Restingmotion

I seriously hoped to make major inroads into the Booker Longlist in August, but it didn’t quite work out that way. I was exhausted and I did read, but in retrospect my life was pretty much ruled by bradycardia and atrial flutter, and I often didn’t have the mental bandwidth for seriously literary novels. Nonetheless, I managed to read 9 books, concentrated in the later half of the month, after pacemaker surgery. I continue to be amazed at the difference made by a little oxygen (or its absence) to the brain.

47. The Palm House by Gwendolyn Riley. This was the second book on the Booker Longlist I read, and I am glad I did not start with it, as I would have been discouraged from continuing. I discovered that it is a type of novel which is not really to my taste. The novel is short, told in non-linear fragments, surveying both the inner thoughts and the personal diversions of a young, female protagonist. I know there are people who adore this kind of book, and as a reader drawn to introspection and small details, you would think I would be among the author’s fans. Apparently not. I found the novel claustrophobic. I also felt that the writing was uneven and the use of metaphor or descriptive analogy was either crude or distressingly simplistic. I may be overly persnickety, but a particular passage, where a character is introduced as being “so actorly, he seemed at times to be acting the part of an actor” annoyed me so much that I it still grates nearly two months later, reducing my other memories of the book to nothing.

48. The Fifth Season, N. K. Jemison. I adored this book despite the fact that it is epic fantasy and I do not remember why I picked it up. I have grown bored lately with the conventions of epic fantasy: proto-medieval settings, archaic language and ideas which I actually find regressive, even when they profess to be feminist; looking at the future through the eyes that see the past through a condescending lens; world building as a substitute for language; and the language itself — bah — that is a blog post in and of itself. All this at a time when there are also literary novels that are forming bridges between fantasy, literature, and science fiction.

I could write an entire blog post. Instead I will give you the note from my reading journal, copied as is, unpolished and occasionally rambling.

The story is so good I was pulled deeply inside but I also reveled in the language and the complexity of the world. Jemison reveals things slowly, in overlapping layers. There are many parallels to our world, but they are woven so seamlessly into the story they begin as but an echo of something we might have known. The author, although the novel is dark, does not pound the message into your head with a sledge hammer. Of course, all novels are about us and the world we live in, even when they are not. One of the best things about good fantasy is that it allows us a way to look inside while looking away. Jemison blurs many of the lines defining truth, at least that which our society and our civilization has taught us to know as truth. This is a ruthless society always living at the edge of extinction, a world where the remnants of many previous civilizations remain. Hatred and abuse remain. Fear of the other remains. But this fear is not of the same color as our own abuses and fears. Fear, power, control — this world is harsher and so the abuses are harsher as well, not cloaked in the civility with which we protect ourselves. A world both crude and yet surprisingly advanced. I am eager to read the next novel.

49. What We Can Know by Ian McEwan. Another book I loved. In fact I read it twice, once in June and again in August. This novel is also science fiction, in that it is set in the future, although it is without science. Even though it is set in the future, it is about history, and it is about what we can know about ourselves, about each other, and especially about the past, including the way the past both shapes and does not shape the way we define the present. The story is about Tom Metcalfe a professor of literature in the early 22nd century, following the great “derangement” of the world. Tom is a specialist in literature of the first half of the 21st century and his period of study, at least from his perch, is both familiar and completely unfamiliar to the current reader. The first half of the book concerns Tom’s focus on a particular poem, and his own visioning of the world which created this poem. The second half of the novel concerns a newly discovered journal written by the wife of the poet who is Tom’s focus of study, a journal which turns everything Tom thought he knew about the past, and the way he chose to live his own life, upside down. McEwan is a very literary and intellectual writer, a writer who also has a sharp wit, and this is a very thought-provoking book, one I will surely read again, which is, for me, the highest praise.

50. The Reservation : A Novel by Rebecca Kaufman. A fast-paced entertaining little romp, mostly a setting for character development. The setting is a highly regarded small restaurant in a small college town. A famous writer, John Grisham, is coming to town and is expected at dinner. The morning of the event, it is discovered that 22 rib eye steaks have been stolen and the story, such as it is, proceeds from there. Beyond the initial theft, there is little plot, and frankly the reasoning behind the theft seems absurd enough that I would have thought it implausible. But people do all kinds of foolish things. Really the story is merely the scaffolding to further the exploration of the individual characters. A quick read.

51. Taste Makers: Seven Immigrant Women Who Revolutionized Food in America by Mayukh Sen. This was the August selection for my cookbook club. In August we always have a reading book, not a cooking book. I knew of some of the women, others were new to me. I thought I would love the book more than I did.

