The Savage Detectives

At long last, I finished reading the incredibly dense and mesmerizing novel The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño. I thought I’d never finish the damn thing, it's so long, confusing, and emotionally draining.

The piling up of names, places, and dates, the piecing together of perspectives, the zigging and zagging through time and space was challenging to follow. The book’s protagonist (sort of) is poet and literary detective Arturo Belano , who together with fellow poet Ulises Lima, a prostitute, and a 17-year old boy, goes on a mad quest to find a “lost” female writer who disappeared without a trace (written or otherwise) in the 1930’s. Inserted into this framing story is over 400 pages of interviews with tangential characters who obliquely reveal what happens to the two poets over the 20 years that follow their quest.

Since Belano and Lima don’t narrate their own story (nor do they appear to actually produce any written work in all this time), the events in their lives feels more apocryphal than real. The Savage Detectives contains most of the elements of classic epic, though seriously postmodernized. This tale is all about the loss, not the glory. There isn’t much that’s noble in this world, and plenty that’s creepy, vicious, and meaningless. The novel captures the chaotic trajectory of life and leaves you with the sneaking suspicion that it’s pretty much pointless.

I’m not going to recommend you read this novel unless you
a) have a lot of time on your hands
b) have powers of concentration beyond the norm
c) are looking for something offbeat, and at times hilarious
d) don’t mind peering into the abyss
e) are a librarian, in which case you should take this book off the shelf NOW (meaning you should read it, not banish it)

My next read is Affliction by Russell Banks. What can I say … I’m a glutton for punishment.

Community Organizing

When I lived in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, from 1985 to 1996, the neighborhood was "in transition." It had already moved from unbelievably bad to dicey. During our time there, it progressed from boderline acceptable to the edge of fashionable. Today, Fort Greene is associated with urban chic.

The best thing about Fort Greene was that it was a true neighborhood. Our block, two rows of attached townhouses built more than a century ago, had a loosely organized community association which sponsored a party every summer and street clean-ups in the spring and fall. When an abandoned building on the block turned into a drug den, we at least had a rudimentary framework for dealing with it. But we quickly saw that planning a party or picking up trash hardly prepared us for the serious threat in our midst. In fact the problem got much worse before we attempted to do anything about it. We had no block president, no experience working with the police, no idea who to turn to for help.

Eventually, a couple of neighbors talking in the street became an emergency meeting in the house three doors down from ours. Everyone who came was sick with worry. The people coming and going (staggering, really) from the dilapidated brownstone directly across the street were clearly heavy drug users. Crack was the drug of choice and drug deals were going down on the corner. The more vocal members in the gathering tossed out ideas: phone calls to local politicians, a meeting with police, a neighborhood watch detail. Some people voiced concerns about police involvement. From their perspective, having lived on the block for 20, 30, 40 years, the police were conspicuous for their absence. Nobody volunteered to contact the local precinct. We agreed that we would draft a letter addressing our concerns, and we'd take it door to door gathering as many signatures as possible. I was charged with writing this letter. In the meantime, we all agreed to call the police station any time we witnessed suspicious activity.

The offending house grew from nagging sore to cancerous tumor. Someone finally contacted the Police Chief, who agreed to send a representative to our next meeting, which we hastily called. Some 30 people packed themselves into a neighbor's living room to listen to what the officer had to say. Cooperation was key. If we were willing to work with the police, they were willing to work with us to try to solve the problem. Nearly all policing in those days was done in patrol cars. They agreed to assign a beat cop to walk past the drug house several times daily. We believed that this would soon solve our problem. It didn't, although the guys on foot patrol were very friendly, and it was comforting to have overt police presence.

We were forced to get creative. We tried to have the house boarded up, but found this would be impossible since somebody officially still owned the wreck. The owner couldn't be located, was possibly a fugitive and owed thousands of dollars in back taxes. A few of us videotaped the comings and goings. Someone suggested we get Al Sharpton involved. Used needles scattered the sidewalk from the house's front stoop to the corner. A block that once felt safe, felt more and more like a war zone.

