the living’s uneasy/summer reading #4

All day long, I either read or watch movies. I’ve started working out because I’ve gained an inconceivable amount of weight, but even then, I read. It’s becoming very exhausting, though it could just be that I need to change my contacts. When I take a break from those two things, I flit about, pretending to write or pretending to clean or pretending to pack.

And the voices, they’re getting louder. I want to talk to somebody. Really bad. A good conversation, especially one at night, makes me less uneasy. Uneasy seems a constant state for me. I wonder if I can even add the “un” if I’m so comfortable being it.

I also miss encyclopedias. I adore Wikipedia, but I also miss being able to look at something for research and be able to see it and what I’m writing at the same time, instead of switching from Firefox to Word all the time.

Here’s the latest batch of books I’ve finished.

1. Conversation Pieces: Poems That Talk To Other Poems, edited by Kurt Brown and Harold Schechter. I loved this book the second I saw the title, because it’s what I love about poetry. And this collection pairs each poem with the poem it mimics, responds to, makes fun of, or expands upon, so it’s at once an anthology of those famous poems that you should know (“La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” “This Is Just To Say”) and current poets (Kimiko Hahn and Meg Kearney are my favorites, since they were NBFers). And the book is just well put together, doing a good job at including writers of different genders, historical periods, ethnic backgrounds, and nationalities. It was a great vacation companion, and I read a few poems almost every night while I was away.

2. Sleeping With Schubert by Bonnie Marson. I really wanted to read this book for a few reasons: a) I wanted to read something by a local writer; b) my former boss suggested I read it; c) after seeing the play “Beethoven, As I Knew Him” I have a bit of composer fever; and d) the concept was similar to the novel I started working on recently, so when I read the blurb about this book, it sounded like it could either be a very good thing (inspiration and all) or a very bad thing (finding out my idea was already done exactly how I was going to do it). Reading it had neither of those results. Somehow, Marson never learned that whole “show, don’t tell” thing, and I just didn’t buy a lot of the story. The most interesting parts weren’t really fleshed out, and it read too much like chick lit trying to be literature. Not the best it could have been, but certainly interesting, and fun enough if you’re into classical music history.

3. Betsy-Tacy and Tib by Maud Hart Lovelace. I had the most beautiful old editions of these books when I was younger, and I stupidly got rid of them. Now I’m trying to replace them. So I realized that for the past few summers, I have devoted some of my reading to rediscovering children’s series. Last year, it was Little House. The year before that, it was Harry Potter (because I wanted to be prepared for the final book). Since I only ever read the first few books, when Betsy, Tacy, and Tib are all young, I have decided I’m going to start from the beginning and read all the way through. They’re some of the most fabulous children’s books of all time, and Betsy Ray definitely helped me want to become a writer, as well as made me feel at home with another child who loved to make up her own games. Plus, I need a break from all the heavier reading I’m doing.

4. Not a Matter of Love by Beth Alvarado. This spring, Beth earned a place as probably my second-favorite fiction teacher that I’ve had, just after Norma Fox Mazer. They have these honors for different reasons, but still. Beth was an excellent teacher, so obviously I wanted to read what she’d written. This short story collection felt first very familiar to me, and I loved that it was Tucson, because the only other Tucson book I can remember is The Bean Trees, and that was just terrible. Strangely, this was my Tucson and then it really, really wasn’t. Drugs and drug culture elude me; maybe it’s spoiled to say so. But what I really appreciated this collection for, aside from just well-written, good stories, was how Beth handled interracial marriages and relationships, biracial children, and bicultural communities. That really doesn’t happen enough in stories, and it almost never happens without it being the only (or major) plot device. Isn’t it funny how I’m always bringing that up?

a cold summer in montevideo

It’s funny, because I love to learn languages and meet interesting people and experience new things, but I’m learning that I am really not a good traveler. Like, I really don’t like to be away from home. Who knew that after spending my entire childhood and adolescence begging for boarding school, for my mother to accept a job working abroad, for college out of state, that I would end up a homebody who loves spending time with her family? This is some weird sort of karma.