52. The Obelisk Gate by N. K. Jemisin. This is the second volume in the Broken Earth trilogy. It more than measures up to the promise of the first book. The storyline in The Obelisk Gate, is more straightforward than The Fifth Season, but the book remains just as compelling, perhaps more so, as storylines and threads of history from the first book are slowly woven together. In the first book we get three different stories, from three different period’s of the main character’s life. (I figured this out very early-on in that novel. so, hopefully this is not too much of a spoiler.) In this novel we get the perspective of three different people: Essun, her daughter Nassun, and the stone-eater, Hoa. This gives us both a broader view of this world and also a deeper exploration of emotions, relationships, and how these can shape perspective for both good and ill. Many things that were unclear are beginning to revealed in this book, and these revelations hint in otherwise unexpected directions, but there is much that is not yet resolved. I am looking forward to reading the third book (but I have not read it yet).

53. John of John by Douglas Stuart. A return to the Booker Longlist. I think this is Stuart’s best book yet, even better than Shuggie Bain, although at times I quibbled and perhaps leaned the other direction. The storyline here is more traditionally straightforward and yet Stuart weaves a deeply complex and colorful story filled with insight and tenderness. One of the author’s strengths is building engaging characters whose actions, temperaments, and moral compasses are far from black and white. We soon realize that Cal is not the only one with secrets, difficult relationships, and questionable motivations. We also observe Cal making that transition from seeing his parents as flat role models or icons into seeing them as humans facing all the same struggles with which he himself struggles. There is an emotional depth to this novel, and to Stuart’s writing, that is unusual and the results are something truly special. Deservedly short-listed for the Booker Prize.

54. Raw and Natural Nutrition for Dogs by Lew Olson. Useful and interesting reading. It had been on my shelf for a while awaiting attention.

55. The Renovation by Kenan Orhan. Ambitiously compelling, I both adored and struggled with this novel. Set in 2017, this is the story of a Turkish family made up of a widowed political activist father, his school psychologist daughter, and her husband, an accountant, who have fled Turkey and settled in Italy. The father has dementia and is fading away, the daughter cannot find a job, and the husband works as a mechanic, a job that does not come easily. The family decides to renovate the small en-suite in the master bedroom to a full bathroom, a concession to the fact that the father now lives with them. But the finished bathroom ends up opening into a prison cell, an actual prison cell, in a prison in Istanbul. Dilara, the daughter, who once felt safe in her father’s memories, becomes increasingly drawn into the prison cell. The author successfully uses this premise as a way to explore the ways both neurological illnesses such as dementia, and political exile become a prison in which memory, longing, and loss can enslave us. The father is losing his memory. Dilara is searching for memory. Without memory we become shadows of ourselves. But if we delve too deeply in our memories we also become trapped in an isolated world of our own creation, paradoxically also losing ourselves. I found this novel to be fascinating, and filled with moving and thought-provoking passages, especially in the latter half, when Dilara is slowly being pulled further and further into the prison. In a world where it sometimes seems that the evils of dementia and dislocation will impact us all, either directly or indirectly, this is a powerful and unsettling novel.
 

And the year starts again, not the calendar year, but the school year, the social year, in some circles, perhaps most in an urban western society, the year that matters. Part of me thinks this 9/3 cycle is outdated, a vestige of the past from which we cannot quite extricate ourselves. But it is possible I am in the minority here. It would not be the first time.

Nevermind.

The fall concert season has also started. I have attended three concerts. I’m not sure that I am up to the reviews I once wrote, at least not yet. The spirit is willing but I am still floundering through the endless maze of “catching up”. With what, I am not sure, perhaps my own expectations.

The Knoxville Opera has a new, limited admission, Salon Series which is presented in the Eugenia Williams House. The first performance, Girls of Yellow Diamonds was lovely. The songs were powerful and filled with emotional depth, the performance strong, at times beautiful, and thought-provoking. The entire evening was a lovely commingling of art, place, and the intersection of cultures. It also attracted people who were drawn by the program or the setting but who did not normally attend Knoxville Opera productions. A win on many levels, and I feel fortunate to live in a place with the opportunity.

The Knoxville Symphony’s opening concert was also strong, and lovely, although I did not stay until the end. This was not because I did not love the performance, but more because I am still somewhat overwhelmed and exhausted, and have not yet reached a point where I can consistently stay up late. Although I hate to have missed part of what was a fabulous concert, which included two favorite pieces — Dvorak’s Cello Concerto, and William Grant Still’s Symphony #1, “Afro-American”, I also recognize that there is a point beyond which pushing myself does no one any good.

I am still the girl that wants to miss nothing, but I am also the mature woman who recognizes that this is an impossible dream, and there will always be something else equally fabulous to come. The point is not to dwell on the regret, but on the promise.

Anyway, I felt this was the strongest opening concert that I can recall, and the young cellist, Sterling Elliott, showed remarkable ease, control, and emotional depth in his playing of the Dvorak Cello Concerto. Technically excellent, he also showed confidence and grace in performance, both with in the more dramatic moments as well as in the delicacy with which he floated into the soft, slow, lyrical passages.

