On the verge of an "A-Ha!" moment

Am reading Reality is Broken by Jane McGonigal and catching up on the last few seasons of Dr. Who.  There is an essay in here somewhere, I know it.  Right now, what I know is that both of them make me feel better.

Alot Makes a Great Pet

People who can't spell in their posts make me crazy (especially people who are supposed to be professionals).  This goes a long way to making it better.

Hyperbole and a Half: The Alot is Better Than You at Everything

Review of and some thoughts on Chris Bohjalian's The Sandcastle Girls

To the Government of Aleppo.  It was first communicated to you that the Government, by order of Jemiet, had decided to destroy completely all the Armenians living in Turkey... An end must be put to their existence, however criminal the measures taken may be, and no regard must be paid to either age or sex nor to conscious scruples.
-- Talat Pasha, Minister of the Interior, September 16, 1916

I came to the work of Chris Bohjalian via a friend:  she pressed Midwives into my hands declaring that I must read it, and that if I did not like it she didn't want to hear about it.  Several years and several volumes later I am still reading him, and have become the person urging him on others.  While I have enjoyed all of his work that I've read, Night Strangers has been, by far, my favorite.  Until last week.  Last week I had the great good fortune to read Bohjalian's The Sandcastle Girls, due to be released in July.  My first reaction could be summed up in three words:  intense, immediate, surreal.  And that was just Part One.

When most people think of Turkey in 1915, they think of Gallipoli and World War I.  Most of us have forgotten that at the beginning of the 20th century there was no "Turkey" as such:  it was still the Ottoman Empire.  In Sandcastle Girls, Bohjalian sets us squarely in the last days of that dying  behemoth at the beginning of, his narrator tells us, "the Slaughter You Know Next to Nothing About."  Bohjalian writes the events of 1915 in the present tense, giving them an eyewitness immediacy and intensity that a more common third-person, past tense narrative would have missed.  The matter-of-factness of tone, too, gives the relating of genocidal horrors the surreality that makes them that much more terrible.  For example,

He stares more closely out the window at a massive pile of tree limbs -- a messy pyramid -- no more than thirty or forty meters from the tracks.  The branches have been bleached white by the sun on one half of the mound, but are blackened on the other side, as if someone stared to burn them but the fire never quite spread and eventually burned itself out.  He is wondering briefly why someone cleared the few trees in this stretch of land and chose this spot to incinerate them when he realizes they are not tree limbs at all and his gaze grows transfixed... In the end, it was the skulls that gave it away... He can't imagine how many bodies it took to make the hillock.  Hundreds?  A thousand?  More?

And then there is this mystery:  why here?

In a moment the train is beyond them and the bones have disappeared into the landscape.  Across the train carriage his lieutenant snores.  The businessmen do, too.

There and gone, a Boschian nightmare that the mind cannot quite convince itself occurred.  Except that it did.  Deliberately and calculatedly, to be exceeded only in scale some twenty-five years later.  Several times while reading the Sandcastle Girls I realized I was looking at the genesis of all the horrors of the 20th century; Aleppo and Der-el-Zor are the direct progenitors of Dachau and Auschwitz, and the things they've spawned.

Within this larger tragedy plays a more intimate one of love, loss, secrets never told, and the echoes of that decision.  When so much is lost and so many agonies felt, what is left to sacrifice?  Mr. Bohjalian is a keen and sympathetic observer of women; his female characters have agency and are fully human, and never "types."  The four women at the center of the Sandcastle Girls -- Elizabeth, Nevart, Hatoun, and Karine (above, around, within all, Karine) -- collectively and singularly engender the repercussions of the Genocide on generations removed in time and space.

In his acknowledgments, Mr. Bohjalian lists several titles as being of particular help in understanding the Armenian Genocide, and names three novels specifically.  With the Sandcastle Girls, I believe, for the rest of us, he has added a fourth.

Publishers Weekly: The Sandcastle Girls
Barnes & Noble
Chris Bohjalian

From March 29, 2012

've read two pre-pubs this week: The Taken by Vicki Pettersson and Grave Mercy by Robin LaFevers. The first is a bit of a fluff, light urban fantasy, but the romance (thankfully) is secondary to the action, and has an interesting view of the afterlife.

Grave Mercy is a YA novel, taking place in medieval France, when the French are attempting to take over Brittany, and Christianity and its New Gods are edging out the Old ones who have been turned into saints. Political machinations abound -- though nothing on the scale of Game of Thrones, say -- enough to give the reader a feel for the unstable ground on which the protagonist walks.