It’s not that I don’t like being in Montevideo. On the contrary, I was actually really happy yesterday to return after a weekend in Buenos Aires (beautiful, beautiful city, but snooty people and lots of dirt and a somewhat unpleasant hostel experience). I’m sad that I haven’t gotten to take full advantage of my classes or internship, having missed more than a week due to my flu, but I really like working at NGOs, and working at a Latin American NGO is twice the experience, because it’s work experience and language practice. But traveling in a group is just not my thing, and I feel very off-balance not being at home. I’m too accustomed to being settled. Apparently I don’t like change. Apparently I actually like my life in Tucson. Interesting.

Something that has always astonished me is that I can’t really write when I’m on vacation, even though being in another country (or just another state–pretty much everything is different from the desert) gives me a lot of inspiration and generally feels exhilarating, at least for awhile. But I don’t feel compelled to pick up my journal, I think partly because there is so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. All of a sudden there is a new climate, new streets to learn, a new culture of people, new stores and restaurants and foods, new phrases, and now a language that I’m starting to think in. It’s like there’s so much to say just superficially, just to establish my new place in a new world, that I can’t actually get to the point of talking about my feelings or new friends or specific experiences. It’s a daunting task, and I simply can’t say anything without spending two hours just writing in a journal. And there’s no time for that, because I’m on vacation on a specific program and I have things I need to be doing. And on days like today, when I spend my afternoon alone in my hotel room on my computer (though I was actually looking up important information for the rest of my trip, like hostels and bus fares and things), I feel like a failure on both parts, because why should I be in my hotel room when I’m neither experiencing the country I’m in nor doing something I would do at home, like work on my writing? I don’t have all the things I need to feel at home, but I also feel a bit overwhelmed always being here.

So while I can’t bring myself to be totally me, neither can I stop myself. I really want to be writing. I want to be working on my novel, and I want to be working on my essay for Ann’s book, and I want to be working on that other novel I started, and I want to start developing some really good short pieces, because it’s about time I started submitting stuff and making money off my writing, and it would be prudent to start publishing in the genre I want to have a career in, rather than in all the others that I just do for fun. But I can’t work on things here, because I’m very materialistic and high-maintenance, and I don’t have all my drafts or my big old desk or my things. Things, things, things. This is why I’m a bad traveler. I can’t pack light. Physically, mentally, or emotionally. I have lots of baggage.

It’s not all that bad. I’m learning, and that’s really all I care about. This is probably the first summer experience that doesn’t feel like summer (which it shouldn’t, because I’m in the southern hemisphere and it’s freezing). What I mean by that is this is the first summer experience where I’ve gone away to a program and have not felt like it’s completely magical or that I’ve made friends for life. In fact, the only person I see myself really remaining friends with is the one person I knew before coming, though I really did not know her very well. That’s totally fine, I guess. I am a huge cynic, and since college I have become a lot more particular about the people I make friends with. I know lots and lots of people, and I really like it, but I also really like just having a handful of really, really good friends, not a bunch of friendships that are all high-maintenance. There are people I have a deep necessity for, and they generally make me happy. The rest make me happy, but they’re not necessary. And that’s the way life goes. In this group of people, I feel very, very old and stuffy, and I guess I kind of am, but it’s also just how I’ve developed within this group of people who are not very much like me. And it’s fine. I am enjoying my learning experiences, and I am very excited for my two weeks of travel with my friend.

I am all over the place. And where I’d really like to be is home, but I know if I were there, I would be complaining about how I never go anywhere. There is definitely more to traveling than just appreciating where you come from, and I hope I am doing that. I think I am more meant for individual and small-group travel experiences than strict programs with boisterous personalities. I am slowly drawing into a shell, and I really shouldn’t do that.

BUT planning for my traveling is so exciting! Another three days in Buenos Aires by myself, this time to meet my grandmother’s cousin and to go to museums and experience traveling the way I like to do it, then a bus ride to Iguazu, a stay at a hostel for a day or two, bus ride back, boat back to Uruguay, perhaps a day in Montevideo, then travel to the hot springs! It’s going to be a packed two weeks, but it’s going to be great.

bah, humbug

Everything about this winter break seems so stressful. I’ve forgotten how to take care of myself. I have to take care of everyone else, and there’s no one to complain to because anyone I could complain to has some condition that I should be sensitive to.