And, finally, the first Q series concert took place this past Wednesday. it too was wonderful. The principal string quartet opened with Mozart’s String Quartet No. 22, in B flat major, K. 589. Then the Woodwind quintet followed with a series of charming works by more contemporary composers: “Startin’ Sumthin‘” by Jeff Scott; “Blooming” by Courtney Bryan; and, finally,” Suite Belle Epoque en Sud-America” by Julio Medaglia. I must admit it was difficult not to dance in my seat through the tango movement in that last piece.

You can listen to a performance of Startin’ Sumthin’ , performed by the Imani Winds, here.

You can listen to Belle Epoque en Sud-America, performed by the AULOS woodwind quintet, which is a Korean ensemble (as opposed to the American Aulos Wind Quintet), here.

(The final two photos in this post (both of Knoxville Symphony performances) are courtesy of the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra.)

Looking backward, I would say that July was not my best month. But I read a lot of books, and looking at them now, perhaps it was better than I thought. I am just going to post brief notes, not reviews.

38. Son of Nobody: A Novel by Yann Martel. An ambitious, intellectually layered novel, literary fiction, probably less accessible than the author’s popular novel Life of Pi. Martel explores the relationship between the past and the present, and how our understandings and the stories we tell ourselves affect the ways we interact with the world. An unreliable narrator, alternating prose between the verse “fragment”, which again is unreliable, and the prose notes/musings/intrusions of reality. Highly recommended.

39. Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. Ostensibly a novel about young gay men in Paris, but that is just the surface. This was probably my third reading; the first was in college. For me, this is not Baldwin’s best novel, but I do think it is probably his most popular right now. Baldwin has written a powerful novel about a young man who is so deeply entangled in his own fear that he is lost and can no longer form human connections without damaging himself and others. Baldwin’s beautiful language, and the balance between powerful prose, with the confessional quality of the novel, makes the book almost terrifying. Gut-wrenchingly powerful and hauntingly beautiful.

40. Go Tell It On the Mountain by James Baldwin. I reread this just because I was reading Giovanni’s Room, above. Purely on technical and literary merit, this one is higher in my estimation. But it is also harder for the reader. The contemporary reader can probably handle Baldwin’s use of religious language, Jamesian formality, and black idiom in the setting of a gay love story, above, more readily than his use of this same religious language to describe coming of age and first homosexual love in terms that echo religious zeal and spiritual awakening. Both novels are high achievements.

41. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I hadn’t read this book since the 1990s, and felt it was time. Just as powerful today as it was then, perhaps more so, because I am older and see the world. Beautiful, crass, ponderous, gripping; Dickens, for all his strengths and flaws, wields a powerful understanding of human nature.

42. Education for Ministry: Fifty Years …. A friend left this for me to read because I am mentoring an EFM seminar, again, finally. Interesting.

43. Less is Lost by Andrew Sean Greer. I needed a bit of a light refresher. Hysterically funny. Arthur Less is very much the personification of artlessness but the best part of this book may be the section with HHH Mandern, a brilliant, apparently barely fictionalized, roast of George R.R. Martin. I almost fell out of my chair I was laughing so hard.

44. A Guardian and A Thief by Megha Majumdar. An upper middle class mother who is trying to emigrate to America, a lower class thief who steals the family’s passports. In this thought provoking novel it becomes increasingly unclear who is the guardian and who is the thief, as desperate times bring out desperate responses in people who might otherwise consider themselves reasonable. A necessary tonic for those of us who might like to think that our own responses would be “better”.

45, Talking Classics by Mary Beard. Although there is much about the classical world in this book, it is not so much a book about the classics as it is Mary Beard’s personal exploration of her life studying the past. Engaging. Beard also discusses what we can and cannot know about the past, the shock of discovering that the past was not necessarily what we wished it would be, and the ways our own experiences shape our interpretation of what is and is not “right”.

46. When She Was Ours by Anna Nordberg. A lightweight but charming little novel about a dying mother and her daughters. Fleeting . Truthfully, nearly two months later I’ve already almost forgotten it.

47. The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Stroudt. I was admittedly not a fan of Olive Kitteredge. Still not a fan. But Stroudt’s more recent novels have captured my attention and I think this may be her finest yet. This novel seems more centered in the world, more centered in character and how the world affects that character, as opposed to characters relating the stories of others. This is very much Artie Dam’s story. But it is also an exploration of how little we actually know each other, even the people we believe we know the best, and how small kindnesses resonate in deeper ways than we imagine. It is nominated for a Booker. It is perhaps too conventional to win, but it is one of my favorites. (Updated to add that it made the shortlist, along with a couple of my other favorites, so I am happy that I could be wrong.)

I assume we all know the apologue about the frog and hot water. A frog dropped in boiling water jumps out. A frog sitting in cold water that is slowly heated eventually boils to death. This is what I mean when I say I am the frog.

I got a pacemaker on August 19th; it was desperately needed, and I probably should have started the process sooner than I did. Have I mentioned that I am also a master of denial? You can trust me to not realize I am in hot water until I am about to be submerged.