The tagline for this novel sums it up, "Why be the sheep when you can be the wolf?" The protagonist, Ismae, after escaping an arranged marriage to a turnip farmer at the age of 13, has been raised in a convent whose initiates have been trained in the arts of Death. The course of the novel charts Ismae's journey from unquestioning obedience and use as a political tool to a dawning recognition of the more complex nature of the saint she serves.

Grave Mercy is out now in hard cover; the Taken comes out in June.

Driving in to work several days ago, I saw a curious thing; a thing that made me smile, made me think, and caused a bit of wonder.  A possum had not been quick enough crossing the road and was laying dead, not quite in the gutter.  Standing over the corpse, in an attitude of what can only be described as proprietary dismay, was a vulture.  A black-feathered, naked-headed, red-skinned buzzard.  It stood there, prepared to protect a veritable banquet from the metal monsters whizzing past not three feet away.  The bird would stoop to feed, then jerk upright in protective alarm as another car went by.

Vultures are common here, though not as much as when I was a child.  Their presence, however, is usually restricted to sightings of a circling flock and an occasional nesting colony in a nearby eucalyptus grove.  Rarely are they seen in civilization, on the ground, or outside of a teaching exhibit.  This tableau, then, while curious enough by nature, sparked more curiosity.  Was there a dearth of dead animals in the hills that the bird risked traffic for a meal?  Had the bird become so used to humanity that it no longer considered that it, too, might become roadkill?  Has our city population encroached so far into the hills (in spite of legislation to the contrary) that the bird has come to view city streets as smorgasbord?

Part of me, of course, was cheered and delighted to see "Nature, red in tooth and claw" down among the normally insulated humans.  Another part of me was alarmed for the bird, facing off against an oblivious human in a one-ton killing machine.  And part of me just went, "Co-o-o-ol."

A mother, sullen teen-aged son in tow, were walking up and down the aisles, obviously not finding what they were looking for.
"Can I help you find something?"
"Where's your African-American section?"
"Cultural studies and history are over in non-fiction; fiction is here," I motion around us, "alphabetical by author."
"You don't have and African-American fiction section? You used to." (We never did, but...)
"No, ma'am.  All fiction is here."
"Show me the history section."
(The exchange regarding the placement of Afro-American lit took up a little longer time, with the customer becoming more and more agitated.)

I lead them to the section. By this time, it is clear that they are shopping for the son, not the mother, and he isn't happy about it.  I ask again, "Is there something particular you're looking for, or a particular title?"  The look this provokes is equal parts disdain and something I have not encountered in a long time.  The tone is dismissive, "I don't know what I'm looking for.  I'll ask if I need you."  I look at the son; he is staring at his shoes.  I have effectively been erased from immediate consciousness.

About five minutes later, the son comes to the desk alone and asks for a Walter Dean Myers book.  Mom is standing a few feet away.  I take him to the section (without looking it up; yes, I'm making a point to his mother), hand him the book from the shelf.  He murmurs thanks and walks away.

From teenagers and those a little lower on the socio-economic ladder, the response when offered help finding Afro-American or "urban" authors is usually one of uncertainty, followed by relief when a couple of names are rattled off.  They do not question that I know what is on my shelves.  From this solidly middle-class urban professional, though, my knowledge of my inventory and skill as a bookseller was dismissed without opportunity to prove myself -- I wasn't Afro-American, so how could I know Afro-American authors?

There is a lot about African-American culture and history I don't know.  In any other context, the woman's dismissal would be more than fair. I think that may be why her dismissal here bothered me.  The bookstore is my area of expertise, but the chance to prove it was never given.

File this one under "Awareness."

She Is

She is
The breath in my body;
The pulse in my soul;
The life that drives my being.

She is
My essence and my source;
Every good and perfect thing
That Nature and her God intended.

She is
Joy in my morning;
Bliss in my day;
Peace in my night.
My heart beats to the
Rhythm of her name.
She is.

Claustrophobia is not in places
But in bodies and in blank-souled faces
Hollow spirits, greedy hearts, empty eyes,
Stealing what I would give and leaving lies
'Til there is nothing but a gray-souled ghost
Of self, another victim of the lost.

And then Love, blue-eyed and full of Life
Bursts in, bringing joy and peculiar strife
To a heart against itself long reined tight:
Habit wars with Hope, checking headlong flight
Into a night of scintillating stars.

