Author: bripike

Swamplandia! & Wild

One of my goals this summer was to read more books and I think so far I’ve been doing pretty well. In the past two weeks I’ve read two books, Swamplandia! & Wild. I actually finished Swamplandia! first, but I’ve been mulling it over for about a week.

Swamplandia! is by Karen Russell and I found the book on The New York Time’s Best Seller List. I usually go to this list when I’m looking for good books, because to be honest, it rarely fails me. You can talk all you want about pretension and liberals and all that noise, but the people at The NY Times can pick books. I chose Swamplandia! from the list for a couple of reasons:

1. It has a killer title, right?
2. It was a story about a family and that family contained two sisters.
3. There was an alligator on the cover.

I realize that the last admission might make me sound trite. I’m an English Professor. I know. I’m supposed to pick books based on their literary merit, good reviews and lyrical prose. Yeah, yeah. Well, this time I picked a book based on a cool title and kick ass cover and you know what? I was not disappointed.

Swamplandia! is the story of the Bigtree family told from the point of view of Ava Bigtree, the youngest member of the family.  At the opening of the novel, we learn that the Bigtree family runs a gator park in the Florida Everglades called Swamplandia! We also learn that the family matriarch and star of the show, Hilola Bigtree, has died of cancer leaving her husband Chief, oldest son Kiwi, daughter Osceola and Ava to fend for themselves. What follows is winding narrative of a family splitting apart and coming back together.

The characters in this novel are complicated and fascinating. Ava’s desire to take her mother’s place and save the bankrupt Swamplandia! is the storyline that comes to the forefront, but what we come to find out is that Ava isn’t trying to save the park. She’s trying to save her family.

The details in this novel are rich and fantastical, but they’re also believable. Kiwi, disgusted with his father’s refusal to accept the family’s dire financial situation, leaves home and gets a job at “The World of Darkness” a competing tourist attraction. Osceola becomes obsessed with ghosts and the occult and eventually gets herself involved romantically with a dead sailor named Louis. Yes, he’s dead. Ava puts all her hope in a mutant baby gator and the Chief simply disappears on a “business trip” to the mainland.

This brings me to what I liked best about this book, the thin line between fantasy and reality that all of the characters walk. There is Kiwi’s fantasy that he will save enough money working at “The World of Darkness” to save Swamplandia! There is Osceloa’s fantasy that she will find love in the arms of a ghost. There is the Chief’s fantasy that he can save his family and his business by disappearing to the mainland for a summer and working in a casino and finally, there is Ava’s fantasy that she will save Swamplandia! and become a famous gator wrestler like her mother. 

The reality? It’s a lot uglier but it is tinged with the love and hope that all the characters have. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the final chapters of the book (I won’t give them away here) but I’ve decided that the ending works well. This was the classic tale of a journey and what is true about all journeys is that sooner or later, they have to end.

Wild by Cheryl Strayed is also a story about a journey and while I didn’t do this on purpose, there are definitely some overlapping themes in both Swamplandia! and Wild.

Wild is nonfiction book covering the author’s trek across the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). For those of you who don’t anything about the PCT (which I didn’t before I started reading this book) this is no walk in the park. Strayed (the story of her last name is covered in the book) started her hike in Mojave, CA and ended it at The Bridge of Gods in Oregon. This is the map that Strayed included in the opening of the book.

Coincidentally, this story also begins with the loss of Strayed’s mother, Bobbi, to lung cancer.  Admittedly, there were points in this book where I felt like there was not one more sad, unfortunate or self-destructive thing that could happen to this woman (and this was before she started her hike on the PCT) and I’m sure some people would find this a burden. However, if you read previous posts from me concerning memoir and nonfiction, you know that I love stories about people rising above adversity and I’m not turned off my hardship, no matter how terrible the author suffers. This book made me cry, it made me sigh, and it made me laugh. It is essentially a journey through grief and if you’ve ever grieved deeply, you’ll feel a certain kinship with Strayed. You will also feel admiration.

