A by no means comprehensive list.
1. Mix me a cocktail and insist upon putting it in a nice glass.
2. Hate the Olympics as much as I do. (Honestly, there is no finer surge of sudden joy than that which occurs as you watch a dude you have a crush on give the finger to the television when those five rings of imperialist bullshit appear on screen.)
3. Call me Cait instead of Caitlin, unprompted.
4. Utter the phrase, "Well, we'll just have to watch Veronica Mars together."
4a. Also acceptable: "We should watch Ghostbusters. And Ghostbusters 2."
5. Send me a picture of a bird wearing a hoodie.
6. Dig my cooking, enthusiastically.
7. Dig my cat, inexplicably. (Bonus points for giving him a wrestler-esque name, such as, The Torso.)
8. Suggest we listen to some summer music, and when I put on Pen Pals by Sloan, say, "That's exactly the song I had in my head."
Folks, I think we might keep this one around for awhile.
Showing posts with label spring fever. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spring fever. Show all posts
Friday, March 23, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
might as well be spring.
This weird mild winter is really throwing off my reading habits. Normally I spend the frigid months diving into deep, challenging books, the kind of books that are a perfect accompaniment to curling up in the fetal position for hours on end with a cat sleeping at your feet. Books that help ward off the malaise and moping of dark days and snowy nights by throwing you into an intellectual and/or psychological firestorm. Books like The Waves, by Virginia Woolf. Or the collected poems of pretty much anyone in the twentieth century.
But so far this winter, I've only gotten through one of those--Blue Nights by Joan Didion, which broke my heart and blew my mind. If I can ever craft a sentence as finely as she can, I will die a happy woman. Other than that, I can't seem to wrap my head around anything too complicated. These mild days and unseasonable temperatures have thrown me into an early spell of spring fever.
Here's the thing, though: I love spring fever. The dizzying exhilaration of going out without a coat, the short attention span that accompanies longer days, the sight of the first snowdrops, the vaguely melancholic transition into a season of first blooms and first kisses. I wholeheartedly welcome the chance to basically moon about and flake out for longer than usual. I don't feel obligated to learn anything new right now, because I know I'm not going to retain it anyway. So as far as my reading goes, I like to take this time of year to re-read books that I love, books that make me feel happy and sad at the same time, books about confusing and consuming crushes. Books for smart girls.
Here's what I like to read when the fever sets in.
Girl by Blake Nelson. Blake Nelson is pretty much my teen novel hero--I've written before about how significant his short stories in Sassy magazine were for my own writing, and some of these stories were in fact excerpts from Girl. It's the story of a teenage girl in Portland in the mid-90s, of the blossoming indie-grunge scene in the Pacific Northwest, of the fragile and tender and hilarious ways we fall in love when we're too young to know what we're doing. I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Here is one of my favourite passages, from the part when Andrea is on a long bus ride home from camp after the summer she lost her virginity to a random metalhead at camp with whom she might be in love (but probably isn't):
Even with millions of boys to choose from it was so complicated and there was so much politics about cliques and who your friends were and who was your type. And as we pulled into Portland I had this horrible feeling of wanting to go back to Brad because what if that's all there was? What if that was as close as you got? And I called my dad from the station and he was freaking out because I hadn't called. So then I just sat there waiting for him, staring at my dirty tennis shoes and thinking how incredibly stupid I was if I expected life to be anything else but failed love and mindless sex and crying all night in bus stations.
It's an empowering heartbreaker in the sweetest way.
The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank. Another one I've probably written and talked about more times than is healthy or relevant, but shit, man, this book is just incredible. Fans of dry humour, episodic and memoiristic novels, making fun of the term "bildungsroman," New York City, and ill-fated yet strangely optimistic entanglements will die of happiness. It is also the book that contains what I think is the best-placed literary reference in modern fiction, to Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville. You kind of have to read it to get it. And you don't have to be a Melville fan, I promise.
Hark! A Vagrant by Kate Beaton. This isn't a full-on re-read per se, since the book just came out, but since I'd already read many of her strips online, I'm allowing it. Kate Beaton is a nerdy intellectual hipster's dream come true. Here is one of my favourite strips.
So that's your reading list. And this song is your soundtrack.
