inthelouvre.org

“Out of This World”

Eve stood up to silence her music. She was browsing the Internet one lonely Saturday afternoon, sucked in a who-knows-why story of betrayal and friendship, death and happiness, written by the author of a blog she seldomly read but admired nonetheless. She had never gotten into the Internet scene; she spent most of her time watching television or staring off into space - that is, when a friend wasn’t over or dragging her out of doors. The knock on her front door was unexpected and partially unwelcome. She wanted time to herself just to relax, after having cleaned her entire apartment top to bottom.

Worrying that the volume of The Divine Comedy was what had inspired this insistent interruption, she paused the CD and turned down the volume. A sly smile crept across her face when she imagined the pursuer asking for “proof” that the volume wasn’t obscenely loud; Eve would simply push play and this person would realize that it wasn’t from her that the noise was bothersome. Actually, she was supressing the urge to imagine a certain very cute indie boy on the other side of the wooden block coming over to ask where she’d been his whole life and how he could have possibly gotten on without her.

Though she’d promised her journal that she wasn’t going to actively seek a relationship - in fact, that she wasn’t going to pursue any males alltogether - that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire from afar. She didn’t know where he lived, but a tall, plump boy who always wore a black hoodie on top of his shirt and tie made residence somewhere in her apartment complex. Eve saw him in the mornings starting his car with a jump and a kick, the music already blaring, waking up every decent sleeper on the block. In her fantasy, he was single and awkward. He was just pudgy enough to be absolutely adorable, and she didn’t mind leisurely staring at him.

The knock persisted and brought her away from her thoughts. She didn’t bother to look through the periscope hole, though she usually minded who was bothering her before opening herself to the world. She’d had unpleasant experiences with salespeople, and one time even got up off the toilet because she thought it was the apartment maintenance man only to find out it was an exboyfriend begging for money.

A small boy rushed in before she could stop him. He went straight to the bathroom and closed the door hard and suddenly, without any explanation. She wasn’t sure what to do, though it was clear from auditory perception that he was relieving himself. Perhaps he couldn’t make it all the way home, she thought. It would probably do to befriend some of her neighbors, and what better way to bring someone’s son home asking that he not come back into her house for this reason? A mother would be horrified; the thought made Eve giggle.

He took his time washing his hands while Eve, still somewhat dumbstruck, stood in the entry way with the door hanging open. She didn’t think it seemed proper to close the door with the boy inside her house; not only did she not want to encourage him to stay, it also seemed, well, creepy to shut him inside alone with her. So she waited for him to finish toweling off, a task that seemed to take a ridiculously large amount of time, though he was extremely loud about it. She could imagine exactly what he was doing based on the sounds that were coming from the bathroom.

Just as suddenly as he had come into the apartment, he shot out of the bathroom, murmuring a “thankssomuch” as he left.

“Wait!” Eve ran after him. He paused, hesitant. Her door closed behind her and she silently cursed herself for forgetting her keys. It was a habit to lock it behind her every time she closed it, so now she was stuck outside until she could get her mother to bring over the spare key. She’d not have admitted it, but this happened more often than it did for any normal person.

The little boy was very, very thin, so thin that it seemed he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Eve was frightened as her motherly instincts kicked in, but she knew she shouldn’t be harsh or rude. Maybe he just had high metabolism. She couldn’t make out his ribs, thank God, but his face was long, cheek bones high, and his eyes cast such huge shadows on his face that he almost looked straight out of a horror flick. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old, but he looked somehow wiser.

He lifted his gaze to her eyes and an awkward smile spread across his face. The sides of his lips were trying very hard to reach the tips of his ears, and to Eve it almost seemed like the boy was stretching his skin to mold a smile into his face. It wasn’t a sincere smile (but then again, are any smiles sincere on eight year old boys?). The combination of the hollowed-out looking eyes and this creepy facial expression gave Eve a shudder. He seemed out of this world.

“Yes?” he said between his teeth. He clearly had something up his sleeve, but at that moment, Eve no longer wanted to know what it was.

“Where do you live?” was all she said, hoping to give off the impression that he should go there right then and never come out again. Or at the very least, never come anywhere near Eve’s place again.

“I don’t live…. anywhere,” he said, confused, the smile now gone. He gave her a confused look, his head tilted to the right. His forehead creased with concern.

“You don’t live in these apartments?”

“I live… above them.” His head snapped back into position and he started laughing, still staring straight into Eve’s eyes. It wasn’t a maniacal laugh, but for some reason Eve expected it to be. His face was intent on hers, his laugh uneven and unchildlike, and for a moment she felt like he may have been sucking away her soul.