I picked up Wild because I heard the second half of an interview with Strayed on NPR and I was intrigued. I came into the interview when she was reading the prologue of the book, which begins like this:

The trees were tall, but I was taller standing above them on a steep mountain slope in northern California. Moments before, I’d removed my hiking boots and the left one had fallen in those trees, first catapulting into the air when my enormous backpack toppled into it, then skittering across the gravelly trail and flying over the edge.

My first thought was (because I had missed half the interview) how the hell did she hike with one boot? Then I heard her continue:

I clutched its mate to my chest like a baby, though of course it was futile. What is one boot without the other boot? It is nothing. Useless, an orphan forevermore, and I could take no mercy on it. It was a big lug of a thing, of genuine theft, a brown leather Raichle boot with a red lace and silver fasts. I lifted it high and threw it with all my might and watched it fall into the lush trees and out of my life.

My second thought: She did what?

I knew I had to read the book. You should read it too.

Summer Treasures

Weighted hook.

Tiny telephone pencil sharpener.

Beautiful piece of Wedgewood. It was $12.50 because of a teeny tiny little chip on the rim. Good deal!

The first two items I found at a new store in Irvington called Irvington Vintage. They are located at 130 S. Audubon Rd and they have a wide variety of items for sale. The Wedgewood piece I found at The Audubon Road Corner Store. Both places are worth checking out if you are looking for unique gifts or something different for your own home. They are also right across the street from one another.

The final photos are two of the first zinnias of the summer. I planted the seeds a few weeks ago and when I went out this morning, there they were.

Happy Father’s Day

My Dad at our wedding in November. His speech was great.

This year my dad turned sixty. He’s received a wide array of gifts over the years but this year I think I screwed up. What I mean is, that for my Dad’s 60th birthday I gave him a pretty cool gift (if I don’t say so myself). I gave him “60 Years of Memories.” I wrote a memory that I had of my father for all of his sixty years, so on his birthday he received a box with 60 envelopes that contained those 60 memories. I was impressed with this idea and he really liked it. All good things, right? Wrong. How the hell does one follow up a gift like that one? The only things that came to mind were: dairy farm in Vermont, herd of pocket pigs and an antique John Deere Tractor. Clearly, none of these gifts were going to materialize for a variety of reasons. What was my response to this problem? Shit.

So for Father’s Day this year I am going to dedicate this blog post to my father and give you a list of the top five reasons why he’s kick ass:

1. He can build anything. Examples? Horse barn, wrap around porch, childhood swing set, tack box, garden house, and so on.

2. He like to play practical jokes. I give his three best:

       a.) Taking a ketchup bottle out to the garage and spreading it all over a dish towel. He then proceeds to run into the house with his hand covered in “blood” screaming to my mother that he cut his hand with a saw.
       b.) Standing in the garage, when we thought he had gone inside, and making the garage door “mysteriously” go up and down multiple times. I was convinced there were ghosts for a few minutes.
       c.) Sneaking upstairs, scooting under my bed, and grabbing my ankles when I went to get into bed. He thought it was funny. I was busy screaming.

3. He likes/loves bad pop music. Some of his favorites include Enrique Iglesias, The Backstreet Boys, Celine Dion, and wait for it, Justin Bieber.

4. He has a good sense of humor. See his yearly Christmas letter, his blog, any random comedy central stand up comedian special, and general dinnertime commentary.

5. He’s far more creative than he gives himself credit for. Examples? Freddy the Fly, Marty Martin, my science project (the one with the trees) and countless Christmas gifts (lava lamp, cypress tree, GPS).

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Love,
Bri

Christmas 2011.

Christmas 2011.

Christmas 2009.

My MFA graduation 2009.

The Tiger’s Wife

In July of 2009 I posted about Tea Obreht’s short story The Tiger’s Wife. It appeared in The New Yorker’s Summer Fiction issue, so it seems only appropriate that in the summer of 2012 I am now posting about Obreht’s novel of the same name.

