When I woke up this morning, I had weird black smears on my face. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the pages of my book had become superimposed onto my face.
Yeah, I literally fell asleep face-first on a book last night.
To fall asleep suddenly and unplanned and with no angst--I have been fighting epic battles with sleep my entire life, so this was a very odd experience. I'm not going to lie, I'd had Ambien plus migraine medicine and Valium (also for migraine and earlier in the day) so it's not like sleep should have been exactly elusive, but to just crash in the middle of a book, not even remembering it ...
I am fascinated by the nature of sleep. I don't think I've ever fallen asleep without "help" of one kind or another...ever. It wasn't like passing out, either, where the dizziness encircles you tighter and tighter until you drift away on waves of ... Well, whatever. It was--dare I say--what I always thought normal sleeping might be.
Is it me, or is there something magical about sleep?
Well, I'm off to replicate the task (with any luck ;)). Oh, and no Ambien tonight...I'm living dangerously ;)
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
RETTOP YRRAH: The Philosophy in Reading "Harry Potter" Backwards
I realize the title of this post might be misleading. When I say, "Read Harry Potter backwards", obviously I don't mean the words.
Well, let me back up for a minute.
I was in the school library with my Poetry class today so they could have computer access to get their lyrics project due tomorrow finished up. Since they were working so diligently (or at least were making it appear so well enough to convince both me and the librarian), I started browsing the stacks looking for something to read.
The craziest thing happened then ... I reached the R section and saw all seven Harry Potter books lined up neatly on the shelf. This, of course, included the second one, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. And with that, my day was made.
I had an extremely tumultuous summer. As I always do in times of extreme stress, I read. Like, I read obsessively. And one of the things that I found myself with a desire to read was the Harry Potter series. The problem, of course, is that I could only find the last one, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; the series starter Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was nowhere to be found (I was moving ... it was beyond chaos). My urge to read the series again was so great, however, that I started reading it the only way I could--from the ending to the beginning.
Now, I realize this wouldn't work for a lot of people. If you're not familiar with the books, it would be essentially pointless to start with the seventh. However, since I have a tendency to reread books more than is probably healthy, I suspected I'd be able to muddle through somehow.
What I didn't expect, though, is what a tremendous learning experience it was for me. Obviously, I knew as both an English teacher and a reader myself that J.K. Rowling might have sold the first book as children's literature but that subsequent books in the series were more political and social commentary than fantasy tales for kids.
The part I missed, though, and the part that I would have hoped I'd have gotten more quickly given the name of my blog, is the philosophy brought forward in Rowling's brilliant series. Had I not read the series backwards, I would have missed a great deal.
An obvious example is Ron Weasley's dual jealousy of and pride in his best friend, Harry Potter. One of seven children, Ron never seemed to get his chance in the spotlight, and becoming bosom buddies with the most famous magician ever born certainly continued the struggle. Ron has his moment in the sun in the seventh book; he is a true hero. When you read through Book 6 then Book 5 then Book 4 then Book 3, you see the true conflict--both internal as he struggles within himself and external as he becomes Harry's staunchest supporter--experienced by this boy. You appreciate how cheap his own successes always seemed next to the glory of Harry's constant defeat of evil, how small his joys when compared to Harry's. I got this, obviously, reading the books in order, but I didn't get it until I read them backwards.
And then there's the whole Snape thing. I once heard Snape referred to by a college English professor as "no more than the ultimate red herring", but that was a cop-out answer if I've ever heard one. Snape was never acting, not pretending a bit, when he bullied and berated Harry Potter--he honestly hated the boy, and his harsh treatment makes the reader find Snape pretty despicable too. That Snape protects Harry out of love is perhaps the most shocking conclusion ... and when you finish the seventh book, it's really easy to see Snape's nobler points. Certainly they existed; Harry Potter was well aware of them as he eventually named one of his own children after Severus Snape. However, reading the book backwards, fully aware of the "Snape protected a child he legitimately (and perhaps understandably) hated out of a pure and eternal love" thesis gives the dynamic between Harry and the potions master a whole new depth, a level of complexity that cannot be achieved by reading the books in chronological order.