But so far this winter, I've only gotten through one of those--Blue Nights by Joan Didion, which broke my heart and blew my mind. If I can ever craft a sentence as finely as she can, I will die a happy woman. Other than that, I can't seem to wrap my head around anything too complicated. These mild days and unseasonable temperatures have thrown me into an early spell of spring fever.
Here's the thing, though: I love spring fever. The dizzying exhilaration of going out without a coat, the short attention span that accompanies longer days, the sight of the first snowdrops, the vaguely melancholic transition into a season of first blooms and first kisses. I wholeheartedly welcome the chance to basically moon about and flake out for longer than usual. I don't feel obligated to learn anything new right now, because I know I'm not going to retain it anyway. So as far as my reading goes, I like to take this time of year to re-read books that I love, books that make me feel happy and sad at the same time, books about confusing and consuming crushes. Books for smart girls.
Here's what I like to read when the fever sets in.
Girl by Blake Nelson. Blake Nelson is pretty much my teen novel hero--I've written before about how significant his short stories in Sassy magazine were for my own writing, and some of these stories were in fact excerpts from Girl. It's the story of a teenage girl in Portland in the mid-90s, of the blossoming indie-grunge scene in the Pacific Northwest, of the fragile and tender and hilarious ways we fall in love when we're too young to know what we're doing. I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Here is one of my favourite passages, from the part when Andrea is on a long bus ride home from camp after the summer she lost her virginity to a random metalhead at camp with whom she might be in love (but probably isn't):
Even with millions of boys to choose from it was so complicated and there was so much politics about cliques and who your friends were and who was your type. And as we pulled into Portland I had this horrible feeling of wanting to go back to Brad because what if that's all there was? What if that was as close as you got? And I called my dad from the station and he was freaking out because I hadn't called. So then I just sat there waiting for him, staring at my dirty tennis shoes and thinking how incredibly stupid I was if I expected life to be anything else but failed love and mindless sex and crying all night in bus stations.
It's an empowering heartbreaker in the sweetest way.
The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank. Another one I've probably written and talked about more times than is healthy or relevant, but shit, man, this book is just incredible. Fans of dry humour, episodic and memoiristic novels, making fun of the term "bildungsroman," New York City, and ill-fated yet strangely optimistic entanglements will die of happiness. It is also the book that contains what I think is the best-placed literary reference in modern fiction, to Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville. You kind of have to read it to get it. And you don't have to be a Melville fan, I promise.
Hark! A Vagrant by Kate Beaton. This isn't a full-on re-read per se, since the book just came out, but since I'd already read many of her strips online, I'm allowing it. Kate Beaton is a nerdy intellectual hipster's dream come true. Here is one of my favourite strips.
So that's your reading list. And this song is your soundtrack.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Draw your own conclusions.
In the spirit of brevity, and also the spirit of the liquor store mini bottle of Southern Comfort I just inhaled (oh Sarah, yours is the Christmas gift that keeps on giving), here's a list of songs I really wish didn't resonate with me right now, but which totally do.
1. New Year's Eve / In The New Year --The Walkmen
(these are actually two separate songs, and if a pirate had a gun to my head I would probably choose the former over the latter, but sweet Jesus if they don't both bowl me over right now.)
2. Sentimental Heart--She & Him
(I'll give you all a few seconds to have a little cry.)
3. Malediction--Stephen Malkmus
(the road to rejection is better than no road at all. yep, pretty much.)
4. Weakened State--Sarah Harmer
(verbatim, friends. verbatim.)
5. I Won't Back Down--Tom Petty
(but this one pretty much always resonates.)
6. You May Be Right--Billy Joel
(I'm singing this at your wedding, Freya.)
(Furthermore, it hurts my feelings that I cannot embed that video. Billy Joel is a wee little dancing hobbit. I think I'm falling in love.)
Goodnight, children, everywhere.
1. New Year's Eve / In The New Year --The Walkmen
(these are actually two separate songs, and if a pirate had a gun to my head I would probably choose the former over the latter, but sweet Jesus if they don't both bowl me over right now.)
2. Sentimental Heart--She & Him
(I'll give you all a few seconds to have a little cry.)
3. Malediction--Stephen Malkmus
(the road to rejection is better than no road at all. yep, pretty much.)
4. Weakened State--Sarah Harmer
(verbatim, friends. verbatim.)