Falling back into angst is not what I like to do. I just feel like another entry here is overdue, and I don’t have the energy to be creative. And that is another way that I’m not doing well this break. I’ve forgotten how to start writing, even when I have ideas or I’m excited about something.

G-d I miss my novel. I almost have it back. If I can just figure out how to unlock these half corrupted files that the hard drive recovery man gave me from my shot computer hard drive. I’m so close. When going through them, I found two files that were in the same folder. Now I just need the actual novel. I had so many chapters. I just can’t start from the beginning.

On the bright side, Megan McCafferty and I are Facebook friends, and she messaged me because I said I was excited to meet her at the Tucson Festival of Books. Hurrah for writers! They are the best.

de-contextualizing

I’m lyric diving. It’s so much fun. I have this notebook where I write down random lyrics from songs that stand out that I really love, for their language, for their sentiment, for their rhyme, for whatever. There are some that, when taken completely out of context, mean something different from their original song, and sometimes I can no longer remember what song that is, unless I figure out a rhythm and a tune to read the words to. It’s a fun game that you can play over and over again.

I’m also doing stuff with bits of lyrics that I’ve been writing lately. I have a couple choruses and good melodies, but verses are so much harder. I don’t want to cop out and only do like one verse, a million times the chorus, and a bridge. That’s weak. I need to learn garage band and guitar; that would help. And I want a piano that I don’t hate, like my piano rather than the one that came with the house, so that I can use that as well.

I have to present my French blog to my French class this week, possibly today. I hope not today. I’d rather pretend to pay attention and really just do some writing today. Until I get my novel back, I’m trying hard not to care by spending my writing time on journaling, on song lyrics, and on writing the bedtime stories my dad used to make up for me and my sister. Those are going to be fabulous fairy tales when they’re done, I can just feel it.

forgetfulness

It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write in a journal. It’s always intimidating when you start a new paper journal; clearly a new online one is no different. I’ve had my LJ since eighth grade, so to start something new after six years is a little daunting.

I’m on the edge of my seat constantly. I want to be writing, and I really should be working on my French blog or my short story for my fiction class, both of which are due on September 30, which is conveniently a day when I will not be at school because it’s Rosh Hoshanah. But even though my short story has nothing to do with anything I’ve written before taking this class, I’m reluctant to start writing again. Over the summer my computer crashed, and even though I had everything backed up on a flash drive, all my stuff was lost. I got a new hard drive, the computer guys said I could hire someone who could likely get everything off of my old, broken hard drive (albeit for a four-figure price, most likely), and I plugged in my flash drive to get my novel out. Lo and behold, it has crashed and deleted as well. If all my files are deleted, I think I’m quitting writing. Really. This book is too important to me, and this is not the first time I have had computer problems that have deleted my work. What kills me this time is that I was actually backing things up, and the backup failed as well. Anyway. Until I know if that’s being fixed (apparently a moonlighting computer guy has it now; I kind of just wanted to go with the expensive guys, as they’re kind of a guarantee), I hate the idea of starting new things. I desperately want my writing back.

I’m trying to read a lot, though. And lately I’ve had a songwriting kick. It’s never full songs, but I’m working on it. I got a book on how to use Garage Band from the library, so actually opening that could be helpful. And I have bits and pieces of what could be lots and lots of songs. I’m trying, really. And now that I’m taking music theory, I’m hoping I’ll be better at that. First-species counterpoint kicked my ass this week, but I’m blaming it on being sick and missing lots of class. That may not be it, but that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I do have two short story ideas, though, which is perfect, because I have to write two this semester. I’m terrible at short fiction, but maybe I’ll get better. The other thing I miss from my computer is the two or so years of saved PostSecrets, which are not archived, so I can’t get them back. Those are the best inspiration for stories, hands down. I suggest you check it out.