Anyway, school started back up just as I finished Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and I couldn't find my copy of Chamber of Secrets to save my life. Well, I took it out of the library today, and I cannot wait to read it (I stupidly forgot it at school).
I am especially excited, in case you're wondering, at exploring the nature of Dobby's relationship with Harry in terms of what you learn about Dobby later in the series (and particularly the sacrifice made by the house elf in the final book).
Does this make any sense to anybody, or have I gone completely off the deep end?
Wait, don't answer that ;)
Well, let me back up for a minute.
I was in the school library with my Poetry class today so they could have computer access to get their lyrics project due tomorrow finished up. Since they were working so diligently (or at least were making it appear so well enough to convince both me and the librarian), I started browsing the stacks looking for something to read.
The craziest thing happened then ... I reached the R section and saw all seven Harry Potter books lined up neatly on the shelf. This, of course, included the second one, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. And with that, my day was made.
I had an extremely tumultuous summer. As I always do in times of extreme stress, I read. Like, I read obsessively. And one of the things that I found myself with a desire to read was the Harry Potter series. The problem, of course, is that I could only find the last one, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; the series starter Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was nowhere to be found (I was moving ... it was beyond chaos). My urge to read the series again was so great, however, that I started reading it the only way I could--from the ending to the beginning.
Now, I realize this wouldn't work for a lot of people. If you're not familiar with the books, it would be essentially pointless to start with the seventh. However, since I have a tendency to reread books more than is probably healthy, I suspected I'd be able to muddle through somehow.
What I didn't expect, though, is what a tremendous learning experience it was for me. Obviously, I knew as both an English teacher and a reader myself that J.K. Rowling might have sold the first book as children's literature but that subsequent books in the series were more political and social commentary than fantasy tales for kids.
The part I missed, though, and the part that I would have hoped I'd have gotten more quickly given the name of my blog, is the philosophy brought forward in Rowling's brilliant series. Had I not read the series backwards, I would have missed a great deal.
An obvious example is Ron Weasley's dual jealousy of and pride in his best friend, Harry Potter. One of seven children, Ron never seemed to get his chance in the spotlight, and becoming bosom buddies with the most famous magician ever born certainly continued the struggle. Ron has his moment in the sun in the seventh book; he is a true hero. When you read through Book 6 then Book 5 then Book 4 then Book 3, you see the true conflict--both internal as he struggles within himself and external as he becomes Harry's staunchest supporter--experienced by this boy. You appreciate how cheap his own successes always seemed next to the glory of Harry's constant defeat of evil, how small his joys when compared to Harry's. I got this, obviously, reading the books in order, but I didn't get it until I read them backwards.
And then there's the whole Snape thing. I once heard Snape referred to by a college English professor as "no more than the ultimate red herring", but that was a cop-out answer if I've ever heard one. Snape was never acting, not pretending a bit, when he bullied and berated Harry Potter--he honestly hated the boy, and his harsh treatment makes the reader find Snape pretty despicable too. That Snape protects Harry out of love is perhaps the most shocking conclusion ... and when you finish the seventh book, it's really easy to see Snape's nobler points. Certainly they existed; Harry Potter was well aware of them as he eventually named one of his own children after Severus Snape. However, reading the book backwards, fully aware of the "Snape protected a child he legitimately (and perhaps understandably) hated out of a pure and eternal love" thesis gives the dynamic between Harry and the potions master a whole new depth, a level of complexity that cannot be achieved by reading the books in chronological order.
Anyway, school started back up just as I finished Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and I couldn't find my copy of Chamber of Secrets to save my life. Well, I took it out of the library today, and I cannot wait to read it (I stupidly forgot it at school).
I am especially excited, in case you're wondering, at exploring the nature of Dobby's relationship with Harry in terms of what you learn about Dobby later in the series (and particularly the sacrifice made by the house elf in the final book).
Does this make any sense to anybody, or have I gone completely off the deep end?
Wait, don't answer that ;)
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
JFK's Assassination: Is it That We NEED a Conspiracy Theory?
I have a minor hobby over the unexplainable, particularly in terms of crime (hence the whole Manson thing, and so on).
