108/365

he will leave them an old
beard comb saturated
with oils that smell of
wood and bergamot,
like something out of
moby dick
made ancient
in moderns times
through shear will
and nostalgia.

he will leave them
a life time of books
diagnosed with mold
and pregnant with
highlighted passages:
hope and clues
and all the anchors
he thought could
tie him down.
or were they wings
to be used for other reasons?

he will leave them his guitars
practised and well-worn,
short of accomplishment
or mastery, but brimming
with desire and expectations.

he will leave them a
box of photos
and old journals,
useless momentos
and keepsakes
of memories he cherished:
pictures of him in childhood.
and reckless youth.
a few of their grandparents
sepia memories of iran
a universe away.

he will leave them
.docs and .jpgs
and .movs
and half baked poems
which they can use
like fungal filaments
singular hyphae branches
strung together into
a mycelial network
to make sense of the
space he left behind.

he will leave them.

93/365

time-lapsed
is the best way
to experience plants.

this day was unhurried
and layered:

exited and entered
from one book to another,
bought the old barn
tinted paint for her room—
the short thrill
of running in a storm—
takeout pizza
from john’s  
two films
about flawed characters
doing their best.

the younger one
is drafting a song
about insecurity and being a ghost
the older one,
tired on her bed
plucks chords
before sleep.

time-lapsed
is the best way
to experience plants,
because sped up
they look more alive,
curving and yearning
toward the sun.

but children?
best to slow
them down
to still frames
lest they
burn out
quickly
and flicker
like errant
flames
left out
in the wind.

67/365

it’s no coincidence that books smell
like dirt and mulch and wood
and forests after the rain.

the enchantment of a natural periodic table—
        lignin and resins  
        calcium carbonate
        alum
        and cellulose—
replaced by the malediction
of modern spurious reality.

my wife is a librarian
who chides me
for the mold swelling in my books
“it will spread and destroy them all.”

i flip through the darkening pages
of each tome,
looking more and more like brittle leaves
with each passing year,

believing that
the entire cabbalistic oeuvre
complete with
        iron gall ink
        copperas
        sulfate of indigo
is somehow organic and alive.

63/365

i’ve left small pieces of myself
across time in every book
on my book self
in the guise of folded pages,
circles and stars and exclamation points,
highlighted words, lines, and passages,
like a trail of bread crumbs
into the forest
of my past, present and future—
waiting for the day
your adamantine curiosoty
coupled with my counsel
leads us both to a place
that feels familiar.
i bequeath you
these texts
weather worn
and well traveled.
out beyond ideas
of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field.
i’ll meet you there.

11/365

I learned about manufactured consent by reading Noam Chomsky;
Naomi Klein taught me about corporate globalization and capitalism;
Reading Abbie Hoffman illuminated theater and social activism;
Eugene Debbs taught me socialism;
Bertrand Russell philosophy;

Reading about Che and Ho Chi Min and Ghandi
taught me about revolution and resistance;
Harvey Milk and Allen Ginsberg unraveled queer power,
Edward Said introduced me to Orientalism

Better understood the American War in Vietnam through
Bao Ninh and Jonathan Neale;
Stephen Kinzer and the coup in Iran;
Unpacked empire with Arundhati Roy;

Howard Zinn taught me how to be American;
Thich Nhat Hanh how to search for peace;
bell hooks and Kate Manne- feminism
Mumia Abu-Jamal and Malcom X- race;

Books on movies, TV shows, bands and food;
Books on religion, drugs and evolution;
Books on heroes and villains,
Crime and justice
Education and running.

And that’s all just
a fraction of the non-fiction shelf.

Never let an uneducated unread person
vilify your literacy.

There is no education more valuable
than the one you can find on your own
in the pages of a book.

The world is not complete
until you’ve read around it.

10/365

It said in a book
I’m reading that writing poetry is brave,
not like the fighting kind,
but the kind that looks
at a horrible situation
and doesn’t crumble.

Making anything
the authors says
assumes there’s a world worth making it for.

He guesses
that making anything
is a hopeful thing to do,
and being hopeful
in a world
of pain
is either crazy or brave.   