This is part of my original post:

The way that The Tiger’s Wife weaves a folk story into the larger conflict of war is also very impressive. For instance, in the opening of the piece when the tiger is still trapped in the citadel, the description is starkly genuine “The tiger did not know that they were bombs. He did not know anything beyond the hiss and screech of fighter plans passing overhead and the missiles falling, the bears bellowing in another part of the fortress , and the sudden silence of the birds.” Then later, ” When a stray bomb hit the south wall of the citadel, sending up clouds of smoke and ash, and shattering bits of rubble into his skin, his heart should have stopped. The toxic iridescent air; the feeling of his fur folding back like paper in the heat…”

This passage exemplifies two of the best aspects of Obreht’s novel: the interweaving of several different stories into one fluid, lyric narrative and the absolutely gorgeous language that Obreht uses to tell that story.

It was really enjoyable to see how the story of The Tiger’s Wife developed into a full length novel. The folklore that Obreht uses to give important information about characters and setting, is imaginative and compelling. I found myself completely caught up in the story of the tiger’s wife, The Deathless Man and the gypsies digging away in the vineyard in hopes of settling a restless corpse.

 This is a novel of loss. It is set against the backdrop of war and the protagonist is a doctor who finds herself struggling with the loss of her beloved grandfather. It is a poignant story and full of impeccable, tiny stories that make the characters rich and complex. What is remarkable is how skillfully Obreht links all these stories and details together so that, as a reader, you feel satisfied but at the same time there is still a little bit of mystery. I think this is no clearer then at the close of the book:

…He has forgotten the citadel, the nights of fire, his long and difficult journey to the mountain. Everything lies dead in his memory, except for the tiger’s wife, for whom, on certain nights, he goes calling, making that tight note that falls and falls. The sound is lonely, and low, and no one hears it anymore.

Words from Walt

My first memories of Walt Whitman’s poetry are of when I took an American Lit class as an undergraduate. We spent the latter half of the course reading and discussing Whitman and Dickinson. I remember being underwhelmed by Dickinson (my appreciation and admiration of her work was slower to come) but I loved Whitman right from the start. I didn’t always know what was going on and I struggled through an analysis of “Scented Herbage of My Breast” for my final paper, but I loved his language, his long lines, his joy and I mean honestly, the guy had a killer look.

My favorite picture of Walt.

As I type these words, I realize that I am wrong about my memories of Whitman. When I was in sixth grade, I had to memorize “O’ Captain, My Captain” and then later I saw Dead Poets Society. I can’t recite the poem anymore. I was never good with memorization and I found that while I could memorize a poem or Shakespearean sonnet for an assignment, as soon as the pressure was off, the words vanished. However, I liked the poem and maybe that reinforced my enthusiasm nearly seven years later when we dove into Leaves of Grass in my American Lit class.

As an adult, a poet and an educator, what I love about Whitman, is that he’s still relevant. He still translates to America and he’s still pretty much got it nailed. I often tell my students that Whitman would be in love with the idea of community college because of its diversity, its opportunity and the idea that education and community are inextricably linked. Of course, they always adore him. I give them an assignment early on to go out and find Whitman in contemporary culture. They don’t have to look too hard. He’s in Levis commercials, candy boxes, interstate signs, whiskey, tobacco and the list goes on. But more important than his marketability, is the staying power of his poetry.

Another assignment I give my students is to rewrite Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing.” We look at Langston Hugh’s “I, Too, Sing America” as an example and talk about the relevance of the message that both Hughes and Whitman were trying to give voice to. They always love the poem and it always generates good discussion because it still speaks to the larger population.

 I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

I, Too Sing America 

 

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow, I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed–

 I, too, am America.

Happy birthday Walt. For all you said and all you continue to say.

Poetry Stuff

This afternoon I sat down to write and the first thing I wrote was a rather scathing free write addressed to myself. In this free write the words “shame,” “fraud,” “lazy,” “unfocused,” and “cowardly” came up. I didn’t realize how pissed off I was at myself until I started writing about pissed off I was. The simple truth of the matter is that I have not written anything that remotely resembles a poem in about 5 months. It’s despicable. I internalized my feelings about this lack of productivity but whenever I would stand in front of my creative writing students and  talk about revision and the only way to get better is to keep writing, well, I felt like a jerk. Because was I doing any of that? No. I was reading a lot and I did have a lot of ideas for poems floating around in my head, but who cares? Nothing was making it to paper.

It felt good to get it out on paper, and once that was out of the way, I felt renewed. I always feel better after working on a poem for a few hours, even if it isn’t any good and even if it doesn’t go anywhere, so I turned the page from my angry free write and started to draft a poem.