Perhaps the book that set off my love affair with books that explore alternate theories (at least, the first one I remember reading) was Jim Garrison's "On the Trail of the Assassins". I can remember finishing the book and thinking, "How could any rational person believe that a poor uneducated schmuck could singlehandedly--and with some mad gun skills the guy has no record of possessing--kill the president of the United States?"
A lot of time has passed since my first reading of Garrison's book. I've read a lot since then directly related to the assassination; the theories are many and varied. And oh, by the way, they're interesting too. Quite entertaining :)
So now I'm reading "Four Days in November" by Vincent Bugliosi, and it is so cut and dried that there doesn't seem to be any arguing with it. I mean, BAM, Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman, and here's how he did it. Mystery gone.
Obviously, there are those that disagree mightily with Bugliosi's work. When I read one of those, my internal pendulum will start swinging again.
So I have two questions I'd love to have your thoughts on. First, what do YOU think happened to President Kennedy? Was Oswald the lone gunman acting alone, or is the story juicier, with overtones of the mafia, Cuba, and even factions of the U.S. Government itself in on it?
Secondly, why is there still this preoccupation with what happened over forty years ago? Do we NEED to believe in the conspiracy because the thought of a president's murder being as simple as Bugliosi presents it ...
Perhaps the book that set off my love affair with books that explore alternate theories (at least, the first one I remember reading) was Jim Garrison's "On the Trail of the Assassins". I can remember finishing the book and thinking, "How could any rational person believe that a poor uneducated schmuck could singlehandedly--and with some mad gun skills the guy has no record of possessing--kill the president of the United States?"
A lot of time has passed since my first reading of Garrison's book. I've read a lot since then directly related to the assassination; the theories are many and varied. And oh, by the way, they're interesting too. Quite entertaining :)
So now I'm reading "Four Days in November" by Vincent Bugliosi, and it is so cut and dried that there doesn't seem to be any arguing with it. I mean, BAM, Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman, and here's how he did it. Mystery gone.
Obviously, there are those that disagree mightily with Bugliosi's work. When I read one of those, my internal pendulum will start swinging again.
So I have two questions I'd love to have your thoughts on. First, what do YOU think happened to President Kennedy? Was Oswald the lone gunman acting alone, or is the story juicier, with overtones of the mafia, Cuba, and even factions of the U.S. Government itself in on it?
Secondly, why is there still this preoccupation with what happened over forty years ago? Do we NEED to believe in the conspiracy because the thought of a president's murder being as simple as Bugliosi presents it ...
Monday, November 2, 2009
Oinking Away at the Media
Okay, so what's your take on the swine flu pandemic? This "health emergency"? I ask because I'm completely disgusted with the media coverage and the huge amount of misinformation.
I spent last week home with H1N1. I felt like crap and was very scared at how high my fever got a couple of times and was blown away by how tired and sore your body can feel when you've done nothing more strenuous than lift a remote control (yes, I was too sick to read for much of the week--and for me, that's SICK).
It was pretty yucky, but when push comes to shove, it was just the flu. It wasn't much different than other times I had the flu. Now, granted, I did get on Tamiflu the first day I showed symptoms...but by the same token, I also ended up with an early case of pneumonia as a side effect of the pig thing, so I think I'm fairly representative.
Why all the media hoopla? Is it warrented? And even more importantly, why is there so much misinformation out there--and why do people believe it?
I spent last week home with H1N1. I felt like crap and was very scared at how high my fever got a couple of times and was blown away by how tired and sore your body can feel when you've done nothing more strenuous than lift a remote control (yes, I was too sick to read for much of the week--and for me, that's SICK).
It was pretty yucky, but when push comes to shove, it was just the flu. It wasn't much different than other times I had the flu. Now, granted, I did get on Tamiflu the first day I showed symptoms...but by the same token, I also ended up with an early case of pneumonia as a side effect of the pig thing, so I think I'm fairly representative.
Why all the media hoopla? Is it warrented? And even more importantly, why is there so much misinformation out there--and why do people believe it?
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Coupon Clippings: The Annoying, Endearing Traits of Others
When I came downstairs to have my coffee this fine Sunday morning, my mother was sitting at the dining room table reading the Sunday paper. She reads it in parts, beginning with the Parade magazine, and as she finished gave me each part to read.