I don’t know anything about all that.
I just copied his words from the book
to impress you.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Copied that too.
Those words have been on constant repeat
in my head
for years-

Always been too lazy to worry about meaning;—

It rained again all day
and the kitten likes to sit by me
as I read,
watch football,
or doomscroll.

I can feel her perfect tiny heart,
rapidly beating in her chest
like a hectic metronome,
two measures behind
a long rest.

empty bottles and full ashtrays

when I was child in my house,
there was a book
of poems
written by Hafez,
and my parents didn’t have to tell me
that it was filled with magic.

like an ancient soothsayer-

it’s unadorned cover
was dressed in an olive canvas skin-
the spine barely bound
by course crumbling string,
the pages were delicate leaves
veined by a fluid Persian script-

it followed us
from house to house,
year to year,
across a childhood
and into the ether of memory
and vital forgotten momentos.

i explored its mysticism
early Sunday mornings
as my parents slept in their room.
the book laid open upon the table with
empty bottles and full ashtrays.

unable to read the text,
i held its fragile frame
in my lap,
gently running my fingers
across the pages
and the cover…

i made wish.
begged for a direction.
prayed,
they would stay together.

i’m not sure who ended up with the book of Hafez poems.
as far as I could see,
after the divorce,
it lost most of its magic.

We Are Winning: Alone

I put some weight on my right ankle today and I have been able to walk about a little without my crutches. This feels like a miracle seeing that a few days ago, I couldn’t even think about adding any pressure to it.


I watched The Raiders win their ninth game of the season. It was closer than I would have liked in the end, but it was a W and I still can’t believe the season we are having. I can’t remember a time, ever in my life, when watching the Raiders has ever been so satisfying. We are good. We are winning and people are talking about how good we are and how we are winning. 9-2!


I got a bit of work done. I realized that I have a lot of marking to do. Marking I had forgotten about. Marking that would make sense for me to start doing tomorrow as I lay around in bed. Suddenly the rest that was so boring, feels so far away.


I had two extended naps today and I ate pizza in bed for lunch. A few Bojack Horseman episodes rounded out the digital portion of my day. I’m out of pills, which doesn’t really matter because I am not sure they were actually doing anything.


I feel like I am disappearing here piece-by-piece, breath by breath. Not to be hyperbolic, but I haven’t seen another person in almost a week and the extrovert in me misses your attention. The occasionally private message is nice, but I am learning to manage the loneliness of recovery. I can’t help but think about Jason’s strength over the last twenty years. He, unlike me, doesn’t want or need this attention, but I owe him a line: You are the strongest person I have ever known in my life. I have seen and felt your strength and admire it beyond anything a simple word like love can ever capture. Thank you for guiding me through my life with your strength.


I’m reading the Bruce Springsteen bio because Chris insisted that I read it and I am loving it. I am listening to Nebraska as I type these words and excited to learn more about an artist I know little about.


The political world is so absurd these days that it is hard to take seriously, but I read articles today about the plans for the federal government jobs and it is clear that things are about to get very grim for these United States. I just hope that you people living there, can survive these next four years and begin to rebuild the shit show that is coming. I am too tired right now to address this issue and the work required at the moment, but it is on my mind and I hope to get to it soon enough.


We are a few days away from the end of yet another year and December has never been an easy time for me. Excited that as it approaches, I feel like I am on an upward swing.


Looking forward to getting rid of this mustache. This year it has been a mark of sadness and I won’t even be at school on the last day of celebration. Just a quiet shave and goodbye.


Tomorrow is another day and I look forward to seeing where it takes us all. I miss you all. Today was the 333rd day of the year by the way.

So Many Boxes

What else is there besides this? What more do you want? What fantasies do you still concoct as you lay awake in the darkness or when you let your mind drift at the traffic light? What random memory do you crawl to, to try and leverage a future you feel you are owed? Why can’t this always be enough?


The light kiss and the long hug from your wife in the living room on a Sunday afternoon. The fist pump from your daughter as she sinks a basket at basketball practice. The tangy salsa in your breakfast burrito. The casual conversation with a friend about the trials and tribulations of parenting. The work you begrudgingly had to do to get back in the swing of things. It could be worse- you could be doing a job you hate. Something that is not your calling.