November Dream

November Friday: the cold,
Clear possibility of a day.
Coffee in a clean, well-
Lighted place, reflecting
Hazily-remembered dreams
Of four a.m. and your eyes
Looking through me.

Horizon-leveled light, the pallid brilliance
of winter's afternoon, reflecting
chance within my bedroom mirror,
Life sectioned by venetian blinds

To One Who Is Far Away

The summer sunlight strokes my skin to heat.
It is your touch, this ghost of a caress:
Your hands, your breath -- still unknown but no less
Real -- your lips on my throat to taste the beat
Of a now-unsteady heart. In the light
Your body presses down, foretelling night.

Evening rises, the playing breeze my kiss
On the velvet of your breast, licking slow
Paths across the sun-formed topography
Of your flesh. Full night settles and I see
The stars, wondering if your eyes hold their glow,
Or if my bed shall hold more than just this,
A dream that bears your face. Sleep claims my eyes
To shape a vision: you, here, when I rise.

Beside the Creek

Here among the scents of oak and pine
Beneath the quiet of the willows
Beside the creek I dream
To lay you down amidst the tall grasses
And tease that smile to your lips,
That one that steals my breath
And tears my heart until there is
Nothing left but always, only, you.

Desire

To taste the warmth
At the back of your neck -
Salt, sun, and yourself -
With lips, and teeth,
And tongue and fingertips
I long to worship you,
To trace your being into
Every ending of my nerves,
To crawl inside your shirt
And sink myself within
The circle of your arms.

Melody

The music plays unceasing
In my head, melody and
Counterpoint weaving
Tapestry of song.
I woke dreaming of your eyes.

Surfing

Below the crest, racing the break,
riding eternity,
to dance with the universe.

Family Holiday

Christmas, a merry mess:
Hearts and lives, with
Silver paper, shredded
On the floor.
What's this? A broken
Piece of dream -
Fortune, family, or
Just faith - what once
Was something more
Than detritus,
Shattered into ragged,
Jagged shards of
Bleeding soul.

Savior

Candlelight, firelight,
Smoke without flame,
Smoldering heat,
Whose is the claim?

Who to set the soul alight,
Kindle passion burning bright,
Bid those who sit in darkness see,
Let fettered heart and mind go free?

Radiant embers,
Remnant of will;
Whose the daring,
Inflaming still?

Who shall be the minstrel-boy
Giving voice to burning joy,
Sparking what was naught but coals,
Flaring adamantine souls?

Instrument calls,
Unmasked and fey,
Compelling force
Hand must obey.

Who reaches out his hand to grasp
Our redemption in his clasp?
Scribed in coruscating flame,
In the darkness, cry his name.

D

"Come walk with me," the madman said,
"I'll show you all my dreams:
Defeat, destruction, dark despair --
'D' stands for many things."
And so I left my darkling bed
To follow where he trod,
'Mid noisome, dank, and gruesome days,
Pestilence and blood.
It was not mine, and yet I owned
A fellow-feeling still:
The spectre of a starving child
I crushed beneath my heel.
The madman crowed, "It's mine you'll be
Before these dreams are done!
I'll reign the world through you, I shall,
At darkening of the sun."
He raised his cloak and swept his arm
Across the dreary land;
Discord and debauchery
Trailed, dripping, from his hand.
In fascinated horror I felt
The urge within me grow
To know this power, to call it mine,
To topple with one blow
All mewling, whining, piteous cries
For mercy or a crust;
To turn all those who cried for love
Into degraded dust.
He grinned at me and I grinned back.
The power within me flowed.
The memory of the spectre-child
Served as my ego-goad.
The stench grew noisome as we trod
Through diabolic days.
A cross-roads came; four horsemen sat;
I waved them on their ways.

Apocalypse and Ragnarok:
For both I was the source.
And as we strode the sun went red;
The rivers changed their course.
Of all things, now, I was the lord,
Both universe and man.
And then a small sound caught my ear;
I paused and stayed my hand.
A festering heap that once had been
A woman or a boy
At one who knelt above it looked
With peace akin to joy.
"What do you here? No difference,
Your actions thought to ease!"
He shrugged and smiled -- a maddening look --
Continued as he pleased.
My madman lost his dire grin;
He struck the kneeler down.
His look which once was dreadful glee
Became a frightened frown.
I puzzled this for unknown time.
The land fled from my sight
In telescopic brilliance.
The day replaced the night.

