Helplessly hoping

An odd feeling has been tickling at the back of my brain the past few weeks.

Odd, like, in a bad way.

I suppose “what does it all mean”s are necessary, but I wish they would stop nagging at me. I think too much about death to enjoy life. Or maybe I think just enough about death to squeeze what I can from life. I’ve started actively taking notes to start a novel. This may really happen. Time is not meant to be wasted, so I pack it with books and radio shows and cooking and, yes, True Blood, but I pack it with things that make me feel that if I were to disappear in that moment, I’d be satisfied.

So this book should come along soon. And then I’ll blink and it’ll be ten years from now and if the world hasn’t ended yet and the inevitable Mon Valley cancer hasn’t yet gripped me then what will I be? Where? Do I even like New York City?

Of course I do. Though I dislike fashion, the rich, glamour, vanity, and Times Square, I love the progressive city and the fact that every band I’ve ever loved (save the ones who have died or disbanded) will come through here eventually. I’m working on getting used to what a summer in the city is like, and I don’t think I like it. This is where Chautauqua would have been a great gig to hold onto. I can’t put into words how much I miss stars. And fishing. As it stands, I’m heading to Chautauqua this weekend and the cabin as soon as possible after that. Stars and fish are in my very near future, I just wish they weren’t so far from the life I chose here.

There will be time, there will be time.

Sometimes I just need to get my fingers wigglin’ on the keys in between chapters of Russo.

Summer plans: break brain

Yesterday, I received in the mail the fruit of my birthday gift card to Powell’s Books: a huge box of words to busy me for a year. I’m going to try to do them this summer. All of them. This includes the cookbook. A rundown:

A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson: Ok, I read it already this year. But I needed to own it. This happens to me quite often; I read a library book and decide the many notes I took on it are not nearly enough. It needs to be on my shelf. Now I can scare myself with the notion of Yellowstone exploding whenever I damn well please.

Ulysses by James Joyce: I got it during Bloomsday week, which is one of the timeliest book purchases I’ve made as a reader. I’m hoping that by next June 16th I’ll know what all the fuss is about.

The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams: Yes, it’s 100% necessary to own all the books (and novelettes) in this series.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard: I almost reread by library copy immediately after finishing it. This one’s a keeper.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac: My sister stole mine. With all the insightful notes I took as a 17-year-old. It’s probably better that I start fresh.

Sometimes A Great Notion by Ken Kesey: Most of my family members own this book, but my dad’s copy (which I’d be most likely to inherit) is signed, so I doubt he’s gung-ho to send it to his reckless 23-year-old kid just yet. Uncle Lou says it’s the best book of the ’60s.

Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street by Michael Davis: Because I should know everything about the show that shaped my childhood — and still keeps me company on the mornings I want to smile.

Selected Poems by Robert Lowell: As my second-favorite poet, Lowell deserves a spot on my bookshelf. Just try “Skunk Hour” and see if you don’t agree.

The Moosewood Cookbook by Mollie Katzen: Since Mom wouldn’t let me have her copy, I bought my own. My newest genius plan is to spend the next few months preparing every recipe in the book — sort of a Julie & Julia for vegetarians. And the elaborate farmers markets will help.

I now have a to-read list piling higher and higher, and my produce list features the summer-iest of the fruits and vegetables. As we speak, the library holds two books for me to check out, read and return in the next three weeks. That is, of course, once I finish the Richard Russo book I’m only 1/5 through.

Self-exile isn’t so bad when you’re doing it for these adventures. Stay tuned for reports from the front lines.

1000 words on my very own Lester Bangs.

According to the previous post, I have the option of writing about my homegrown herbs, my disappointing and my better-than-real friends, or Chuck Klosterman’s foray into fiction writing. To avoid boring you, my faithful audience, or offending you, my disappointing friends, I’ll say a few words about CK. And being that I just finished the novel on today’s lunch break, it’s probably most relevant.

Though I did just water the parsley. No? Ok.

So let me establish validity. I purchased CK’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs on a whim in the summer of 2005, just before I took my summer campers on a sleep-away weekend. I remember getting completely absorbed into this guy’s insights and idiosyncrasies, and I was simultaneously obsessed with and insanely jealous of him. I spent the next few years acquiring everything he’s written – at least what can be bound and put on my shelf. And it’s not much, I realize. Four collections and one novel. And about a zillion articles I’ve perused in that time. Since that summer, I think about him constantly, always questioning “What would CK have to say about that?” when any inane pop culture reference is made. I think like him, in bullet points, sentence fragments and curse words; this infuriates me, because I think that sometimes if I would just get over myself and put my shit on paper, I could be a lot like him.

Now, I’d heard a great deal about Downtown Owl, the novel in question. As Chuck’s first fiction piece available to the masses, I was not so much curious as I was wary. This can’t add up, I thought. I waited to buy it – waited nearly a year after its release in fact – when I could pick it up free at Book Expo. And, as an added bonus, I’d get to say Hi to Chuck while he signed the book.

The story itself isn’t much of a big deal here; sort of like there’s not really ever a “big picture” in Klosterman’s books, but the premise is this: 1980s small town, lots of nicknamed drunks, high school athletes struggling with self identity, old men philosophizing. A small-town lover for the ages, I’m thrilled to find these things in a novel. So far, so good.

Give me four more hours, Mom.

Greetings. I am, in fact, not dead, just 23 and sleepy. I do have many things to share with the ether, and these range in topic from My Parsley and Basil is Growing in Fantastically to I Have an Incredible Group of Friends to Chuck Klosterman Writing Fiction: An Analysis.

BUT, since I took a sick day on Friday, I have loads of 9-to-5 to do, so I’ll let Sunflower Sutra fill me with glitter and sunshine and report back at length in a few hours.

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen…

A good week to be me, maybe.

I officially turn 23 years old in 10 minutes, at 12:10 a.m. on June 3, but I’ve been pretending it’s my birthday since Sunday, and it will be until Sunday. I even got a gift from one of our most charming authors since she read my birthday Tweets all week. I call that a Birthday Win.

I’m completely against the notion that growing old could be a bad thing. Because it’s not like I can stop it. So, hello, let’s all just get excited that we’ve made it another year.

It’s beginning to deeply sadden me that my writing inspiration now comes through in short bursts. I think of one sentence I’d like to share with the world, but I still can’t formulate a story. I can’t blame Twitter; this is how I’ve always thought. Twitter just helps me hone my craft. Damn. I need writing assignments again.

Maybe that’s what I’ll get myself for my birthday this year. Aside from the stovetop grill pan, which I’m already beside myself about. Maybe I’ll promise myself to begin drafting outlines. To begin putting to paper those stories I have jettisoning around the inside of my brain, waiting aimlessly to self-destruct unless I do something with them. I scribble a poem or a short story now and again, but it’s not enough for me. Now and again won’t do it.

So, here we go, for my birthday, I will give myself my full potential. I will scribble always and write again and again. Don’t I swear this every year?

It’s summer time, and I know it’s different in the summer when there’s a job to keep you busy all day and mounting temptation to drink beer and read books until the sun sets, but there’s got to be some self-motivation, just a bit of reassurance that what I do is what I love and I’m loving what I’m doing.

I’m doing all right. Happy birthday to me.