She swiftly turned around toward her apartment. At her front door, she could still hear his laugh but she couldn’t see him any longer. She imagined he was still standing in the same place, staring into her direction, laughing his frightening laugh, and thinking of all the ways to cause destruction. She hated herself even more for locking herself out.

Soup’s On!

Last year I joined a lot of book challenges. This year I may still be part of some which I’ve since given up on. I had so many books and didn’t know which ones to read first, so challenges were awesome last year. This year, though, I’ve found direction in my reading, and I usually know exactly what I want to read next. They’re fun, but not my thing.

Anyway, that was until I came across Soup’s On, a cookbook challenge! It’s an awesome idea and I’m totally into it, so here’s my post detailing the challenge and the books I’m using. I’ll be editing this as I complete them (of course with links to blog posts detailing how much fun I’m having).

From the challenge page:

This challenge will run from April 1, 2008 to March 31, 2009. All you have to do is select six cookbooks to read and make at least one of the recipes. These can be any cookbooks of your choice - brand new ones, old stand-bys that you can’t live (or cook) without, or even heirlooms. You do not have to decide on the cookbooks ahead of time (unless you want to, of course).

Here’s six:

· The Book Club Cook Book by Judy Gelman and Vicki Levy Krupp
· I Like Food, Food Tastes Good by Kara Zuaro
· Roald Dahl’s Revolting Recipes compiled by Josie Fison and Felicity Dahl
· The Magic of Peanut Butter & Jelly by Sterling/Chapelle (gift set, perhaps two recipes are in order?)
· Soup for Every Body by Joanna Pruess and Lauren Braun
· Food for Friends by Sally Pasley Vargas

Perhaps at the end of this challenge I’ll fulfill one of my 101 Things and compile a recipe book of my favorite recipes. I’m also planning on self-publishing a family recipe book (for relatives, mostly) full of memories and thoughts, so going through existing cookbooks will provide a lot of inspiration and direction.

March 27, 2008

Today’s Booking Through Thursday question is: While acknowledging that we can’t judge books by their covers, how much does the design of a book affect your reading enjoyment? Hardcover vs. softcover? Trade paperback vs. mass market paperback? Font? Illustrations? Etc.?

Well, I wouldn’t say cover art affects my reading enjoyment of books, but the other elements certainly do. I’ve read books with miniscule fonts slapped onto large pages - rather, I’ve struggled through books with miniscule fonts slapped onto large pages, mostly finding myself trying very hard to get into the story and yet wanting nothing more than to start a new book. I generally don’t like reading books with a lot of illustrations because I tend to get sucked into them and lose my place in the story (unless, of course, it’s a storybook); however (and possibly hypocritically), books that strive to have small illustrations at the beginning of each chapter, I feel, should have different illustrations which take some point from the theme or a detail in the chapter. For example, I’m currently reading a book which has a small picture of a castle at the beginning of each chapter. No fun! I want each picture to be different - a woman heading the chapter with the friendly neighbor woman who makes breakfast, a frighteningly skinny man heading the chapter with the creepy butler. Perhaps I don’t enjoy the story less because all the illustrations are the same, but I feel I would enjoy it that much more if they were different.

I’d be surprised to find out if different book formats didn’t affect someone’s enjoyment of a book. Most people seem to prefer certain things over other things - personally, I like trade paperbacks best. I really dislike reading hardcovers, but I will if I have to; and mass market paperbacks are fine but they can sometimes get too uncomfortable. You also often face the problem of tiny font, too many words, not much space, but they still managed to squish so many ideas onto one page. Trade paperbacks are comfortable, easy, and they sort of flop around. They remind me of bunny ears. Plus, you really have to try to crack the spines. I feel like I can’t open mass markets or hardcovers all the way while I’m reading because I don’t like cracked spines. Trade papers, however, open fully without that awful bone-cracking sound.

Now, as I said, book covers don’t affect my enjoyment of the book, but I’d like to close this meme by inserting the fact that I do often judge books by their covers and have been known to buy really crappy books with really awesome covers over really great books with terrible covers.

Pipe Dreams

I was just thinking now about this time last year and the year before (and probably the year before that, too). I was full of all kinds of hopes and dreams, thoughts, ideals, commentary, and general sillyness. In 2006, I sounded smarter than I do now, but I read less and watched more crappy television. I had ambitions that extended beyond my current circumstances; I even gave myself choices for my future. I made several thoughtful online journal entries every week, instead of just the sporadic few which you see now on this thing. I’m not even sure why I have this thing anymore, except to show off my general awesomeness and write about books.

