The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.
--John Ruskin
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part One
Over last summer vacation, I read a novel called The Nanny Diaries. It is a wonderful book in its own right, but I confess to picking it up for more than just good reviews. Of course I was aware of the buzz surrounding it—it was at the top of the charts for several months and the audio version had Julia Roberts’s name attached. These were not, however, the captivating factors that motivated me to read it. I was intrigued by the fact that it had not one, but two authors attached to its title. And while this is not that unusual in its own right, it is rare for me to be interested in a work of fiction with two pictures on the back book flap. I often wonder how collaborative authors work together and how they are satisfied with the final result. The hours spent together, the strain of adjusting to someone else’s suggestions, the frustration of not being able to hold the pen or punch the computer keys, the conflict between ideas—it’s too much for me to bear. Or perhaps I only feel this way because of my own collaborative disaster. My first—and last.
My career as a writer began at the time I could first hold a pencil between my young clumsy fingers, but I was slightly older when I was first approached to be part of a team. I was a full-time fifth grader, part-time writer/ dreamer spending my nights in reveries of fame, success and inevitable headlines that were sure to read Fifth-grade protégé or First New York Times Best-Selling Author Under 12, etc. etc. My days were spent dreaming up the page-turners that were actually going to make me renowned. This was a pivotal time in my life as a writer. Everything was starting to bloom, from nature to my career. Outside, the snow was long gone, but the days were just starting to warm up. Little green buds were starting to bloom on the trees and the grass was finally losing its dead brown quality of the winter and sprouting fresh green blades that beckoned to be run and played and rolled around on. The air was fresh and left the tingling sensation of feeling alive. And inside, this was it—this was the moment. Others were seeking out my ability, my expertise. They sought my candid clear voice that cut through the dark obscurity of the humanity bringing hope and offering inspiration. They sought me. This could only mean one thing. I had made it.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Friday, August 15, 2003
Here's to you, Ms. Robinson
I like people who make me like them. Saves me so much trouble forcing myself to like them.
--Charmion King, Anne of Green Gables, 1985
I’ve known Hayley Robinson forever.
Good friends through sixth and seventh grade, we became best, inseparable friends in eighth grade. We spent all day at school together making faces and copying each other’s homework, then go home to talk on the phone every night. I have vivid memories of replacing the receiver in its cradle, smiling to myself because of our long conversation on Keanu Reeves’s best feature and the funniest line from Parenthood. We were a team, one for both and both for one. Gradually we began to spend more and more time together. I don’t think our relationship has ever been unhealthy, but with years to give me objective, I see that in connecting so completely with each other, we were missing out on other healthy aspects of normal teenage life. We were so close we became isolated from other friends and other activities. And then we became isolated from each other. To put it like that, it sounds very dramatic—and it wasn’t. There was no falling out, no fights. Just growing up. We simply grew apart.
I don’t regret any of the time we spent together and I don’t regret the time we were more distant. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything because they only made us work harder to stay friends. And that made me see how extraordinary and incomparable our relationship is. Yet, at the same time, it’s completely mundane. We’re two ordinary girls who know each other inside and out and have been friends forever.
Sure, forever only amounts to nine or so years in calendar time, but Caesar is highly overrated. When I read Hallmark cards and see cheesy movies about “old friends” who can pick right up where they left off with no awkwardness and guilt about the time that has passed since they last saw each other, I know that Hayley fits that mold in my mind. In 35 years, I’ll pick up the phone to hear someone singing, “Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and when she gets to the part where she forgets the words I’ll jump in and try to help, and only cause more confusion until we’re laughing so hard we’ve regressed and are thirteen years old again, tying up the phone lines for “important calls.”
Then we’ll probably make plans to go to dinner at Applebee’s where she’ll order a peach daiquiri and I’ll order a strawberry, and we’ll each take a sip of the other’s drink. We’ll check movie times and agree if we spend an hour or two in the restaurant, we can still make a movie. We’ll order and then, a few minutes later, look around us and realize that, one, the restaurant is closing and the staff is glaring at us impatiently to leave and two, we missed the movie. Again.
But neither one of us will be disappointed or, truthfully, even care.
We’ll probably drive around so we can continue talking about the things we talk about now. Her life and my life, memories and old times, mutual friends and work. We’ll catch up on family and talk about movies and books and entertainment gossip as if we know these people personally.
And later I’ll try to put my finger on what makes our relationship pulse.
Hayley peppers her speech with words like “sweetie” and “honey” and she feels them. While I constantly say things like, “When I grow up…,” Hayley looks at me and sees who I am, who I was, and most importantly, who I want to be. I don’t mean she understands who I want to become, but that she sees that person already inside of me. She’s not telling me what I want to hear, but she is encouraging me to find these things within myself.
