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Books Read January and February 2015

I was up a little late last night at an excellent chamber music concert at the Knoxville Museum of Art, and so am a little pressed for time this morning. This works well because I have finished very few books so far this year. In fact there are more books that I have read once and want to go back to for one reason or another than there are books in the "completed" pile.

Most of them are fairly light reading

1. Scott Turow, Identical. OK. Not Turow's best. I kept getting a sense the author was trying for some overarching statement about twins that he wasn't quite able to pull off.

2. Jacques Vandroux, Heart Collector. A Kindle First choice. Fast paced and entertaining enough, but a little to fantastical for my taste. It somehow bothered me that French Detectives spoke as if they were characters in a spaghetti western. Perhaps that is a trend.

3. M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans. I enjoyed reading this. The were a few beautifully descriptive passages, and the struggles of the characters were moving and thought provoking, although often frustrating as well.

4. Teri Agins, Hijacking the Runway. Well written and easy to read. I found it less satisfying than her previous book, but that may be that I am less interested in the subject matter.

5. Simon Wood, The One that Got Away. Another Kindle First. A fast read. I think it is a pretty good portrayal of a character suffering from PTSD. Some of the other characters needed work.

6. D. M. Pulley, The Dead Key. Kindle First. Flowery prose. Unbelievable characters. Some good sections.

7. Daniel Kehlmann, F: A novel. This was the best book of the batch, and considering how long it has stayed with me, and how often I have dipped back into it, I would say it is brilliant, although it is not a novel for the general reader. It is not a book for a reader who wants a traditional story line, but if you are willing to engage with the book it is grippingly thought-provoking. F is a novel about Arthur Friedland and his three sons. Arthur is a Failed writer who takes his sons to see a hypnotist, after which he abandons his Family to pursue his craft. The story resumes many years later when the sons are grown and Arthur has achieved Fame. The eldest son, Martin has become a priest (Faith) although he is a Fake as he does not believe in God. Eric is in Finance and also Fraud. Ivan is an artist, but also a Forger. Family, Fathers, Fame, Faith, Fakery, Fraud, Forgery, Fear. These are the subjects of this book and it is in many ways a very astute and unsettling study of modern life, especially the fear that each of these characters struggles with: the fear of being found out, the fear of not being good enough, the fear that they are each and every one a fraud, not in the external worldly sense, in which they most certainly are frauds, but deep in their inner selves. And so each character builds a life that is a Façade designed to hide their Fear that the world will discover the emptiness they each feel.

March 5, 2015
Two Sweaters

It has been rather shocking to me how quickly my focus and attention has faltered after a few short weeks where I did not maintain my early morning ritual quiet/contemplative/writing time. Of course other things were going on as well, and I knew February would be a difficult month, schedule-wise, but even so, I am reminded of the importance of taking time to center oneself as a first priority, rather than as an afterthought.

On the other hand, only a couple of short days of refocusing has brought a great deal of clarity to my thoughts again today (although I could not have said the same yesterday). And I am relieved at the benefits of practice, and of building some sort of "muscle memory" be it for physical or mental activities.

I am also thrilled at the calming effects on my disposition that have arisen out of this last round of sorting, which I mentioned last week. Perhaps I should be somewhat reluctant to admit that it has taken me three rounds of sorting to take control of my closet, but in this case it is true that "three's a charm". I also knew that I brought too much from New York, that I accumulated too much in New York, and that I was incapable, at that time, of making any kind of decision about personal effects. This is not surprising, as I wrote extensively about the process of George's decline, about feeling like I had lost a major portion of myself in the process, and the continued sense of rediscovery that I needed to undergo before being fully able to move forward.

What I can report is that the third round was the easiest one. The scutt work had been done. There was nothing left that didn't fit, that wasn't flattering, that wasn't useful. But fit and flattery aren't everything. Although I realized long ago that although I would feel no great sense of loss if everything I owned disappeared tomorrow, I also needed to reconnect to a feeling that I have held since childhood, a sense that everything I own or use must also spark sense of joy or happiness in and of itself and its relationship with me and how I interact with it. Once the decision was made that I would only save those things I truly love, it was easy to let go of everything that remained in my closet out of a sense of expectation or obligation or just a plain old guilt. Decisions were easy.