I'd like to say that it was through neighbors organizing themselves to fight a common enemy that this problem was solved, that through cooperation between community and police, the blight was removed. The solution, rather, came in classic deus ex machina fashion. Stripped of its wiring, the building had no electricity. The crackheads lit candles at night, and one of these candles apparently fell over and set an old mattress on fire. The fire department put out the blaze, declared the building unsafe and boarded it up. My family had been on vacation at the time and missed all the excitement.

The block association organized a party for the police precinct as a thank you for its support. We were starting to understand that public relations was an important part of protecting our interests. I went with fellow neighbors to transport and enjoy a southern-style feast at the police station. It was the best fried chicken I ever ate. Officers drifted in and out, appreciating the food and the thanks. Our grassroots efforts hadn't closed a drug house, but it had accomplished some important things. All of us working together to solve a problem was better than any one of us working alone. We were better prepared for the next issue that came our way.

Commitment, compromise, cooperation and a liberal dose of luck. We were a diverse group of people--black, white, young, old, owners, renters, heck, even a Frenchman--but we came together for the common good, and something good came out of it.

Community organizing. Don't knock it unless you've tried it.

The Sky Is Falling

If we don't act immediately, Saddam Hussein and the perpetrators of 9/11 will use weapons of mass destruction to end the world as we know it. Congress must act today to avert this threat.

Oops. Wrong crisis. Let's try that again.

If we don't act immediately, the US economy is going to implode and drag the rest of the world with it. Congress must approve squawk the $700,000,000,000 bailout squawk to avert this challenging situation. Foxy Loxy told me so.

Congresspeople: Before robbing Peter to pay Paul on President Little's say-so, can you do us a favor and waste a few brain cells on that rescue package? Can you make sure Foxy Loxy isn't hiding in an obscure section waiting to lead us to our end? I want to be saved and all but Little makes me nervous. Remember, I'm paying your salary not to mention footing the bill for your health care, so please put away your rubber ducky stamps and take a few moments to consider the ramifications of what you approve. That includes you, too Jonnny Bonny and Barry Parry.

And speaking of health care, do you think we can do something about the "situation" before it reaches the epic meltdown stage?

Thanks a billion.

31:45

That's me at right crossing the finish line at yesterday's CVS Providence 5k. I came in 2470th place, the 51st finisher in my age group (out of 235). First place finisher in my group was Joan Benoit Samuelson. Dang.

I didn't reach my sub-30:00 goal, but I was happy with my race. It was pretty warm out there, and I couldn't even run my race pace for almost 2 minutes because it was so crowded and I was trying not to get trampled. I look at it this way: I have a year to shave (more like amputate) 1:46 off my time.

That's me below, warming up for the race with The New York Times. I was reading a series of remembrances about Yankee Stadium, which closed last night forever. Perhaps my warm-up routine needs a little tweeking?

Bad Ol' Brooklyn Days

In 1985, we moved to Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Friends and relatives thought we were nuts. What's wrong with Park Slope, Brooklyn Heights? Isn't Fort Greene dangerous?

What is was was interesting. It was filled with interesting characters, dead and living. Marianne Moore, a poet about whom I'd written my masters thesis, had once lived in a house very similar to ours just two blocks away. Richard Wright had written Native Son around the corner. Bill Lee, jazz musician and father of Spike, used to play the piano before PTA meetings at P.S. 20 where both of our daughters attended elementary school. Spike Lee lived in the neighborhood, too, filming She's Gotta Have It in various Fort Greene locations. Which reminds me: shots of our house appeared in an episode of The Cosby Show, our 2 seconds of fame. My daughter and I were filmed walking on the sidewalk out front. Sadly, we ended up on the cutting room floor.