What else is there besides this? Sure, the minutes can trickle by at a pace that feels frozen. A routine induced boredom that you try and remedy with…what? Why can’t you enjoy the trips and the journey? The small moments in front of the mirror, admiring how you have finally grown into yourself. The look matching the mood matching the inner voice- the one that won’t shut up. The one that is never satisfied. The one that argues with itself and demands more, while begging to be grateful.


The lives of the characters in the novel you’re reading seem so desperate, but their familiarity puts you in a panic. What are your rituals? Where is your romance and bliss? Is the literature a mirror of your routines? A cliched mid-life episode? Is this all there is? Will I cherish this at the end? Am I doing enough? Living enough? Loving enough? Am I to blame for the ho hum, hum drum of these days as they pass? Am I the only one who sees them? Feels their weight?


Why don’t we talk more about our dreams?
At this point what the hell is your dream?


So many boxes already expertly checked: job. wife. kids. expat. travel. hobbies. friends.


What else is there to want? And if you can’t even name it, why do you want it so desperately?


As a kid from an inadequate family, why can’t you just focus on the one goal? Have you forgotten the promises of selflessness you made to your infant daughter, on those quiet dark nights in the glow of her bedroom, with the tender music, and her in your arms, perfect and precious, an empty vessel for everything they didn’t do for you, an empty bag waiting to be filled with everything you salvaged from yourself worth passing on. You vowed to erase yourself piece by piece on those nights, promised to ignore your selfish needs for the sake of your daughter and your wife and this family. And now what ten years later you are wondering about your needs again?


Where did they go?
What are they?
Why do they feel so trivial and obscene?


Your priorities are in front of you. No more lethargic days passing away in a slow drip. Tell her you love her more often. Thank her. Help her. Live your politics instead of tweeting them. Go to Ikea with a smile. Care about the curtains. Get excited about the parties and the holidays and the future and the present. Be more present. Play with the kids. Talk to them. Look deeply into their eyes so they can tie themselves to your ballast.


Slow Sundays in your head can be exhausting. This election is pulling on you like dead weight, forcing you to carry around its bile with every step. The videos. The words. The Tweets. The half-baked opinions of every idiot in a comment box. Why do you let them burrow into your heart. Your space?


What else is there besides this? You are a middle aged man: a father, a husband, a friend and a son who is doing his best. Although, this seldom feels like it is enough, you have to trust that it is.

The Introvert Wins Again

We saw one lone star.
She told me that she once heard that stars can be wished upon
She asked me if that was true:
I suppose; I responded
that anything can be wished upon
if you have dreams in your heart.


Earlier we walked home from dinner in the tropical heat-
the palm trees swaying unseen in the shadows
hints of frangipani and hibiscus
blending into the city streets under the traffic.
She told me about her favorite author
with intensity and excitement.
She loves his artwork and he is a good collaborator.
“Daddy!”
Every sentence pre-punctatued with two syllables
“Daddy, Eric Carle uses so many colors and writes so many book.”
She told me that she loves books and can’t wait to read to her kids every night.
“Daddy! I hope my kids appreciate books as much as we do.”
I was flabbergasted by the words coming out of her six year old mouth.


Early, on the way to dinner, the other one asked about the Bible.
We discussed the Garden of Eden story.
The tree of knowledge-
Eve being made from Adam’s rib.
“Why wouldn’t god take the time to maker her from scratch?”
That’s a great question I told her.
Holding back from defining the biblical roots of misogyny.
“So what do you call yourself?”
Atheist.
“Mommy too?”
I think so.
“What am I?”
Whatever you decide to be when you are ready to decide.
“For now I think I believe in the greek gods.”
Those are great stories.
“Daddy? What’s the difference between a myth and a religion?”
Great question.

…

My plans to go out tonight and make a night of it have fallen victim to fatigue and exhaustion.
Instead I am back in my pyjamas at 8:45 on a Friday night.


The immediate future looks like this:
finish up this thing.
grab a glass of wine
watch The Punk Singer.

Privilege and Jet Skis

The way the Air Asia flights work out, you have to spend a night in Langkawi when you got to Koh Lipe. Something about the connecting ferry and flights don’t match up. No big whoop, so you spend one night in Malaysia.