Take these two sweaters:

As you can see, they are very similar. The sweater on the left was purchased in 2010 from Pure Collection, and is 100% cashmere. The one on the right was purchased from Eric Bombard in either the late fall of 2011 or early winter of 2012, right after I moved to Knoxville, and is a cashmere and silk blend. I do not recall if I knew it was this close in color to a sweater I already owned when I purchased it. I may not have, as I was either living in a hotel, or had not yet unpacked everything at the time. I do believe I was thinking that the cashmere/silk blend might be lighter and more wearable than the pure cashmere, and the winter of 2011/2012 was very warm in Knoxville.

Until this past weekend, I couldn't let go of either, even though I wasn't really wearing both of them.

So which sweater stays and which one goes?

As you can see from the photo above, they are about the same size. The Pure Collection sweater (bottom) has slightly more room at the bust (which I need) and is fuller through the sleeves (which I also like) although I wish it were narrower at the cuffs, like the sweater from Eric Bompard, as I have small wrists and really like sweaters to fit closely at the wrist. Otherwise, the sweaters are the same at the shoulders, waist, hips, and are the same length. I like the v-neckline better than the scoop, but I prefer the soft fuzziness of the Pure Collection sweater to the harder finish on the Eric Bombard. And the sweater from Eric Bombard pills badly whereas the one from Pure Collection has never pilled, even though it gets more wear.

Have you figured it out? I kept the sweater from Pure. 100% cashmere is easier to wear than the cashmere/silk blend, which I find is often too hot, even though the sweater is slightly thinner in gauge. I also like the extra softness, and the ease at the bust and upper arms of the Pure Collection sweater. I am not however, disparaging Eric Bombard as I have other sweaters from this company which I love, and which have remained in my wardrobe. Only this particular sweater will be moving to a new home after a brief stint on eBay.

I only sorted through tops/blouses/jackets/sweaters in this round so there is still more to do. Bottoms are next, but not until after I pull my taxes together. But even this has made a tremendous difference. When the only things that are in my closet are things I love, getting dressed is a joy. Nothing is lost in the crowd. I am actually looking forward to the next round.

March 4, 2015
A Slow Morning Means Time for Sorting

Tikka, who loved Saturday's snow, is not convinced that the greater volume which arrived overnight is all that appealing. There is something about snow up to your tummy, or trying to jump up on a curb and landing in snow up to your chin, that makes one want to curl up and take a nap someplace nice and warm.

Especially if one can watch one's humans doing strange things like piling up and sorting through clothes and laying out a polyvore on the floor.

Yesterday's outfit (with Sam).

It struck me yesterday, while I was pumping gas, that I had managed to pull together the perfect outfit, one in which I felt completely at home and comfortable, completely myself. The critical detail was folding the sleeves of my sweater, which are a little loose and long, and which I intentionally wear rolled up indoors, over my coat, which both reduces bulk inside the coat and keeps the sweater sleeves from hanging loosely below the end of the coat sleeves, a situation that drives me bonkers. Everything I was wearing was something I love, but it was that little detail that just made me feel settled. It was more about how I felt than how it looked, although it is gratifying that the polyvore-on-the-floor, above, looks the way I felt (sans cat on the chest of course). But what a photo can't capture is how at home I felt once I rolled up those cuffs, how that small detail integrated the internal and the external. It was the sartorial equivalent of curling up with a cup of coffee and a good book and just being myself.

This is something I am still exploring to some extent: What do I want to wear? How do I want to wear it? How much do I care if my vision of what is flattering and comfortable to both the internal and external me, corresponds to what the greater culture deems as stylish? Or Fashionable? Or just plain boring?

Tuesday's outfit was not quite as successful. But this was not because it was not flattering, not because I didn't love the particular pieces in and of themselves.