She then opened up the coupon section--which she had saved for last, naturally--and went at it with a look of sheer bliss on her face. This was obviously the highlight of the Sunday newspaper experience for my mother, and this is something I will never understand.
My mother has always been a compulsive coupon-clipper. I know there are many people with this pasttime, by the way ... it's just that most of them actually USE the coupons. Not my mother, though. Nope, she clips out coupons for everything from dish soap ("I know I only use Dawn, but this is forty cents off of Joy, which is cheaper anyway") to breakfast bagel bars ("These look disgusting--I wonder what they look like?").
When I cleaned her kitchen the other day, I found a drawer full of coupons dating back to 2003. None of the coupons were for things she would ever use. My mother's scope in terms of purchasing is small--she is very particular about name brands (except for mayonnaise ... for some reason, she will only buy Market Basket mayonnaise, eschewing Hellman's or Cain's relentlessly).
Although part of me rolls my eyes when I see my mother clipping coupons, most of me thinks it's just adorable (I can't think of a better word for it than that). What are some annoying, endearing traits you encounter with your loved ones?
She then opened up the coupon section--which she had saved for last, naturally--and went at it with a look of sheer bliss on her face. This was obviously the highlight of the Sunday newspaper experience for my mother, and this is something I will never understand.
My mother has always been a compulsive coupon-clipper. I know there are many people with this pasttime, by the way ... it's just that most of them actually USE the coupons. Not my mother, though. Nope, she clips out coupons for everything from dish soap ("I know I only use Dawn, but this is forty cents off of Joy, which is cheaper anyway") to breakfast bagel bars ("These look disgusting--I wonder what they look like?").
When I cleaned her kitchen the other day, I found a drawer full of coupons dating back to 2003. None of the coupons were for things she would ever use. My mother's scope in terms of purchasing is small--she is very particular about name brands (except for mayonnaise ... for some reason, she will only buy Market Basket mayonnaise, eschewing Hellman's or Cain's relentlessly).
Although part of me rolls my eyes when I see my mother clipping coupons, most of me thinks it's just adorable (I can't think of a better word for it than that). What are some annoying, endearing traits you encounter with your loved ones?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
An Author's Dilemma--You Write One, You've Written 'Em All?
Or maybe this is a reader's dilemma, I don't know.
I'm currently reading Pat Conroy's recent offering, South of Broad. Now, I am a huge fan of Mr. Conroy. Yeah, he's a little long-winded at times, but I have long been in awe of his skill with the craft of description. He uses words the way an artist uses a brush to paint a picture. Unbelievably gifted.
And yet I find myself very lukewarm about South of Broad. The worst part, though, is that I have a sneaking suspicion that not only am I going to be disappointed with this book itself but I'm going to find that it's ruined Conroy's other works for me ... and that would just be a shame.
I never realized before how similar all of Conroy's characters are; there is very little change from book to book beyond names, occupations, and who has almost irreperably betrayed whom. Even his sentence structure, his phrasing, his very word choice is alarmingly reminiscent of earlier works.
This, of course, begs the questions: at what point does an author realize that he or she is basically writing the same story over and over again? Some of them are okay with that (Danielle Steele comes to mind, although I would only refer to her as "author" in the very basest form) and others try to reinvent themselves (a la Dennis Lehane, who created a couple of very endearing protagonists then just left us hanging for a decade ... not that his other stuff isn't good, but I want to know what's up with Kenzie and Gennaro) while some admitted that they were only good for one book (Harper Lee ... Margaret Mitchell ...).
Even Stephen King, an author I believe to be the most gifted of the past century and arguably of all time, has an occasional sameness. Being King, he brilliantly incorporated this into his whole Dark Tower theory, but the fact remains that there are times (and with King it's minimal, but still ...) that the works become redundant.
Is redundancy okay? Am I being too hard on Mr. Conroy here? And, well, since my Swine Flu and I are going to sign off and go read the book, I guess it can't bother me as much as I think it does ;) It definitely gives me something to think about as a writer, though ... an area I hope to avoid, redundancy.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Of Pancreases and Pinot Grigio
On my "hot date" with Belle last night, I ate fried chicken. I know better, but I did it anyway. Yeah, fried chicken. Dipped in blue cheese dressing. It was freaking amazing.