5. I Won't Back Down--Tom Petty
(but this one pretty much always resonates.)
6. You May Be Right--Billy Joel
(I'm singing this at your wedding, Freya.)
(Furthermore, it hurts my feelings that I cannot embed that video. Billy Joel is a wee little dancing hobbit. I think I'm falling in love.)
Goodnight, children, everywhere.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Holy Thursday, Batman.
In case you didn't know, it's Holy Thursday today. Holy Thursday is kind of like the Christmas Eve of Good Friday, the saddest day in all the year for anyone who believes in Jesus. I am by no means a god-fearer, but something about this time of year really gets to me. I know a few wannabe Jewish folks, but not very many wannabe Anglicans. I may be one of the only ones. I blame my upbringing in Anglican choirs and my years spent at a quasi-Anglican college, and also the hymns. I am a sucker for a good hymn. I was in the chapel choir at Trinity College for a year, and while my attendance was spotty at best (Friday afternoon rehearsals? That's momma's drinkin' time.), the power of the music was the spiritual equivalent of a punch in the gut. I had no idea how many random feast days there were on the church calendar, how many incredibly particular songs were written for incredibly particular points in the year. Something about the detail and the devotion just really struck a chord with me. At the same time, though, I always felt a little weird and guilty about singing these songs that I'd never really believe in. I felt like an impostor.
Anyway, this time of year always gets me thinking about all those Lent hymns, the weeks of reflection and sadness leading up to the most horrible day of the year, followed by complete rebirth. I always think of the opening of The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, another wannabe Anglican who actually followed through and converted. I love those first lines:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory with desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
As lovely as springtime is, as much of a relief as it is to see the snow melt away, there's something vulnerable about this time of year. Coming out of hibernation is scary. You never know what you're going to find under that blanket of ice. Here's hoping for something amazing.
Happy Holy Thursday. I'll be celebrating by driving down the 401 with my fur baby crying in the back seat, listening to the entire Bob Dylan catalogue, and wishing I'd given up lone wolves and bad ideas for Lent.
Anyway, this time of year always gets me thinking about all those Lent hymns, the weeks of reflection and sadness leading up to the most horrible day of the year, followed by complete rebirth. I always think of the opening of The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, another wannabe Anglican who actually followed through and converted. I love those first lines:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory with desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
As lovely as springtime is, as much of a relief as it is to see the snow melt away, there's something vulnerable about this time of year. Coming out of hibernation is scary. You never know what you're going to find under that blanket of ice. Here's hoping for something amazing.
Happy Holy Thursday. I'll be celebrating by driving down the 401 with my fur baby crying in the back seat, listening to the entire Bob Dylan catalogue, and wishing I'd given up lone wolves and bad ideas for Lent.
Monday, March 16, 2009
"do something nice." --Mom
Okay you guys, so I didn't have a really stellar day. It was one of those days where my iPod was decidedly not on my side, decidedly not doling out anything resembling good juju. It was a Bright Eyes/M. Ward/Neil Young doing Don't Let It Bring You Down live at Massey in 1971 kind of morning. Seriously, I defy you to listen to that song and not want to crawl into a hole and just off yourself in some kind of lovely way, like smothering yourself in a room full of lilies. I read somewhere that they require so much oxygen that planting yourself in a roomful of them is a very elegant form of suicide. This morning I waited for the light to change at the corner of Laurier and Metcalfe, the windiest, loneliest corner in all of Ottawa, and I imagined myself in some kind of 1920s-style satin housecoat, lying on a chaise longue, waiting it out.
It wasn't a fabulous walk to work.
I'm a little discombobulated today, which is nothing new to anyone who knows me. I've been reading really weird books lately, like The Moviegoer, by Walter Percy. It won the National Book Award in 1961, and someone referenced it during the Oscars. I should not be allowed to drink and watch television and go on The Internet at the same time--I end up spending the night on the library's website, placing holds on everything referenced on the tube. About a week after the Oscars telecast I had this Lost Weekend-esque experience when I checked the hold shelf for my latest arrivals--4 Hitchcock DVDs, Cactus Flower on VHS, and the Percy book. It was like I'd blacked out and had a nerd bender.