The problem was really with the turtleneck, and it was not the way it looked, but more the way it felt when wearing it. The turtleneck is the perfect shade of blue, both for this sweater and for several other things in my wardrobe and it is soft against the skin. It is, in fact, a little large, but the fabric and the single rib knit make if skim closely to the body. And that is the problem. I have come to realize I do not like the way single rib knits cling. The turtleneck layer moved when I moved in ways that I wished it wouldn't. I felt like I spent the day constantly readjusting, and in retrospect I realized that I have been fidgeting every time I wear this top for the past 5 years. I keep it because it is the perfect color, but that, in and of itself, is not enough. I have eliminated almost every other single rib knit from my wardrobe, perhaps it is time to just let this one go. There is freedom in only owning and wearing what I like now, what I feel comfortable in now; not what I think I should like, not what I once liked, not what I think I might like again if x,y,or z should occur.

February 26, 2015
A Day At The Circus

I took my grandson to the circus on Sunday. We had a lot of fun.

We had a brief discussion about whether we should see a circus that had animals in it, and whether or not animals were tortured. I had to admit that although I recognized that people protested the circus, and that there are issues with the pros and cons of keeping animals in captivity vs their life in the wild, I didn't actually have enough factual information concerning either side's point of view to make a decision.

Eight-year olds can raise tough questions.

Most of the show was animal free however. We both really enjoyed the unicycle-riding basketball players.

And Owen was pretty thrilled with the motorcycles in the cage, which I had to admit was pretty spectacular, although it also made me nervous.

Circuses and cotton candy go hand in hand, and this grandma found it very hard to say no to excessive treats: cotton candy, lemonade, snow cones in fancy cups….

And magical circus hats.

February 24, 2015
Curled up with Dvorak

We have snow on the ground this morning, but the temperature is hovering around the freezing point now, at noon. If the forecasters are right it will warm up, the precipitation will turn to rain, and it will not freeze again until tomorrow night….. At this point I am simply happy for the soft crunchy beauty of the snow, as opposed to the ice that plagued us this week past, and the warmer temperatures. Photos in this post were taken on Tuesday, following Monday's ice storm.

I didn't really go out of the house, with the exception of walking Tikka, until Thursday afternoon, although I could have, my roads were passable. But I had overextended myself cooking for a party on Sunday, which was fabulous, and the ice gave me a lovely excuse to curl up in front of the fire, snug as could be, and recover from the remnants of my cold.

I did go to the Knoxville Symphony's performance of Dvorak's Stabat Mater last night (Friday). I was somewhat surprised that attendance was so low, as the skies were clear and the snow was not supposed to begin until late, but I suppose people were overly wary at the end of a difficult week. The concert itself was lovely enough, and enjoyable, but not inspiring. I suppose it is on occasions like this that I realize how spoiled I have been by past musical experiences. I have heard this piece in live performance at least 2 and probably 3 times. I also have several very good recordings of the piece, and although I don't usually compare live performances to recordings, as even in a less exacting setting, one can find moments of bliss and new perceptions. In this case it was difficult.

The choir needed more practice; they usually sing with the orchestra in late spring, and the lack of preparation time was evident. They were mostly together, although slightly less so in the last movement, the most difficult movement of the work to sing. But there was no real precision and not enough variation in tone and phrasing. But I can't blame my disappointment on the choir. The orchestra also was somehow uninspiring as well. The opening bars of the work are incredibly beautiful and filled with emotion and pathos, and yet they fell somewhat flat on my ears in this rather measured performance. I would have preferred a performance that played up the romantic aspects of Dvorak's work, a performance with more subtlety in the phrasing, a performance where the orchestra, soloists, and choir worked more deftly together. Of the soloists, my favorite was the bass, Benjamin LeClair, who had some moments of great beauty, especially in the fourth movement, even with its extremes of range. If only he hadn't been occasionally drowned out by the orchestra, but then all of the soloists were occasionally overpowered by the orchestra. I also enjoyed the tenor, Dustin Peterson who I felt had a strong voice that was best appreciated in those movements that required simplicity and clarity.