Fort Greene back then had its dark side, which is why some people failed to see its positive characteristics. There was a fair amount of crime, most of it drug-related. In fact, there was a crack house on our block. I'm going to save this story for another day because it's long and politically charged. It's a story about community organizing, about how ordinary people make changes by coming together and working with other groups and agencies for the common good. If you think this task is easy, it might be because you never did it. That's all I'm saying, for now.

Bonfire of the Vanities

Greed on Wall Street is something new? I don't think so!

What's causing the "adjustments" and "situation" in the US financial markets? Who's to blame? I swear I didn't do it.

Let's see. Could it be Wall Street? The Republicans? The Democrats? Deregulation? Overzealous regulation? Washington? Politics as usual?

What ho! John McCain cast a stone today at the chairman of the SEC. Says if he were president, he'd fire this man. That's tough talk, and perhaps this man should be fired. But picking out one person and blaming him for the mess on Wall Street (did I say mess? I meant situation) is a tad facile, don't you think? Maybe it's what the American folks want to hear. Because they didn't do it. And someone must pay.

Answer me this: Why did it take McCain so long to take on Wall Street excess? Certainly it's been around for awhile. Where has our white knight been all these years?

Infinite Jest

I've never read David Foster Wallace's weighty tome because I'm still recovering from Gravity's Rainbow. Before you think Shirley, you jest, allow me to plead that I was out of the country when Infinite Jest was published in 1996. I missed an entire period of contemporary lit the six years I lived in Costa Rica. This is a of course a ridiculous excuse. I plan to read DFW's novel one of these days. It can't be any more challenging than the one I'm currently (yes, still) reading, which by the way was published in 1998.

DFW died last week at the age of 46, an apparent suicide. In the midst of all the political bickering and financial wreckage, this news jumped out, shocked and upset me. (That other stuff merely upset me.) To the question, why does someone take his/her own life? I imagine because that life is unspeakably and painfully sad.

A couple of years back, I read DFW's collection of essays Consider the Lobster. One of the pieces examines John McCain during his 2000 bid for the Republican nomination. Who is this man, really? Can we get at the essence of someone who's been packaged and spun, as politicians invariably are? Is John McCain the real McCoy? My recollection is that DFW doesn't answer this question. My personal impression was that McCain was a fascinating guy, someone who wanted to both break icons and be one. A bit of a hothead, perhaps. A tad mean. A better choice than what we ended up with.

McCain may still want to believe he's an iconoclast, but Straight Talk has left the building. The maverick mantra sounds old and hollow. McCain's been packaged and repackaged, duct taped beyond recognition. Integrity and politics are apparently mutually exclusive.

You can put lipstick/aftershave on politics. It's still politics.

Running for Time

In 10 days, I'm running a 5k in downtown Providence. I announced several weeks ago with much bravado that I planned to run it in under 30 minutes. Now I'm thinking this might not be possible.

I've been trying to ramp up my "training," over the past few weeks, running more miles and trying to do "speed" workouts. The problem is, I'm as slow as a turtle. Contrary to proverbial wisdom, slow and steady DOES NOT win the race. My sons always say that if you're running a race, you should feel awful. I accept that, but I can't break a 9-minute mile without feeling as though I were about to expire. How will I ever run 3.1 miles at my current "race" pace?

The last time I ran this event, in 2006, I ran with the Marine Corps at my heels. Literally. There I was, huffing, puffing, sweating and feeling deathish, pursued by 30 some-odd totally jacked men rhythmically chanting and waving Semper Fi flags. I credit the Marines with helping me run 30:32, and I thank them for not passing me. I was under the impression these brave souls would scoop me up and carry me to the finish line if I collapsed in the street. After all, I attended any number of Marine Corp Balls when I lived in Costa Rica. But I digress.