Last fall (sigh) I took my creative writing students to the IMA and found myself meditating on the painting Hotel Lobby by Edward Hopper. I blogged about the experience here, but here’s another look at the painting:

And here are the notes I made:

Oil on canvas. “Though this looks like a scene from a story, it’s not clear there really is one.” Two women and two men. Two older and two younger. Point of view seems to be from the doorway. Hopper’s paintings are always “busy” in terms of people but they are so lonely because the people always seem to be ignoring each other. Even in conversation they are lonely. Women are always young, blonde. There is a darkness in terms of color that seeps into the atmosphere as if something horrible is just below the surface. 


I’ve done a little more reading since then about Hopper and the painting:

* Robert Henri, Hopper’s mentor/teacher, once told him “It isn’t the subject that matters but how you feel about it.”

* Hopper placed his characters as if they were captured just before or just after the climax of a scene. The characters in this painting could be based on Hopper and his wife, Josephine. There is a contrast between the two older individuals in the painting and the two younger people.

I wrote out a couple of drafts of this poem and then thought about maybe working it into a villanelle but after about an hour it occurred to me that the villanelle wasn’t the form for this poem. Mostly because as Strand and Boland say in The Making of a Poem:

“…the form refuses to tell a story. It circles around and around refusing to go forward in a any kind of linear development, and so suggesting at the deepest level, powerful recurrences of mood and emotion and memory.”

My poem was trying to tell a story, so the villanelle wasn’t going to work. I’d already put myself well into the narrative. Anyway. This is what I came up with after about three hours:

Draft #5


His brown wool overcoat drapes 
heavily over his one arm, close 
enough so that the hem brushes
the green brocade armchair. She looks
up, the peacock feather on her hat whispering
against the mahogany molding at her back.


Together they arrived with their monogrammed
luggage packed with diner dress. This lobby is known
familiar in its overstuffed chairs, rich wood and shadow.


It is empty, save one golden haired girl reading
a book. She is oblivious to the young clerk, who stares
at her long legs from behind his desk.


The dining room is now dark, deserted. It is late.
The lobby cast in shadow and the young clerk’s face
illuminated by one lone lamp. 


It is 1943 and the war is on. Yet hotels still
run, guests still dine, clerks still stare at young girls
who still read. He still stands up and she still
looks to him in question. 

I’m not in love with it because it doesn’t work towards that final stanza like I want it to. As per usual, I’ve got too much going on in my brain and it didn’t quite make it all onto the page, but I think it might be worth working on it some more to see where it goes.

Happy Mother’s Day

Today is day to celebrate all the women in the world who have dedicated the larger part of their lives to raising their children, their grand-children and sometimes other people’s children. On a smaller, more personal scale, my mother spent many of her mother’s days doing one of the following:

1. Attending Allegheny College graduation x2 (my sister and I both went there as undergrads)
2. Attending the Mother’s Day Show at the Erie Hunt & Saddle Club. I’m not sure how many times she did this, but I’m going to guess it was at least five. She also gets extra points for this one because it rained at least three out of those five times.
3. Eating “breakfast” in bed at 7 AM on a Sunday because we (my sister and I) were so excited to make it for her that we couldn’t let her sleep. It also important to note that her “breakfast” consisted of toast and tea. Ash and I were not yet the culinary connoisseurs that we are today.
4. Driving around Erie County on one of my father’s epic “Sunday” drives. Hey, Ash. Need a bathroom?
5. Enjoying a Mother’s Day dinner at one of the finer dining establishments in Erie. These restaurants included Outback, Olive Garden and Chi-Chi’s (spelling?). Yeah, Erie is the the capital of chain restaurants. Luckily, as we got older, we smartened up and started to look for fine dining establishments outside of Peach Street.

The point of this list? My mother is a good sport. She’s a very good sport, so I hope she spends today doing something she wants to do and gets a good meal out of it too. I sent her a small package that included this (I liked it so much I made one for myself):

It was a fun little project. Special thanks to Tisha for posting the link on my wall. If you’d like to make one, click on this link.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom. Love you.