Although I enjoyed the performance, I came home thinking something was missing. I stayed up too late listening to the work again, this time in a performance by the Staatskapelle Dresden lead by Giuseppe Sinopoli. I would say that Shaw's and Sawallish's versions are more beautiful, but I had only uploaded the Sinopoli into my iTunes account and the I still haven't set up the CD played and speaker. Living alone, listening to a lossless recording through audiophile quality ear buds on my phone works well for me most of the time. I am reminded however, that perhaps it is time to set up the stereo and the speakers.

Back to Dvorak. The Sinopoli version of the Stabat Mater is very dark and brooding, an overtly operatic and romantic version of a romantic work, and ultimately transcendent. The choir is controlled, with breathtaking phrasing, almost angelic. Only the bass disappoints. Whoever he is, as I can't see that on my phone, Benjamin LeClare was much better.

I listened to the Stabat Mater curled up on the sofa with Tikka, Sam and Moises and a lovely glass of wine, from the bottle pictured above. The bottle was given to me by a friend, and when I first opened it I almost feared it was past its prime as I was almost overwhelmed by an aroma of overripe fruit. Drinking however was another matter. This was a wine well suited to the music, perhaps a bit upfront in its flavors, soft and lush like the finest cashmere, slipping on the tongue in a rather sensuous manner which I can only relate to the slip of silk charmers on the skin.

All in all, a lovely end to the evening.

Related articles

Follow Your Heart, or A Review of One Man's Folly by Julia Reed

February 21, 2015
A Happy Place

I've been a bit under the weather since Sunday night. Just a cold, but a nasty one….

Actually I don't know if I've been contracting one cold after another for the last couple of weeks, or if I've just been dancing with the same cold and not really giving myself time to recuperate. So this week I am deliberately taking myself out of commission and only doing what I absolutely must, in the hopes that I will kick this thing once and for all.

I am better than I was however, and that is all to the good. Yesterday afternoon I finally finished putting photos up on the stairwell wall. As I was winding down for one of my all too frequent breaks, the phone rang and I simply sat on the stairs to chat. As I talked I would look up at the wall, at photos of family, known and unknown, and it occurred to me that I was sitting, in that very moment, in a very happy place.

February 12, 2015
Follow Your Heart, or A Review of One Man’s Folly by Julia Reed

When I posted my 2014 book list, I promised a review of this book.

I purchased it in December, a mere two months ago, and I am still picking it up and perusing its pages numerous times per week. What inspires me is that this is not so much a book about how to design a room or a house, but a paean to one man's idiosyncratic vision. The photos, and the text are filled with interesting details and with character.

Although many of the rooms and surfaces are too cluttered for me, I am often intrigued by the ways Mr. Gatewood places things.

Besides, who is not to say that by the time I am in my 90s I won't have accumulated a pile of beloved things myself. I find the idea of buying, collecting and living with the things you love very comforting.

Of course it doesn't hurt the we share a few biases. The windows in his houses all have shades or blinds, or perhaps nothing, but no curtains. Much as I love fabrics I am not really a lover of curtains. In this house I have translucent shades that let in some of the light but block some of the view of my neighbors, who are a trifle too close. In my first house, before I knew George, a sprawling victorian thing, I had bamboo roller shades, which I adored.

There are also a lot of bare floors, and painted floors, and some rugs but the rugs are obviously loved in and of themselves, their selection is as idiosyncratic as the rest of the houses. I love the contrast of textures and styles, simple and elaborate, rough and smooth, polished and rustic. I love the way Gatewood builds a house around a beloved architectural detail, the way he mixes high and low, but mostly the way everything fits into one man's aesthetic, even though the objects themselves, taken individually seem as disparate as can be.

But I suppose what I love most about this book is the way it makes me wish to honor my own taste and my own vision and stop worrying about what a house "should" look like and trust my gut. It reminds me of the young woman I was in my 20s who only wanted to buy things she loved, who would rather have no sofa than compromise.

Well, obviously I compromised over time, and will probably continue to compromise. One can't really live in relationship with others without compromise. But I am reminded that we have a choice of when to compromise and with whom (or what). I'm reminded my home is my sanctuary, it should be filled with joy, with people and things that bring me joy, and if not, where else would I go?