Needless to say I am still here and I am feeling rather cheerful. I don’t yet know where I am going with this blog but for now I shall share three things from the last week.

Twice-blooming rhododendron, Marshy Point’s Humdinger, has opened for its fall season.

Despite the heat dome, I am getting small bouts of garden work in, mostly in the early mornings. Although much is overgrown, I see the foundations of the work done previously are mostly intact. This gives me hope.

I’ve also been working on various things around the house. I refreshed, reorganized, and sorted through the spice cabinets. Yes, I have a large collection of spice. Yes, I use most of them, although there are about six jars that have been placed in spice purgatory, on a “use it or lose it” list. Even that sounds fun as it means I will have to cook, and playing in the kitchen is one of my favorite things.

Speaking of cooking, I made a large batch of chicken congee and froze it in individual portions. I usually eat eggs in the morning, but sometimes a warm bowl of porridge is just what I want. It seems my idea of porridge has changed. I loved cream of wheat as a child, but now I know I cannot eat that. Somehow I’ve discovered I love congee more than I love oatmeal. Perhaps it just suits my preference for something savory over something sweet. Not that I don’t occasionally make questionable choices, after all, or have occasional sweet cravings. I did have a slice of chocolate cake for breakfast last week.,

I feel no need to increase my social activities. In fact I need to shut the door on the world more. Gardens and eggs and piles of fabric and yarn. Does that leave anything to write about?

I don’t know.

One of the performances I was most anticipating at Santa Fe this summer was Lili Elbe. I love modern opera, I come at my love of opera from the modern reaching backward. And yet, this opera was a disappointment. Not only that, I think my disappointment was amplified because the orchestral score itself was beautiful — lush, dynamic, moving. The most emotionally rich and moving scenes in this opera were the orchestral interludes, which included video projects of bodies shrouded in mist and longing. I love a good orchestral interlude, but it story progression seemed strangely off-kilter simply because the sung portions of the opera felt dry and clinical, as if the artists were reading a history book to music, sung in a flat, “just the facts, Ma’am” tone. I loved the score, I hated the opera, and I am incredibly sad because I saw so much potential in the story and the voices. I saw what could have been an emotionally powerful and moving opera, except that, for this audience member at least, none of this happened.

There is a moment in the opening scene, where Eimar and his wife Gerda are preparing to go out, when Eimar slips his jacket off his shoulder, and wraps his neck scarf loosely as if it were a shawl and briefly models in the mirror. But Gerda returns and he quickly sets himself to rights. This is the only instance in which we see any hint that Eimar had ever had conflicting feelings about his sexuality. The next thing we know is that Gerda’s model fails to appear and she asks Eimar to don a robe and model for her, so that she can finish the legs on her subject. In that moment, it appears as if Eimar, suddenly has this fully-fledged, unbidden insight that he is Lili. Gerda thinks he is playing a game; believes he is playing a game. There is no exploration of his transformation, no psychology, no emotion, and this is a great opportunity wasted. The situation is emotional, it is tragic, it is comic, it is rich with opportunity. It could be so powerful. What an opportunity lost.

In powerful, dueling arias, Eimar could explore fleeting feelings from his past, his own evolution of thought, and yes, even perhaps this sudden lightening-bolt insight. Gerda could explore her confusion, her budding recognition that her husband may not who she had assumed he was, and her own fears and longing to have her “old” husband back. But there are no arias in this opera, there is no true recitative. This could have been a watershed moment that carried the entire opera forward, an opportunity to launch this opera into a moving, perhaps even wrenching story of love, self-discovery, and identity.

There follow other scenes, a move to Paris, two parties, one in Denmark, one in Paris, encounters with family, doctor visits, hospitals. The transitions could have been alluded to more artfully. One party would have sufficed. But the momentum of this opera has been set in stone, by exposing every detail, the story itself feels like it has lost its weight.

The parties struck me as further lost opportunities. Everyone was beautifully dressed and great effort was made in costuming, with the apparent exception of Lili.

In the promotion photos, she does not appear so dowdy as she does from the hall, but to my eye, and to my companion’s, eye as well, Lili appeared to be dressed as a fusty old grandmother. It was difficult to see why all the men flocked around her.

The party scenes were not festive. The men congregated, but they could have been scientists discussing a new discovery for all I could tell. The story was told, Lili entered and stood. I found it difficult to understand the appeal. There was an opportunity for the men to explore the allure of this new attraction in song, opportunity for the women present to explore their own reactions, and an even greater opportunity for Lili to explore her own emotions and her perceptions to this new level of attention. Instead the scene felt flat.

In Paris, Claude Le Jeune falls immediately in love with Lili, but we have no inclining of why. Even in the Tuileries, we have some sense that Claude may suspect the truth, but this is hinted at so faintly, that I remained confused. Another opportunity lost, but how delicious it would be for the artists to explore these new, possibly conflicting feelings, how rich and enlightening the possibilities for drawing the audience into the story.