It’s a weird feeling for me not to feel stuck, not to feel like I’m not going anywhere. It’s strange knowing what I want to do and being happy with the way things are going. I feel most creative when there is uncertainty, sadness, and fear. Those Sunday Scribblings you all seem to like to read I am currently forcing myself to gut out because I don’t feel like writing anything else. I have ideas for painting and projects, but I don’t want to activate. I’d rather curl up on my green chair and read - dive into someone else’s creativity - even if it means that I fall asleep for a few minutes, waking up to see Richard’s smiling eyes, his head propped against his hand while he stares into my dreams.

When I was in college, I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to do when I got out, but I knew, just knew, that I was going to go to graduate school and continue my studies in folklore. I dreamed of visiting Swettenham, England, where my family came from, and writing a book (probably self-published and of little interest to anyone but my family) about the folklore and traditions in the area. I dreamt of all-expense paid trips to Peru and Wales and Tokyo just to ask people to tell me stories so I could compare and contrast them in extensive essays. I was so lost and confused. I also wanted to be a teacher. And a copyeditor. And a bookstore owner. I sometimes found myself crying at night because I simply didn’t know what my life purpose was.

Now, however, I sometimes find myself crying at night because I’m not in that place any longer. I have hope and ambition for my future, but it’s a different feeling alltogether. It’s new and I don’t like it as much as the other one, because at least I was used to that. When I was 4 I wanted to be Bugs Bunny when I grew up. The uncertainty of whether or not that would ever actually happen was delightful.

I find my most happiness at work. Even with my nose stuck in a book, I’m secretly thinking of organizing and alphabetizing, labelling popular authors, and most often, fictitious conversations with customers about the book my nose is in. I want to read several books from each section of the store just so when people come in and say, “Hey, I like Stephen King and Michael Connolly, what do you recommend?” I can reply with a response other than, “Well, I don’t read horror or crime, but these mysteries are really good.” I get more excited when a customer asks for a book I’ve read than when I read a book a customer previously asked about. I want to share something with these people, a previously existing similarity that will tell me inside, deep down: You’re not alone in this.

It’s a weird conflicting feeling to be content with where I am and where I’m going, yet feel compelled to return to what I once was.

My mom regularly sends links to me from USAJobs.com and other such websites. She wants me to get a better-paying job, to do something with my 4-year degree. I never went to school to get a job, though. I went to learn, to experience, and to identify myself. Now that it’s over, and all those goals have been accomplished, I wish that I’d had a few more unresolved issues. Sometimes I think about applying to get into the publishing business just because of this. I don’t want to; it’s not a dream.

I already have my dream job.

So what do I do now?

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami

While I was at my grandfather’s house in between viewings, my mom and I were sitting on the big sofa that faces the TV. I had my book open and on my lap, but I wasn’t reading because I was soaking in family stories and tid bits of information about those who are related to me. She turned to me and asked what I was reading, then told me to describe what it was about and whether or not I thought she’d like it. Most of her reading tends towards romance paperbacks, so I told her she probably wouldn’t like this one. It’s “smart” fiction, I said, but I didn’t really mean that in an insulting way. It makes you think, wonder about possibilities; it made me want to separate the functions of my left and right brains and see what I could figure out about each.

The chapters in this book alternate between the Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (hence the title). In the first world, the narrator is a “Calutec” - a human data processor/encryption system. He works for the System, which as far as I could tell was a government agency, and he spends his time trying to avoid the Semiotics who work for the Factory and try to steal information from the Calutecs. The narrator is hired by a genius scientist who is experimenting on sound waves; he can remove sound from certain items (not least his granddaughter’s speech) and can enhance sound far beyond the realm of human tolerance. The narrator is asked to encrypt some data vital to the research so that the scientist’s findings cannot be misused.

The narrator of the End of the World has just recently entered this world. The character must be removed from his shadow, who will eventually die, and must work as the Dreamreader. He visits the library every evening with slits in his eyes that make it difficult for him to open his eyes in sunlight but which allow him to read the Old Dreams from the skulls of unicorns. The Town is surrounded by the Wall and the ever mysterious and harmful Woods. No one who lives in the Town knows where they came from; neither do they age. It’s a peaceful place with no fighting, hatred or desire. It was at one point described as the perfect utopia.

Everything eventually comes back together in the end, like things usually do in Haruki Murakami’s books. When I was telling my mom about it, one of the things I mentioned was that a lot of “stuff” happens, and it’s all very well-written and easy to comprehend, but you don’t really know what’s going on until the end. It’s adventurous and mysterious (in the detective as well as the magical sense), but when it all comes together you’ve either proven your hypotheses or realized how totally off you were. Either way, you’re happy with it. Cut for length or spoilers »

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