It also wreaked havoc on my pancreas to the point where I was biting belts and stuff to keep from screaming. No fun, but again--my own damn fault. I don't get a pancreatitis attack every time I eat fried chicken (or cheese or french fries or pizza or whatever might have a high fat content), but I'm aware that the potential is there. It's like playing Russian Roulette with a taser. I'll be really good for awhile and not have trouble, so I'll forget just how awful the pain is (multiply childbirth by maybe fifty--yes, I'm serious).
I feel bad for my Facebook friends--I posted asking for advice on whether to go to the ER for pain meds (my Darvocet was all gone :()or not since I usually end up being admitted (IV pain meds controlled through a hospital environment are far better for my situation)and I just don't have time for that. Anyway, my friends are wonderful--they kept me focused on their input while the pain was at its worst (I was also in the parking lot of Addie's school waiting for her to get back from a competition) and I went home and took a lot more Advil (and Valium and Ambien) and went to bed.
Not a pleasant experience, but it almost certainly wouldn't have happened if I'd been smart and avoided the fried chicken (and the blue cheese). I have to take ownership of that--sometimes I don't treat my body well, and there can be consequences.
Part of me wanted to go directly to the ER, get some fentanyl action going or a morphine drip, demoral mixed with the anti-nausea stuff that would have solved all of my physical problems. Bam, I'd be floating in lala land. I wouldn't have to worry about what I'm teaching tomorrow (emergency sub plans, and I'd be so out of it I wouldn't realize how much I was shafting my students). I wouldn't have to figure out how to get Addie and Belle to and from school--if I'm in the hospital, someone else (my mother, maybe my father and stepmother, aunts, uncles), but it wouldn't have to be me. Laying out clothes, driving to work, taking the dogs out, all the issues big and small belong to someone else while you're in the hospital. And most importantly, no pain.
Well, I decided that the hospital wasn't an option no matter how much it hurt (unless I lost consciousness, which has happened before). That was that. I told myself I could hold on until Monday when I can get some more Darvocet through my regular doctor (who understands the particular struggles with being my regular doctor), and I've managed to do it. I had chicken broth for dinner and a really great bottle of water for lunch, and I'm still in quite a bit of pain, but I did it. I balanced the pros and cons of the situation, and I realized that taking care of my girls and going to work was more important than feeling no pain.
So that's the pancreas part of the post. Now, onto the Pinot Grigio (have some for me--the pancreas is rather fussy about alcohol, too).
So, after going several days without a coherent conversation and three days with no contact at all, Pythagorus calls. He promised Belle a week ago that we would meet at the bowling alley today--didn't happen, along with more than half the phone calls he was supposed to make to her. Well, not to worry; Pythagorus has figured out what he needs. He needs--drum roll--to be hospitalized for all the stress and anxiety in his life.
The stress and anxiety in HIS life? I mean, is he shitting me? I know this might sound insensitive, but when you're over thirty and you've basically destroyed your relationship with your children and all you have to do--and I mean ALL--is go to work and not drink, wouldn't you think this would be doable? The truth is, Pythagorus' stress and anxiety come from two places: first, the fact that he screwed up badly, and he cannot handle the fact that he made a mistake. Second, he was raised by a family that belongs on Jerry Springer and, instead of going to counseling and dealing with it, he drinks and berates (and/or avoids) me when I hold him accountable for anything.
Yeah, so Pythagorus can't handle his own failures, so he wants to go to the hospital to hide. If the hospital saw my amylase and lipase levels right now, they'd force me in. And yet, I refuse to let that happen.
It occurs to me that this is an interesting metaphor--and in a way, the crucifixion-reminiscent stabbing pain in my stomach is like a scream of triumph, like Mel Gibson's William Wallace screaming, "Freedom!!!!" as he is literally pulled to pieces.
I wonder what Pythagorus sees when he looks in the mirror sometimes. He was not a lying, sneaky coward when I married him ... but somehow I don't think "hospitalization for stress and anxiety" is going to bring back the man I once loved.