Actually, I take that back--I SHOULD get drunk and place random holds on library items. I should actually go into work and staff the reference desk while drunk, because clearly I have good whimsical drunk taste. I'm glad I ordered The Moviegoer for myself, because it's the sort of book you want to read at this time of year when you feel like the winter will never end, when all you want to do is burrow under a pile of pillows and wait for a sign that there's some hope of a thaw. Percy's book gives me the exact kind of hope I need--the slightly depressing kind. In the character Binx Bolling, I found a weary, sincere, superficial antihero, a guy you don't want to like but who wears you down to the point where you hope he figures himself out. I'm about 50 pages in and I'm not sure he's going to have any kind of epiphany; so far his life is all about hiding in the suburbs of New Orleans, going to movies and enjoying himself whether it's a good one or a bad one, struggling to defend and define himself but retreating more than succeeding. And he's a bit of a dick with the ladies, which I know is a product of being written before third wave feminism, but really, dude, ALL your secretaries? Percy opens with a line from Kirkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death, which reads, "the specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair." It's enough to freak out a maudlin girl like me at the best of times, but the passage is even more chilling when it's followed by the story of a man who's living it.
And yet. I'm going to keep reading it tonight, and hope that old Binx Boling figures it out, or at least keeps telling his story in this light-handed, easy way. There's something hopeful about being, at the very least, a good narrator for your own life. It's the least we can do for ourselves.
I talked to my parents on the phone tonight and my mom told me I should "do something nice" with my evening. She can always tell when I am bummed out, usually because I am yelling at her on the phone and feeling guilty about it. Anyway, I took her advice, and I did something nice. I sat in my house with the windows open and watched it get dark so much later than it did a week ago. I looked forward to things, even though I wasn't really sure any of them were worth looking forward to. Everyone deserves a little introspection on the first day of spring, even if it doesn't amount to much.
It wasn't a fabulous walk to work.
I'm a little discombobulated today, which is nothing new to anyone who knows me. I've been reading really weird books lately, like The Moviegoer, by Walter Percy. It won the National Book Award in 1961, and someone referenced it during the Oscars. I should not be allowed to drink and watch television and go on The Internet at the same time--I end up spending the night on the library's website, placing holds on everything referenced on the tube. About a week after the Oscars telecast I had this Lost Weekend-esque experience when I checked the hold shelf for my latest arrivals--4 Hitchcock DVDs, Cactus Flower on VHS, and the Percy book. It was like I'd blacked out and had a nerd bender.
Actually, I take that back--I SHOULD get drunk and place random holds on library items. I should actually go into work and staff the reference desk while drunk, because clearly I have good whimsical drunk taste. I'm glad I ordered The Moviegoer for myself, because it's the sort of book you want to read at this time of year when you feel like the winter will never end, when all you want to do is burrow under a pile of pillows and wait for a sign that there's some hope of a thaw. Percy's book gives me the exact kind of hope I need--the slightly depressing kind. In the character Binx Bolling, I found a weary, sincere, superficial antihero, a guy you don't want to like but who wears you down to the point where you hope he figures himself out. I'm about 50 pages in and I'm not sure he's going to have any kind of epiphany; so far his life is all about hiding in the suburbs of New Orleans, going to movies and enjoying himself whether it's a good one or a bad one, struggling to defend and define himself but retreating more than succeeding. And he's a bit of a dick with the ladies, which I know is a product of being written before third wave feminism, but really, dude, ALL your secretaries? Percy opens with a line from Kirkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death, which reads, "the specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair." It's enough to freak out a maudlin girl like me at the best of times, but the passage is even more chilling when it's followed by the story of a man who's living it.
And yet. I'm going to keep reading it tonight, and hope that old Binx Boling figures it out, or at least keeps telling his story in this light-handed, easy way. There's something hopeful about being, at the very least, a good narrator for your own life. It's the least we can do for ourselves.
I talked to my parents on the phone tonight and my mom told me I should "do something nice" with my evening. She can always tell when I am bummed out, usually because I am yelling at her on the phone and feeling guilty about it. Anyway, I took her advice, and I did something nice. I sat in my house with the windows open and watched it get dark so much later than it did a week ago. I looked forward to things, even though I wasn't really sure any of them were worth looking forward to. Everyone deserves a little introspection on the first day of spring, even if it doesn't amount to much.
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