Hayley is the only person I’ve ever met who looks for a life lesson in every situation. When life hands Hayley a lemon, she pushes herself to look for options beyond lemonade. Every person she meets and every situation she comes across will teach her something. She looks for her answers. And she’s learning them. She evolved right before my eyes. And I’ll continue to see it for as long as I know her.
She’s so full of her own wisdom and so humble in sharing it.
Our friendship is not any more special than any other relationship she has or I have. It’s not more valuable. It’s not that we’re closer. In fact, day-to-day details of our lives are often left untouched during conversation. I find out about things that happened months afterward (a car accident comes to mind) and vice versa. And the distance makes it no less easy. But we’ve worked too hard to get here and we’ve both got too much invested. Perhaps if it were anybody else, it would be an effort to maintain this friendship.
But it’s not anybody else.
And it’s no effort. No effort at all.
--Charmion King, Anne of Green Gables, 1985
I’ve known Hayley Robinson forever.
Good friends through sixth and seventh grade, we became best, inseparable friends in eighth grade. We spent all day at school together making faces and copying each other’s homework, then go home to talk on the phone every night. I have vivid memories of replacing the receiver in its cradle, smiling to myself because of our long conversation on Keanu Reeves’s best feature and the funniest line from Parenthood. We were a team, one for both and both for one. Gradually we began to spend more and more time together. I don’t think our relationship has ever been unhealthy, but with years to give me objective, I see that in connecting so completely with each other, we were missing out on other healthy aspects of normal teenage life. We were so close we became isolated from other friends and other activities. And then we became isolated from each other. To put it like that, it sounds very dramatic—and it wasn’t. There was no falling out, no fights. Just growing up. We simply grew apart.
I don’t regret any of the time we spent together and I don’t regret the time we were more distant. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything because they only made us work harder to stay friends. And that made me see how extraordinary and incomparable our relationship is. Yet, at the same time, it’s completely mundane. We’re two ordinary girls who know each other inside and out and have been friends forever.
Sure, forever only amounts to nine or so years in calendar time, but Caesar is highly overrated. When I read Hallmark cards and see cheesy movies about “old friends” who can pick right up where they left off with no awkwardness and guilt about the time that has passed since they last saw each other, I know that Hayley fits that mold in my mind. In 35 years, I’ll pick up the phone to hear someone singing, “Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and when she gets to the part where she forgets the words I’ll jump in and try to help, and only cause more confusion until we’re laughing so hard we’ve regressed and are thirteen years old again, tying up the phone lines for “important calls.”
Then we’ll probably make plans to go to dinner at Applebee’s where she’ll order a peach daiquiri and I’ll order a strawberry, and we’ll each take a sip of the other’s drink. We’ll check movie times and agree if we spend an hour or two in the restaurant, we can still make a movie. We’ll order and then, a few minutes later, look around us and realize that, one, the restaurant is closing and the staff is glaring at us impatiently to leave and two, we missed the movie. Again.
But neither one of us will be disappointed or, truthfully, even care.
We’ll probably drive around so we can continue talking about the things we talk about now. Her life and my life, memories and old times, mutual friends and work. We’ll catch up on family and talk about movies and books and entertainment gossip as if we know these people personally.
And later I’ll try to put my finger on what makes our relationship pulse.
Hayley peppers her speech with words like “sweetie” and “honey” and she feels them. While I constantly say things like, “When I grow up…,” Hayley looks at me and sees who I am, who I was, and most importantly, who I want to be. I don’t mean she understands who I want to become, but that she sees that person already inside of me. She’s not telling me what I want to hear, but she is encouraging me to find these things within myself.
Hayley is the only person I’ve ever met who looks for a life lesson in every situation. When life hands Hayley a lemon, she pushes herself to look for options beyond lemonade. Every person she meets and every situation she comes across will teach her something. She looks for her answers. And she’s learning them. She evolved right before my eyes. And I’ll continue to see it for as long as I know her.
She’s so full of her own wisdom and so humble in sharing it.
Our friendship is not any more special than any other relationship she has or I have. It’s not more valuable. It’s not that we’re closer. In fact, day-to-day details of our lives are often left untouched during conversation. I find out about things that happened months afterward (a car accident comes to mind) and vice versa. And the distance makes it no less easy. But we’ve worked too hard to get here and we’ve both got too much invested. Perhaps if it were anybody else, it would be an effort to maintain this friendship.
But it’s not anybody else.
And it’s no effort. No effort at all.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Quittin' Time
“I generally come in [to work] at least fifteen minutes late, ah, I use the side door--that way Lumbergh can't see me, heh--after that I sorta space out for an hour. … Yeah, I just stare at my desk, but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch too, I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work. … It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just that I don’t care.”