Damn, I think my pancreas is laughing ;)
It also wreaked havoc on my pancreas to the point where I was biting belts and stuff to keep from screaming. No fun, but again--my own damn fault. I don't get a pancreatitis attack every time I eat fried chicken (or cheese or french fries or pizza or whatever might have a high fat content), but I'm aware that the potential is there. It's like playing Russian Roulette with a taser. I'll be really good for awhile and not have trouble, so I'll forget just how awful the pain is (multiply childbirth by maybe fifty--yes, I'm serious).
I feel bad for my Facebook friends--I posted asking for advice on whether to go to the ER for pain meds (my Darvocet was all gone :()or not since I usually end up being admitted (IV pain meds controlled through a hospital environment are far better for my situation)and I just don't have time for that. Anyway, my friends are wonderful--they kept me focused on their input while the pain was at its worst (I was also in the parking lot of Addie's school waiting for her to get back from a competition) and I went home and took a lot more Advil (and Valium and Ambien) and went to bed.
Not a pleasant experience, but it almost certainly wouldn't have happened if I'd been smart and avoided the fried chicken (and the blue cheese). I have to take ownership of that--sometimes I don't treat my body well, and there can be consequences.
Part of me wanted to go directly to the ER, get some fentanyl action going or a morphine drip, demoral mixed with the anti-nausea stuff that would have solved all of my physical problems. Bam, I'd be floating in lala land. I wouldn't have to worry about what I'm teaching tomorrow (emergency sub plans, and I'd be so out of it I wouldn't realize how much I was shafting my students). I wouldn't have to figure out how to get Addie and Belle to and from school--if I'm in the hospital, someone else (my mother, maybe my father and stepmother, aunts, uncles), but it wouldn't have to be me. Laying out clothes, driving to work, taking the dogs out, all the issues big and small belong to someone else while you're in the hospital. And most importantly, no pain.
Well, I decided that the hospital wasn't an option no matter how much it hurt (unless I lost consciousness, which has happened before). That was that. I told myself I could hold on until Monday when I can get some more Darvocet through my regular doctor (who understands the particular struggles with being my regular doctor), and I've managed to do it. I had chicken broth for dinner and a really great bottle of water for lunch, and I'm still in quite a bit of pain, but I did it. I balanced the pros and cons of the situation, and I realized that taking care of my girls and going to work was more important than feeling no pain.
So that's the pancreas part of the post. Now, onto the Pinot Grigio (have some for me--the pancreas is rather fussy about alcohol, too).
So, after going several days without a coherent conversation and three days with no contact at all, Pythagorus calls. He promised Belle a week ago that we would meet at the bowling alley today--didn't happen, along with more than half the phone calls he was supposed to make to her. Well, not to worry; Pythagorus has figured out what he needs. He needs--drum roll--to be hospitalized for all the stress and anxiety in his life.
The stress and anxiety in HIS life? I mean, is he shitting me? I know this might sound insensitive, but when you're over thirty and you've basically destroyed your relationship with your children and all you have to do--and I mean ALL--is go to work and not drink, wouldn't you think this would be doable? The truth is, Pythagorus' stress and anxiety come from two places: first, the fact that he screwed up badly, and he cannot handle the fact that he made a mistake. Second, he was raised by a family that belongs on Jerry Springer and, instead of going to counseling and dealing with it, he drinks and berates (and/or avoids) me when I hold him accountable for anything.
Yeah, so Pythagorus can't handle his own failures, so he wants to go to the hospital to hide. If the hospital saw my amylase and lipase levels right now, they'd force me in. And yet, I refuse to let that happen.
It occurs to me that this is an interesting metaphor--and in a way, the crucifixion-reminiscent stabbing pain in my stomach is like a scream of triumph, like Mel Gibson's William Wallace screaming, "Freedom!!!!" as he is literally pulled to pieces.
I wonder what Pythagorus sees when he looks in the mirror sometimes. He was not a lying, sneaky coward when I married him ... but somehow I don't think "hospitalization for stress and anxiety" is going to bring back the man I once loved.
Damn, I think my pancreas is laughing ;)
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