I wanted more.

The sets are dynamic and creative and beautiful. The costuming is exquisite. Possibly there were too many scenes, too many sets, as if factual detail was overemphasized at the cost of art. But it is art that brings emotional richness, art that allows us to experience new emotions and to understand feelings in new ways.

The videography is beautiful and emotionally rich. It could have been used more to forward the story. I felt there was too much of the doctor, too many scenes, too much literalism. The shock of the medical procedures might have been better handled by the excellent videographer, the doctor singing his own extended aria. There are times when reality is best alluded to obliquely, making the shock more powerful than the litany of facts, which dull the brain.

I expected the ending to be emotional and fragile. I knew that letters between Lili and Gerda would be involved, but for me the setting was too sterile, the words too mechanical. I am no romantic but it as I write it seems that this is what I am reaching for here. I think there could have been more nuance, more mystery, a sharper revelation between the emotion of the words, (shrouded in myst?) and the reality of the clinical setting. In my ideal ending, Gerda would have rushed into the mists to find Lili dead, only then with the mists fading and the sterile hospital room revealed.

I know this is not what the opera was imagined to be. But this was the opera I wanted. Somehow, because I so wanted more, my sense of loss and disappointment felt all the more intense. It is no fault of the singers, although I admit that I have never previously been to an opera where I wished the singing would just stop and the melody return.

And yet I wonder if there is more to my disconnect, a disconnect I have been struggling with in literature as well. Perhaps I am simply a literate old fuddy-duddy, a product of the 20th century, in a 21st century, post-literature world. I am a person who thinks in abstraction and ideas, who wants long, idea-rich sentences, perhaps long emotional arias, I also love metaphor and allegory but that is not because of the late 20th century world that shaped me but because of my years studying 16th and 17th century literature. Perhaps I have become an anachronism.

I think I need to study this opera further. With anything new, repeated exposure is a bonus. A recording has just been released. Perhaps my issues are more with the staging than the opera itself. Perhaps I also need to analyze my own approach. Worth further thinking, at any rate, even though my initial response is simply what it was.

I do hope that someday there is a beautiful, emotionally rich opera that explores of the experience of being in the wrong body, of transition, of being an outsider and discovering oneself. This is something that it seems to me that opera is perfectly suited to explore. Perhaps this opera is that opera. Perhaps it is not. Alas, that experience did not happen here, in this performance, to this member of the audience..

(note photos in this post are from the Santa Fe Opera House website)

My June reading was mostly fiction and included hits and misses. Alas we started with the latter.

34. I See You’ve Called in Dead by John Kenney which was recommended as being “sidesplittingly funny”. This only goes to show that we don’t all share the same sense of humor as I found this book mostly just sad. The title is promising, and the first scene, the blind date, is incredibly clever and funny, although even then we see a hint of the self-sabotaging (I do not see it as self-deprecating) humor wielded by man who is depressed and insecure. From there the book went downhill. Where my friends saw wit, I saw sad deflection. New York shone, but otherwise the characters were stock stereotypes geared to take us on some magical path of redemption. If the book had not been a book club selection, I would not have finished.

35. Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke. This is a currently trending novel which uses the Trad Wife / Instagram influencer idea as a foundation for exploring patriarchy and misogyny in America along with the ways these ideas shape the manosphere, conservative politics , and evangelical christianity. (small c intentional). It is a far angrier novel than I anticipated and deeper as well, although I do not think it quite succeeded as satire (at least in accordance with my definition of satire). I felt the ending was a let-down, although logical in modern parlance and the novel took a turn that blunted the satirical and social impact. This is an example of the ways fantasy and magical realism can add a cutting level of depth, which cannot be achieved with more straightforward narratives. I still think this is a novel that should be read, unspoiled, for which reason I shall say no more. If you want to talk about it sometime, I am willing.

36. Fluke by Brian Klass. My one non-fiction book. Fascinating book exploring the role of chance in the world. Basically Klass is saying that we “control nothing but influence everything” with lots of interesting observations and data. Thought-provoking.

37. The German Wife by Kelly Rimmer. Historical Fiction. I loved this book, even as I can see how some readers on both Goodreads and Library Thing have found it problematic. It seems the author even finds the story problematic, in ways that I really don’t see. But I often find myself at odds. A lot of research went into this book, and a lot of effort to see the story from different sides. Some points of view are told more effectively than others, but still it is a compelling, and thought-provoking novel, if you are willing to be provoked.

Four books. I actually read five, but the last novel I read in June, and the first novel I read in July have both been put back on the stack as requiring a re-read. Since it is already the end of July, I doubt they will make the July list either. Annoying, but so it is.

It seems like it has been ages since I have wandered far afield, wandered at all in fact. I’ve been in a prolonged nesting phase, and preoccupied as I have been with the personal details of fur and feathers and all things cozy and personal, I have been absent from these pages.