If the weather cooperates, I might have a chance. This morning it was cool and dry, and I ran 2.7 miles in 27 minutes. That's an unofficial time because I forgot to set my watch when I took off and only noticed it some 200 meters down the road. I wasn't trying especially hard, and I felt really good throughout the run, which means I certainly wasn't pushing myself. Tomorrow I'll do another speed workout.

If only I could find a few good men to chase me down the street.

Gardening for Mummies

When I was eleven or twelve years old, I developed a serious interest in gardening. My brothers cut the lawn, while I tended to the vegetable and flower beds. After a long hiatus, after college and after apartment life, I stuck my green thumb back in the dirt. Our first house in Brooklyn, the one in the shadow of the 'D' train, had a tiny patch of land out back, sandwiched between the house and the poor excuse for a garage. Most of what I planted was swiftly and savagely attacked by pests. Since I was loathe to use poison to control the nasty borers and fungi, and I soon tired of hand picking the worms off the tomato plants, I eventually gave up. Our second house, in downtown Brooklyn, had a front garden with a lot of fusty evergreens, which I promptly ripped out and filled with more updated plantings. This time the pests were human ones: much of what I planted was stolen within days. The back yard had an above-ground pool and brick patio. Sick of the plant thievery out front, my husband built a curving wall that we filled with dirt and loaded up with flowers and herbs. It was small, but in the middle of summer, it overflowed with colorful blooms.

When we moved to Costa Rica, I thought I'd died and gone to gardening heaven. Problem was, the house we rented came with its own gardener, who took it as a personal affront if I attempted to plant anything myself. When we eventually bought a house, we inherited a gardener with it. He only lasted a week because he was terrified of our dogs. We hired a new gardener named Jesus, a machete-wielding Nicaraguan banana maven whose Spanish I could barely understand. By this point, I had given up any pretense of using garden tools myself. I bought the plants, and Jesus did all the real work. He was an amazing gardener, responsible for the beauty of our lush little acre, not to mention our forty-square meter vegetable patch.

We live on a little more than an acre here in Rhode Island. Within days of our arrival, I was seriously missing Jesus. But I quickly got to work adding to the perennial border out back, filling in the yard here and there with flowers and bulbs. For the past three summers, I haven't been able to do any gardening due to my compromised immune system. Last week, I was finally cleared to once again play in the dirt. Except that I had to wear protective clothing, gloves and a heavy-duty mask, the kind you wear for asbestos removal. Wrapped like a mummy, and barely able to breathe, I attacked the neglected gardens with a vengeance, imposing order and a measure of beauty where there had been weeds the height of corn.

It's good to be back.

The What

Every time I turn around, there's a topic crying out for development or commentary. Some of these ideas come from within. They include, among other things: interior monologues; random scraps that manage to lodge in my conscious mind long enough to hop on a train of thought; mostly mangled memories . Then there are those topics that I read or hear about in the media, or that one of my kids brings up. Or perhaps it's a question rasied by my husband, such as How many Americans think like us? It was clear from the way he asked that he feared the number was very very small.

I read a lot, but since I'm currently not a member of a book group, what I read goes largely undiscussed, and therefore quickly forgotten. I'd like to talk about books here, what I recommend and why. I'm currently reading a book called The Savage Detectives by a Chilean writer, Roberto Bolaño, which sad to say I've been reading forever. The structure is odd, and there is what seems like a cast of thousands, all bearing foreign names and all turning up in different cities. The main characters never narrate, so you have to piece together their adventures based upon what the other characters describe. More on this novel when I finally finish it, I promise.

Since it's election season, I'll veer off into that risky territory from time to time. One of these days, I promise to deliver a rant about Sarah "Fahrenheit 451" Palin, the GOP candidate for VP.

To the left, you'll see a list of blogs I follow. All of them are written by incredibly strong people who've been battling what we call The Beast. You'll also see a heading called My Word! These are links to essays I've written. I'll be adding to the list once I figure out how to unearth articles I've lost in cyberspace.