--Ron Livingston, Office Space, 1999
As my last official day of work approaches the 5 o’clock hour, I feel a bit nostalgic and yes ... even misty-eyed. (Ha ha, gotcha!) Despite my merriment, however, I am also thinking of the good times I've had here. Like the time
--I spent an entire afternoon working on my nails after borrowing Traci's terrific nail buffer (have recently decided to incorporate "terrific" into my everyday speech after the astonishing discovery that quite a surprising lack of people use it).
--A certain co-worker told me his or her story about sleeping under their desk because he or she was just so tired they couldn't keep their eyes open.
--All the catching up on my correspondence on company time (rixiestarr@hotmail.com).
--Getting FANTABULOUS presents from Denise (it was a gorgeous vase this summer to accompany the glass picture frames from last summer).
--Wasting away precious, valuable working minutes with Traci and Mitzi while planning ways to torture my dad.
--Reading Mitzi's hilarious emails when she was in the other offices. Here's a good excerpt... "Things are interesting as ever here. I haven't seen a person yet with a full set of teeth. Look at all the money one saves on toothpaste and brushes. ... No death threats today, just one pissed off guy telling me he isn't going to walk 20 miles one way for his appointment. I'm really disappointed about that!" Good, huh?
--Researching (see Site Navigation to the right above Archive)
--Plotting my future best-selling novel
--And ...oh yeah! Blogging all this at work while I'm bored!
Now I’m usually a work-first, play-later kind of girl, but there’s just something about this job that reminds me: there are two types of people—those finish what they begin and those that
Hey! It’s quitting time!
--Ron Livingston, Office Space, 1999
As my last official day of work approaches the 5 o’clock hour, I feel a bit nostalgic and yes ... even misty-eyed. (Ha ha, gotcha!) Despite my merriment, however, I am also thinking of the good times I've had here. Like the time
--I spent an entire afternoon working on my nails after borrowing Traci's terrific nail buffer (have recently decided to incorporate "terrific" into my everyday speech after the astonishing discovery that quite a surprising lack of people use it).
--A certain co-worker told me his or her story about sleeping under their desk because he or she was just so tired they couldn't keep their eyes open.
--All the catching up on my correspondence on company time (rixiestarr@hotmail.com).
--Getting FANTABULOUS presents from Denise (it was a gorgeous vase this summer to accompany the glass picture frames from last summer).
--Wasting away precious, valuable working minutes with Traci and Mitzi while planning ways to torture my dad.
--Reading Mitzi's hilarious emails when she was in the other offices. Here's a good excerpt... "Things are interesting as ever here. I haven't seen a person yet with a full set of teeth. Look at all the money one saves on toothpaste and brushes. ... No death threats today, just one pissed off guy telling me he isn't going to walk 20 miles one way for his appointment. I'm really disappointed about that!" Good, huh?
--Researching (see Site Navigation to the right above Archive)
--Plotting my future best-selling novel
--And ...oh yeah! Blogging all this at work while I'm bored!
Now I’m usually a work-first, play-later kind of girl, but there’s just something about this job that reminds me: there are two types of people—those finish what they begin and those that
Hey! It’s quitting time!
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Moving Day
"Would you all stop yelling in our apartment? You are ruining moving day for us!"
--Matthew Perry, Friends, 1994
Rachel: "Thanks for the party. Do you want me to help clean up?"
Monica: "Are you kidding? You've had your fun. Now it's my turn."
--Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox, Friends, 1994
At the end of July, a group of girlfriends and I went back to school. The purpose of this mid-summer meeting was officially to clean out our old apartments and move into our new apartments. The unofficial reason was to break in our new roommates and get together and giggle. We were all busy in our respective homes, but broke for lunch. We were excited about the coming year and shared stories about each other as new roommates.
“This morning,” my best friend Natty told us, smiling across the lunch table at her roommate, “Emily and I ate fruit salad and sipped pink lemonade while sitting on our balcony enjoying the view.” I caught my roommate Kelley’s eye and we both suppressed gagging motions. Who makes fruit salad and pink lemonade on moving day? Isn’t moving day about dirt and grime, and not eating until late at night when you order unhealthy take-out or pizza with so much grease it runs down your elbows? And who has time to sit leisurely on a balcony? Isn’t moving day about stress and crabbiness, and berating yourself for not being more organized? It’s not that I was jealous of Emily’s Martha Stewart abilities … well, except that I was. Kelley and I routinely had ice cream for breakfast, if we ate at all, because it was fast and easy and there was no clean-up if you ate out of the carton (which we did). For a moment I envisioned my roommate and I enjoying breakfast on our balcony. … But I’m no Julia Child. Diet Coke would be substituted for the pink lemonade, and instead of fruit salad there would be dry cereal, or if we were really lucky, enough clean bowls and spoons for Cocoa Puffs with milk. The breakfast of champions!
