot killed.
It is an interesting thought, how these two characters can set out with such conviction against all odds and succeed. It is such an American ideal, coming from this British author. But then, Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out to rule EVERYONE. But how do these mighty giants of personality and will fail? Is it their desire to be Kings? To be gods? Is it the ego they have in walking in to a village and declaring themselves in charge? Dravot's death comes after he makes designs to marry, but is his need for a warm body his true downfall? I'm not saying Kipling answers these questions, but they are fun to think about. The English are so audacious to begin with, especially those with adventure in their blood living in Asia at the time of the story. This is a people who come from a small island, and are always desiring more space. A morbid part of me giggles upon seeing such an outrageous man have his spoils crash down upon his head - literally. Of course, it's sad as well - hopes and dreams crushed and all that.
Life happens, and there are good times and bad. At the end of the story Kipling does not offer us any consolations or soft promises of a better future. Our narrator meets two men, foils their blackmail plans, helps them w/ maps of the mountains, and listens to their story. This matter of fact perception of life appeals to me in literature. It's odd - life is hard and we seek literature to escape. But I have gotten so sick and tired of those who would sugar-coat the world that I am seeking out a harsher alternate reality.

I also (FINALLY) picked up Philip K. Dick's classic Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. Yes, I am incredibly late to the Philip K. Dick party. I learned of him late in life, and even when I worked in a science fiction library did not partake of his offerings (sob). I did take home an extra ACE Double Novel, and years later read Vulcan's Hammer. LOVE flowed over my brain like waterfalls and sunshine. This was an author for me. Do Androids is definitely one of him more famous works and I've been eying the library's copy for over a year, looking for a time to snatch it away.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep follows Rick Deckard, bounty (android) hunter, who finds that he can discern a v. new and shiny, complex android and destroy them. He seeks to own a real, live animal in his post-nuclear war world, and dreams of money and fame. Taking out these androids is the key to this wealth. Along the way, however, he has to rethink what he does and why while his fragmented, dying Earth culture copes.
This novel has some key elements that appeal to me: future, post-nuclear war, space travel, and introspective on what makes us human. It takes place on Earth, even though it is during a time that has space travel. Most novels tend to deal directly with that space travel, with the colonies on the moon, Mars, station, etc. Dick instead takes a look at what, and who, is left behind. Those who do not have the money to emigrate must remain on the dust-choked, radiated planet, as do those who have been physically affected by the radiation. The honesty in this perspective is unique, I think, for the time period. Many times authors were so caught up in the glorious technological future that they forgot little things like social stratification and the economy. Many dreamed of futures where there were no poor or deranged. I feel that we always have these sorts of troubles, even if we do colonize Mars and destroy Earth, so I appreciate authors who explore this as well. I think that authors today look through that lens a little more.
With the new Nexus 6 android, many of the rules for Deckard's profession are broken. It is not the test he gives them that tells him the answer, he must use his instinct and heart. It is this that makes him believe that he may be the only one who can spot them. It is all based on empathy and caring about life. Androids cannot process empathy and would therefore not care about, say, ripping the legs off a spider. In our own world many people are like this, but on a post-nuclear Earth where most animals have died off, a religion based on empathy has emerged. You ask an android about hurting an animal, they cannot process that it is horrible. It's not just the answers, but their eyes and pulse. With the creation of an android that nearly fools even the most experienced bounty hunters, it begs the question about what makes us alive? What, aside from biology, makes us human. Indeed, even the biological component begins to fade with the newest androids. This question has plagued us from the beginning of robotics and the ideas behind AI. Asimov's I, Robot is about this question. Technology is making rethink our definitions of life, and how we define ourselves.