It was my room, both spare and cold,
Of that there was no doubt.
Through bare glass pane the dawning sun
Had put my dreams to rout.
I stumbled to the bath,
Into the mirror peered.
The damned madman, grin in place:
Through my own eyes he leered.
And then the kneeler took his place,
Shrugged once, smiled briefly. Gone.
My face, none else. I was three-in-one.

My choice which definitions, then,
For 'D' shall fall or stand.
Despair, deliverance, dread, delight --
All gather in my hand.

Afternoon Tea -- Winter

Sanity slips its fragile guise
And shapes a fevered, nightmare form:
Color slithers through the sky;
Stars measure steps on Heaven's tomb;
Roiling clouds in dead men's eyes
Reflect the truth of afternoon -

Debating Passion's silent death
Despair and Lethargy take tea:
Who drew assassin's frigid breath?
Who became the legacy?

Collectors of the murderer's bill
Slide out into the spirit's blight:
Writhing worm-forms eat their fill.
As afternoon fades into night,
The pallid, fragile corpse of Will
Stirs feebly in the shadowlight.

The erstwhile dead calls strength from dark:
Embers flicker; Passion flares;
Hope burns the scavengers to spark
Against the frigid midnight air.

One Night's Ransom, part II

Shadows threaten at the door;
Edges crumble into dust.
On spider-legs of livid hue
Madness scuttles 'cross the floor.
Existence filters to a leer
As knife-edged balance finally tips
Into the darkness. Reality rips;
Nothing left but sweating fear.
Dragging truth into the light,
Dawn comes, red with bloody fingers.
Memory of your ransom lingers:
The price of life for one more night.
Breathing still, but at what cost?
Sanity, and a soul, are lost.

One Night's Ransom

One night of your life,
What is it worth?
One night of your life
When you venture forth
Into the darkness,
Into the night, incandescent
With neon and spite?

What is the cost?
What will you pay?
If it's your soul,
Will you give it away?

In search of redemption,
Flee through the gloom
And seek out the price
Of avoiding your doom.
Scan every face through
Gathering dusk; will you find more
Than vacant-eyed husks?

What is it worth?
What will you give?
Can you afford
What is needed to live?

Your life for one night:
No counting cost;
Your soul at white heat:
Indiscriminate, lost.
Undying anguish,
No ease in sight; do you believe
You can ransom the night?

One night's ransom:
What will you pay?
Your soul's not enough,
Though you give it away.

Birthday

Dawn comes and I awaken, wondering
At this joy that follows hard behind
The firing hilltops, chasing pondering
Stars, and this laughter praising the kind
Gods. A thought -- the reason for all mirth:
That, today, we celebrate your birth.

Firecat

Firecat, caught in flame,
Black with ashes and
Necrotic dreams,
Tracing pawprint paths
Through cindered lives,
Tail flicking tomorrows
Into dust, claim
This frigid grief.

Predawn

Moonlight at three a.m.:
Fear and truth lurk side-by-side
Masking panic, ill-disguised.
I have come late to life; time ticks
Away my given term. Mortality
Lays in dawn. Oh, God, prolong
The night, and waking dreams
Extend to span my twilight worlds:
Necessity and choice.

Traitor

Beguiling faith, the dawn betrays
And only blight holds sway:
Light presses down, confining dreams;
Hope transforms to suppressed screams.
After the morning locks in place
Chains of day's deceptive face,
Truth disappears and only dusk
Can resurrect life's empty husk.

Night Child

I stride the edges of the night
Past spector fields of shadow grain,
Through concrete neighborhoods that leach
The souls from lives whose timid reach
Extends no further than the drains,
Fleeing terrors born in light.
Blackness fills crevices like caulk,
Smoothing the daytime's gape-edged wounds:
Garroted dreams, hopes drowned in bile
From razored tongues in rictus smiles.
Emerging darkness soft surrounds
My race to find release and balks
At nothing; even dawn, full-blown
Cannot contend now with Night's own.

Masque

How fine a line they say is trod
Between psychotic madness
And the genius of a god.
Seeming and appearance
Are games I do not play,
But I must learn tomorrow
Lest they carry me away.

Widgets

"Wow," said a friend of mine.  "Walking in here is like walking into the Apple store."
"Yes," I said, "but it's what's paying my salary."

And then there's the ad, part of which says, "... friendly folks with just one purpose: to make you fall in love with [product name]!"

How much further from the original purpose of the company can one get without changing the name?

update: 

To be fair, the point (I hope) is to get people the books they want in the formats they want when they want them.  But I still ask the question, what will you do when the power goes out?