But I went out. Not far, merely to Cincinnati, a mere four-hour drive. I had a great time and I am surprised to say I think I may go back.

DAY1

Garbo and I drove up from Knoxville. Up meaning North. I feel I have to qualify that statement because I live in a place where sometimes it seems to me that “up” can be any which direction. I am sure there are rules as to usage but I have yet to discern what they may be.

Anyway. We drove north. We picked up my friend Liana at the airport, and had a leisurely lunch on a shady patio under one of the flyways near the airport. It was not quiet, but the afternoon floated languorously away, three calm ladies enjoying the breeze and conversation.

The rest of that first day was spent settling in, taking a walk with Garbo who was not at all certain that she is a city dog. As we walked we admired some of the murals painted on the sides of buildings and Garbo searched eagerly for the world she once knew, namely grass. We found a small park with some raised planting beds. They had to suffice. I ended the day with a drink and a bowl of mussels. The drink, named “An Italian in Manhattan” was a marriage of some of my favorite flavors — Bourbon, Amaro Nonino, Monin black sugar, and black walnut bitters. The drink was excellent, the mussels were merely okay, but they served a function and it was a good day.

I was not planning on being ambitious on this trip. I’ve been struggling with energy levels this spring and summer and the purpose of this outing was to see an opera on Thursday night (day 3), so I had no specific plans.

Day 2

Garbo and I wandered a little further in the morning, and we found a grassy knoll outside the main branch of the Cincinnati library, which also had this lovely book sculpture in a corner of the courtyard.

As to other adventures, we went to the Hyde Park area, where we went to a yarn shop in search of a particular size of double point needles. I oohed over some Knitting for Olive yarns, something I have only, so far, admired online. And also some locally dyed merino in the perfect shade of muted plum. Reader, I did not buy it. I have been unpacking and cataloging yarn and knitting patterns and my head was too full of all the things I wanted to knit, patiently waiting for me at home. We explored Hyde Park, had lunch, stopped in a little gallery, and bought Garbo an apple, one of her favorite treats.

That evening we had tickets to go to a play at the Cincinnatti Shakespeare company, a new play called Dogberry and Verges are Scared, based on the eponymous characters from Much Ado About Nothing. This was a lucky impromptu treat. Facebook knew we were in Cincinnati, one of the rare times I might thank big brother for watching over me, and told us of this production.

We went to dinner at a lovely little mediterranean spot, where we shared a few small plates, including a beautifully composed wedge salad:

And then off to the play.

The play was one of the most ridiculous and sublimely funny things I’ve seen in a long, long time. We were there for a preview night, and I had few complaints. The acting was superb, the actors were all obviously experienced shakespearean actors, and, even though this was a modern play, it honored Shakespeare nicely, as well as courting modern tastes. I thought the actor who was playing Dogberry, apparently a late substitution, was a trifle to earnest in his efforts; but I still enjoyed the play.

We had our picture taken outside the playhouse, and enjoyed a leisurely walk back to our hotel, where I snapped one more picture of a mural.

And I fell into an exhausted sleep.

To be continued.

America and I share a birthday weekend this year. It feels rather subdued.

I remember the bicentennial, how extravagant and excited we all were! The parades, the tall ships, merriment everywhere, much laughing with friends. This year feels quieter. Yes there are fireworks, and Independence Day celebrations, but it doesn’t really feel any different from any other year. I find that sad. I also find it understandable in a way because so many people seem to feel anxious and subdued, and question what it really means to be an American. I certainly don’t have answers.

My birthday is this weekend also. I turn 68. It is not a significant milestone, but in some ways this has felt like a transitional year, more transitional than say 60, or 65 were. I’m not yet sure how it is all going to turn out. I know I’ll be fine whatever the future brings. I am not anxious or depressed and yet a subdued birthday weekend feels right to me this year.

I finished mulching the western. bed in the front yard this morning. I’ve probably focused most of my gardening efforts on cleaning out this bed, pruning, trimming, adding compost, and now, finally adding a nice layer of mulch. This morning was slightly cooler than yesterday, and it felt like a nice thing to do on my nation’s birthday, protecting a little piece of soil. I don’t really like “groomed suburban beds” with lots of mulch and isolated plants, so I have plans to add more perennials and ground covers, and fill in with annuals. But early July, in the middle of a heat wave is not the time to do that.

My intention has been to focus on one thing at a time and finish it before moving to the next. I’ve done that here. Next up will be the east bed, which may be in even worse shape than the west bed was. And I have to keep this bed nice as well — maintain what I’ve done — not keep falling back into endless cycles.

That is my tendency, to take on too many things, and constantly keep recycling through them. But right now a tighter focus feels good.

I am even attempting to be relatively monogamous with my knitting, although I had two projects on the needles the last couple of weeks.