February 5, 2015
Who Do I Want to Be?

Yesterday I was struggling to keep my inner perfectionist contained, rather than letting her take over myself. You see I don't really want to be the person she wants me to be anymore. She doesn't take time to look at the sky. She doesn't interrupt her work to cuddle a cat or a dog, or just to stare off into space and listen to the birds sing. She worries more about preparing the perfect gourmet meal rather than just throwing something together and enjoying the coming together and the sharing of time and conversation and food. She worries about not only being "good enough" but also about being "better than", because of course, the whole idea of being good enough implies that some people and some things are good enough and some aren't, and therefore some are better than others.

I'm done with all that. Increasingly I reject the idea of better than. I want to be a person who sees beauty and finds peace in the ordinary passage of each day. Well except for these rare moments when I allow my inner perfectionist to have her way. And they are mostly mere moments. Yes I wish to do and be the best I can, but I also want to enjoy all that this life has to offer. Increasingly I succeed.

It surprised me therefore when my mind wandered off into the land of stress and striving on Monday. Out of which corner of my mind had these thoughts taken hold? It had been such a good weekend: I hosted a casual dinner party, the second in as many months, sharing a pot of chili with good friends. I went out to dinner and a play and a lovely evening of conversation with another friend. I went to a party where I chatted and circulated and enjoyed wonderful conversations with many people, all echoes of that once-upon-a-time 20-year wallflower no where in evidence. There were more meetings and conversations and no sense of stress. What happened?

I wish I could banish her forever, this demon of never enough. But of course I can't; she is a part of who I am. We all have our inner voices, and although we can learn to tame them, we cannot completely expunge them from our innermost thoughts. Mostly, not-good-enough remains a small voice in my head, one of many voices, one of the myriad complex interactions and ghosts of relationships, conversations, and experiences that make me who I am,. We all have such voices, demons and angels, snippets of life that are welded inextricably to us, the little bits that make us into the multifaceted creatures that we are.

Last evening I was sorting through the photos I had taken through the day; nothing special, no sunrise or sunset, just ordinary cloudy skies. But I saw something in this photo that reminded me that yes, sometimes life is full of joyous sunshine, sometimes it is dark with rain, and more often it is a flow of clouds and sun affording us only glimpses of clarity. Sometimes we yearn for an endless stream of sunny days, but it is the clouds that allow us to really shine, for our subtle colors to come out. Sometimes, with luck, we experience a momentary flash of brilliance, but more often it is subtle flow of life and light that reveals our best selves. Our own subtle colors are allowed to shine in the shifting clouds of our own thoughts and emotions.

February 3, 2015
Thursday Morning

Dawn was beautiful this morning.

In fact the skies were beautiful long before dawn, and I had gone out without my camera, so I hurried Tikka the last tenth of a mile home in order to fetch the camera.

All to the good, it seems, because I don't know enough about taking photos in low light to have expected success, especially with a small dog constantly pulling on her leash in excitement.

I do want to learn more, but sometimes, just remembering to take the camera off automatic is a bit of a challenge.

This photo makes me smile however. The tree, almost shockingly bright in the light of the flash perfectly captures how I felt earlier this morning when my internal alarm clock misfired and my body decided that I needed to leap out of bed at 3:45 AM.

January 29, 2015
Delayed posting:

The following was written early, before my internet service went down for the day. Rather than letting it waste away in the unfinished post queue, I might as well go ahead and post.

As Tikka and I took our early morning trip across the street the rain turned to show and it was beautiful to stand in the darkness surrounded by tiny crystalline puffs of snow. It was still snowing a couple of hours later, at 7:30, when we took our regular walk, a little later than usual. It was still not very light outside, but it was light enough to observe the delica Ite white flakes landing on blue parka and watch them as they slowly dissolved. It was light enough to see the light dusting of snow on the tips of Tikka's honey-colored fur.

The snow didn't last of course. It was too warm, even before dawn. But walking in the light snow was lovely, and far more pleasant than yesterday's rain, a good reminder about appreciating simple pleasures.

The above was written in the morning, before my internet went down for most of the day.

January 24, 2015