I was brought out of my reverie by a hacking cough from Kelley. As I pounded her on the back, I explained to Natty and Emily that that morning, we had had oven cleaner and Windex for breakfast as we were in the middle of cleaning. In reality we spent most of the time running from the kitchen to the balcony for clean air. “This trying not to die from asphyxiation stuff is tiring,” Kelley sighed after recovering. “I sure wish we had someone to make us pink lemonade and fruit salad,” I added wistfully. “Well,” Natty said, gazing fondly at her roommate, “that’s what happens when you have Emily as a roommate. We’re having some more when we get home.” They smiled indulgently at each other, and while Kelley swiped at some oven grease staining her shirt, I made a mental note to pick up some Scrubbing Bubbles on the way home. Mmm. Dessert.
--Matthew Perry, Friends, 1994
Rachel: "Thanks for the party. Do you want me to help clean up?"
Monica: "Are you kidding? You've had your fun. Now it's my turn."
--Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox, Friends, 1994
At the end of July, a group of girlfriends and I went back to school. The purpose of this mid-summer meeting was officially to clean out our old apartments and move into our new apartments. The unofficial reason was to break in our new roommates and get together and giggle. We were all busy in our respective homes, but broke for lunch. We were excited about the coming year and shared stories about each other as new roommates.
“This morning,” my best friend Natty told us, smiling across the lunch table at her roommate, “Emily and I ate fruit salad and sipped pink lemonade while sitting on our balcony enjoying the view.” I caught my roommate Kelley’s eye and we both suppressed gagging motions. Who makes fruit salad and pink lemonade on moving day? Isn’t moving day about dirt and grime, and not eating until late at night when you order unhealthy take-out or pizza with so much grease it runs down your elbows? And who has time to sit leisurely on a balcony? Isn’t moving day about stress and crabbiness, and berating yourself for not being more organized? It’s not that I was jealous of Emily’s Martha Stewart abilities … well, except that I was. Kelley and I routinely had ice cream for breakfast, if we ate at all, because it was fast and easy and there was no clean-up if you ate out of the carton (which we did). For a moment I envisioned my roommate and I enjoying breakfast on our balcony. … But I’m no Julia Child. Diet Coke would be substituted for the pink lemonade, and instead of fruit salad there would be dry cereal, or if we were really lucky, enough clean bowls and spoons for Cocoa Puffs with milk. The breakfast of champions!
I was brought out of my reverie by a hacking cough from Kelley. As I pounded her on the back, I explained to Natty and Emily that that morning, we had had oven cleaner and Windex for breakfast as we were in the middle of cleaning. In reality we spent most of the time running from the kitchen to the balcony for clean air. “This trying not to die from asphyxiation stuff is tiring,” Kelley sighed after recovering. “I sure wish we had someone to make us pink lemonade and fruit salad,” I added wistfully. “Well,” Natty said, gazing fondly at her roommate, “that’s what happens when you have Emily as a roommate. We’re having some more when we get home.” They smiled indulgently at each other, and while Kelley swiped at some oven grease staining her shirt, I made a mental note to pick up some Scrubbing Bubbles on the way home. Mmm. Dessert.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Musings on a Hurricane
Gillian: "Sal? Thanks."
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
“I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.”
--Marlene Dietrich
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"Wear the old coat and buy the new book."
-Austin Phelps
"In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia, you have to explain what a writer is."
--Geoffrey Cotrell
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who
cannot read them."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"What we become depends on what we read after the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books."
--Thomas Carlyle
"Attention to health is life's greatest hindrance." - Plato (427-347 B.C.)
"Plato was a bore." - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
"Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal. - Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." - Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
"Hemingway was a jerk." - Harold Robbins
"In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards."
--Mark Twain
--Marlene Dietrich
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"Wear the old coat and buy the new book."
-Austin Phelps
"In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia, you have to explain what a writer is."
--Geoffrey Cotrell
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who
cannot read them."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"What we become depends on what we read after the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books."
--Thomas Carlyle
"Attention to health is life's greatest hindrance." - Plato (427-347 B.C.)
"Plato was a bore." - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
"Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal. - Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." - Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
"Hemingway was a jerk." - Harold Robbins
"In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards."
--Mark Twain
Monday, August 04, 2003
Narnian Wonder
"Until there was a threat to it, I never loved reading. One does not love breathing."
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
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