I made these socks shorter than I have of late. I used to always knit my socks this length, it is the length I prefer on my legs/feet. But lately I had been knitting longer socks to wear with specific boots. I have enough of those socks, and not enough short socks. These are about six inches from the top of the sock to the heel shaping, and I love them. I knit the from La Jolla by Baah Yarns, which I purchased when I was visiting my friend Liana in Nebraska at the beginning of February. Shorter socks means more yarn left over. I used just about 2/3 of the skein, so I have 144 yards left over to add to the “odd ball” box.

I am also knitting a prayer shawl for my church.

This is knit from oddments in roughly DK weights, I am alternating rows with three yarns, although one has been, and will be, consistent throughout the entire shawl, the other bits and bobs change. I had hoped to finish this shawl this weekend but that appears unlikely as it is already well into Saturday. I am about 2/3 finished, and I’m not sure I want to devote the time I need to finish it completely.

I’m already dreaming of the next project though and eager to get started. I’ll be traveling some soon, and I always worry about having enough kitting. I usually pack too much. But one traumatic trip 30 years ago when I ran out of yarn in the middle of west Texas looms large in my memory. I’d rather have a new project than the tail end of an old project, but when I think about it , that I started with a new project, I just finished it faster than anticipated.

I’ve also decided to rip part of the big alpaca blanket I’ve been working on off and on. I added to it in May, but I knew there was an error in the previous section. I ignored it, and now I realize that this was a mistake and it will bother me forever if I don’t rip it out. I knew that in May also, but I apparently wasn’t thinking all that clearly, so now I have even more to rip back. But that is not going to happen today, or even this week.

Oh foolish Human! Dost thou ever learn?

I am too far behind to provide extended reading notes, and yet I wish to maintain the list. Instead here is a quick listing of what I read in April and May.

20. Here One Moment by Liane Moriarty. Book club selection. I expected more from this book, but then I think I always do from Moriarty’s novels. It is true that the author explores interesting questions concerning fate and pre-destination in this novel, but I felt the development was rather clichéd and the characters interesting but not fully fleshed out enough for me to fully engage. An entertaining quick read, that ultimately felt like a bit of an overindulgence in sugar.

21. Seascraper by Benjamin Wood. Historical Fiction. Heartwarming. This was a short, beautifully written, and uplifting novel, that also resonated in my thoughts for sometime. Set in 1962 young Thomas Flett is barely eking out a living carrying on his grandfather’s dying career as a shanker. It is a profound story of emotional repression, loss, isolation and yearning. The ending is ultimately uplifting without seeming forced or contrived.

22. Project Hail Mary by Andrew Weir. Science Fiction. Fun, Light, Fast Moving. Doesn’t stand up to scrutiny but that is beside the point. I thoroughly enjoyed it this, and it moved quickly enough that I was able to suspend disbelief.

23. Saga of Brutes by Ana Paula Maia. Brazilian literature. Darkly comic, often brutal, but also compassionate. A compilation of three novellas about the men who do the dirty work of society, disposing of disposable things, men who perhaps feel themselves to be brutes, and worthless, because society treats them as such. Yes, their work is brutish, but they men themselves are not devoid of humanity or compassion, although their actions may appear to be so. The literary strength of the novellas varies, but the stories were compelling, disturbing, and thought-provoking. This novel will stay with me a long time.

24. The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. Winner of the Women’s Prize for Fiction, deservedly so. Its unusual premise combined with beautiful writing, memorable characters and distinctive style make for a very engaging book. A bit too emotionally manipulative for me perhaps — infertility, cancer, blindness, Holocaust survivor, death of a child, dementia, mental illness, bullying, asylum seeking — really, I would have found Sybil von Antwerp compelling with a small subset of these. Despite this, I thoroughly enjoyed the book.

25. Death on Cromer Beach by Ross Greenwood. Police procedural. Easy and engaging read with good character development and a strong sense of place.

26. Death at Paradise Park by Ross Greenwood. Police procedural. Second in series. Still a good sense of place but this installment felt a bit far-fetched and pushing at the limits of belief.

27. Death in Bacton Wood by Ross Greenwood. Police procedural. Third in a planned series of three. The series comes to a conclusion, but lacks connection between the volumes. That said, the plot is more convincing than in the second installment. Solid on the procedural aspects of the novel, perhaps looking toward a new series.

28. The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak. In this story two young people in Cyprus fall in love, are separated, reunited, and move to London where they have a daughter. The mother dies and the daughter is trying to reconcile her grief with her family history and her sense of being “apart” in society and in a family that does not discuss its history. The story is told in large part by a fig tree, which has been brought to England with the family. Parts of this story are quite clichéd and others almost too analytical, yet I felt it worked beautifully on an emotional story-telling level, if not always literarily. Shafak seems to merge many current themes and influences — the increasing interest in the interconnectedness of trees, Richard Powers, science, Internet Memes — with traditional mysticism and superstition, including magical realism, loss, pain, heartbreak, and hope, into a story that is simultaneously disjointed yet oddly interconnected and complete. I think the odd disconnect in the writing here helps flesh out Ada’s own sense of isolation and lack of connection. Worth reading again.