The Why

In my first post, I described the where of this blog. Now I’ll tell you its raison d’être.

Apparently, I’m descended from a long line of people who like to have their say, in other words, blatherers. We don’t even require that others listen to us; we just need to express our views on everything imaginable, often failing to recognize the universal sign of listener boredom, glazed-over eyes. We will be heard! Fortunately, there is a place we can now lob our bon mots, bitter diatribes and infinity of unasked-for opinions: the Blogosphere. It’s a lot like the atmosphere only better because people sometimes legitimize our words by commenting on them.

My family is well-represented in the blogging world. A quick google turns up 9000 entries, although almost all refer to my brothers. Armchair analysis suggests that our father’s tendency to squelch all discourse when we were growing up, especially opinions he did not share, caused words to leak out of us uncontrollably once we were free of his grip. Not that we’re completely free of him, but he can no longer make us shut up.

Stayed tuned for the what. Which reminds me: What is the What by Dave Eggers is a book I recommend if you’re looking for a serious read.

There Was Something About Mary

My friend Mary died of colon cancer Monday. I met Mary 5 years ago when we trained to be volunteer facilitators at Friends Way, a local children’s bereavement center. That first impression of Mary proved to be indicative of who she really was. Mary was soft-spoken, kind, nurturing, and supportive. No surprise that she was a school nurse. No surprise she was from upstate New York, either. I knew that accent anywhere, having attended college at SUNY@Buffalo. Turns out we were alumni.

Mary played a role in supporting me and my family when I was diagnosed with leukemia. As a school nurse at the middle school, she informed my youngest son’s teachers about my illness, and let him know that if he needed to talk, she was always available. She also called the high school guidance department to have them spread the word to my older kids’ teachers. Mary visited me during my long month in the hospital, a time that was and still is a blur to me. After my relapse, Mary was there for me again, cooking food for my family and sending a bag of goodies to the hospital where another month of my life was lost.

Mary was diagnosed with colon cancer about a year ago. Due to my own health challenges, I’d not spoken to her in a long time. A mutual friend updated me from time to time about how Mary was doing. Mary did not want to burden others with her illness, a sentiment I completely understand.

I went to Mary’s memorial service yesterday along with my youngest son, who's friends with Mary's son. The standing room only crowd heard loving tributes from family members and friends. It was sad but comforting to hear the person you knew described over and over as well, the person you knew, too. Someone quoted Abraham Lincoln: it’s not the years in your life that count, but the life in your years. From that perspective, Mary had a long rich life. I’m richer having known her.

The Where

From where I sit, all I see are trees and a small slice of sky. At this time of year, all is textured and leafy, and the tree growing toward my window is bearing small red fruit. No one can agree on what kind of tree it is, not even the so-called arborist who came to prune it, nor the alleged landscape architect who designed the foundation planting several years back. Checking the Field Guide to North American Trees, (what, you don’t have one of those?), it seems to be a crabapple of some sort, which are not native to this area. That makes two of us.

I live in semi-rural technically-suburban Rhode Island in a house tucked into 1.5 mostly wooded acres. The majority of the trees are second-growth oaks, meaning their mighty ancestors were chopped down by my ancestors (I use the term loosely) and these gangly teens are what grew back. Like human teens, these trees are a lot of work. Sure, they provide shade, but they also pelt us with acorns, coat us in pollen and throw down three times the number of leaves they seemingly have. But I digress.

The property is exceptionally peaceful and very easy on the eyes, something we were pleasantly surprised by when we turned up here six years ago. We bought the house on the internet while living in Costa Rica, having no idea what the setting was except that it wasn’t in a sub-division. We got lucky. It’s the perfect spot for observing wildlife (ever hear of a fisher cat?), leaf peeping and watching the woods fill up with snow, the perfect setting for a writer’s retreat.

This is where my words spill from, where I string my sentences. Welcome to Word in the Woods.