29. The Black Wolf by Louise Penny. Armand Gamache takes on an international conspiracy. I’ve long loved this series but am not really interested in Gamache taking on the broader political ills of society. I do understand Penny’s statement that the series must evolve, I remain uncertain that I wish to evolve with it.

30. Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt. I wanted to like this book from when we first met Marcellus, a giant Pacific octopus. He initially reminded me of the stories my father told throughout my childhood of Pedro the octopus, who travelled with my family and had many adventures. Allas, although uplifting and quite enjoyable fluff, I felt this book was also annoyingly predictable and clichéd. Aside from Marcellus, I felt the characters were two-dimensional trite stereotypes.

31. Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín. A rather conventional immigrant novel revolving around the journey of Eilis Lacey to America, back to Ireland, and then returning to America to settle into her new life. I found Eilis to be frustratingly passive and yet I found her story engaging and moving.

32. My Mexico by Diana Kennedy. This is a cookbook, but it is also a memoir and a paean to the cooks of Mexico. I’ve had it for decades; I’ve cooked many dishes. But it has been a long time since I’ve read it, cover to cover. I did so this time around and thoroughly enjoyed the process. I’m not sure I had fully given the book the attention it deserves, not as a cookbook, but as a book about food.

33. Long Island by Colm Tóibín. I found this second installment in the Eilis Lacey story to be stronger and more compelling than the first. The form itself remains fairly conventional but I can see here how Tóibín is using this structure to deeply explore the mindset of the residents of an Irish small town (and Eilis herself). The novel is full of things that can’t (or won’t) be said and the way these secrets and repressions shape and harm the lives around them.

All in all, a fairly happy mix.

I have been absent. I am not yet ready to share the reasons behind my absence. Simply note that I am here once again.

The hardest thing for me is picking up writing once I’ve lost the thread. I want to apologize and explain and instead what happens is I regurgitate up a sea of words and emotions and meandering philosophical thoughts that do not deserve to be unleashed upon the world.

And yet, I have to start somewhere.

I turned the heel on a sock last night. It is a simple sock, my basic, no-pattern, pattern: stockinette sock with a short-row heel. It is the sock I most like to wear, and it is a pretty easy, mindless knit (except for that heel). I started this sock in late May and I should have finished knitting the pair of socks by now. But I didn’t really knit at all last week, and this sock has technically been knit twice to this point, so I have already almost knit two socks except that I only have half a sock to show for my efforts. I don’t mind that, it was an intentional decision

I started out making this sock:

Note that nice honeycomb pattern. It was fun to knit and I was really enjoying the process, with the exception that I somehow kept dropping stitches and having to pic the up again. That was due to a few scattered and unpredictable episodes of bradycardia. Reuniting dropped stitches in pattern was more annoying than it was worth, and, when I tried the sock on, I decided I didn’t really like the bulk of it. Perhaps a tiny flat pattern would work, but the truth is although I love texture and pattern, I want my socks to be smooth and simple. I mostly wear then inside of boots anyway. So I ripped it all out (I was already at the heal) and started over. My simple sock makes me happy.

I’ve been in a mood for tofu and I happened to pick up this book by Fuchsia Dunlop, which is new to my collection:

It has a nice chapter on tofu dishes and I made the Hangzhou breakfast tofu for breakfast the other morning. The requires gently warming silken tofu and then serving it with various toppings. In that sense it is somewhat reminiscent of congee, which I adore, but lighter and with more protein. I served mine with light soy sauce, (I used a Thai brand, the only gluten free light soy sauce I have found), sesame oil, and Chile oil, along with a generous handful of chopped cilantro, scallions, and fried peanuts. This was so simple, quick and satisfying, I can easily see myself throwing this together again, although the toppings will probably vary, just as they do when I have congee. I never used to eat silken tofu, now it is destined to become a pantry item.

I have been working slowly and steadily in the garden. I did not get as much done in the spring as I hoped, due to the same setbacks that kept me from blogging, but I am working now. I’ve only made tiny inroads, but they feel major to me, and I am once again hopeful. Perhaps that, in and of itself, is all that matters. Tired or not afterward, and hour or three in the garden lifts my spirits in ways very little else does.

I planted yellow petunias around the white roses. They haven’t filled in yet, but they make me happy here, even though they are only little yellow blurs in this photo.

I’ve decided to work on one bed at a time, to weed it, do what I need to do, add compost and mulch and plant as much as I can. Without plants, weeds will just take over. Some places get annuals, but if I know what I want, and I can find it I will go ahead and stick a perennial in the appropriate spot. The hope is that this way I don’t keep doing the same thing over and over again. Mostly the underlying structure looks good, and I love the happy beds like the one above, where things just mingle together. I like my gardens to be an informal mash-up.

See you soon, hopefully sooner than the last gap.