Last time we came here we chose proximity to the airport as our chief criteria and paid for it dearly with a Shining like experience at a vast, unmanned, prison-like-hotel that claimed to be a Four Points Sheraton, but was really an empty compound with terrible food and the largest square pool we had ever seen. For the money we paid it was not good, so this time we changed our primary criteria, paid a bit more and went with the place that had the best pool.


Much better experience. We arrived, checked in and were by said pool by 3pm, reading books and listening to the kids squeal in delight as they made their way down the slide for the gajillionth time. The food here is meh, but the rooms are nice, the pool is sweet and the beach is close by. After a few hours, I went for a walk down the beach to explore.


I didn’t walk down the beach to explore, really I wanted to price the jet skis.


You see as a kid, my family didn’t travel much. We never went on vacations. Sure we took a few camping trips up north, but I can’t remember any times we stayed in a hotel as a family, and to this day I have never been on an airplane with either of my parents. So while my Marin county peers spoke of trips to Tahoe, or Hawaii or Cabo, my family considered a long Sunday at Stinson beach or maybe a few nights at Lake Berryessa- whereever the hell that is, a vacation.


But one thing I do remember from these lake trips were the Jet Skis. Sure they were terrorising the calm beauty of the lake with all their fossil fuel glory, but god damn it if I didn’t want to be the one to be doing the terrorising. I remembering wishing that somehow, one time, we would just walk over to the guy who was renting them, pay him and reek havoc on the surface of that lake. But that never happened. Not even once.


Too Expensive. Too dangerous. Too loud. Too too.


Why don’t you have another feta cheese, cucumber and tomato sandwich and ride on this inflatable raft instead? But don’t go too far. Maybe stay where you can reach the bottom and where we can see you.


Someday- I promised myself, I would be the kind of guy who would walk up to the jet ski guy and say, “I want this machine for the next hour, so gas her up and get out of my way.” At which point I would obviously be buffed and tanned enough to commandeer the thing like some kind of swimsuit model. I would be wet and with chiseled jaw and sculpted abs ride the jet ski around the lake where women and girls of all shapes and sizes would marvel at my sheer mastery of jet ski moves. I might do a flip if I caught the right wave.


I had no notions of grandeur or hyper-masculinity on my mind today, I just thought that if it was somehow affordable, thirty minutes of taking the girls for a spin would be a nice way to end the day and our trip. I would not only be the dad who says yes to jet skis, hell I would be the dad who suggested jet skis!


$54 for 30 minutes.
Fifty Four Dollars for thirty minutes.


Are you freaking kidding me? In Malaysia of all places. $54 for 30 mins. I am no math whiz, but that is $1.80 a minute. It just didn’t seem possible. I immediately started making excuses:


Too expensive. Not worth it. Not sustainable. Wastes fuel. They are so loud and obnoxious anyway. Maybe we are not and never will be Jet Ski people. The girls need to learn that some things are just out of our range. We just spent five days in Thailand and spent a petty penny on Scuba Diving, would adding a thirty minute thrill ride on a water motorcycle really be added value?


This was not going to happen. I was leaving the beach.


I looked over my shoulder one last time and watched a guy doing jumps off the waves on the choppy water as the sun was low in the sky and cracking diamonds in her wake. I couldn’t see his face, but if I looked hard enough I am sure I saw his wide smile, from ear to ear, because not only was he having a great time, he didn’t care how much the machine cost a minute or how much gas it was wasting; he was high on adrenaline and the freedom that comes from paying whatever the cost to have fun. I went back to the pool, grabbed my book and decided that I would wait to have a cocktail with dinner.


As a child of lower middle-class parents, who worked their asses off as small business owners in Marin county of all places, I know the value of a dollar. And maybe, just maybe in the long run, my kids would be better served realising that somethings are just off limits, not because you can’t afford them, although knowing these limits is valuable too, but knowing that some things we might could afford, but it is just wise to say no.


Having said all that, I don’t know….it is almost time for sleep and I am still dreaming of a time I ride that goddamn jet ski.

…

As I was showering for dinner and rough drafting this post about the jet ski, I also started to think about the privilege of holiday. As I mentioned before, vacationing was not a privilege my family enjoyed. We had fun. We did stuff. We were not poor, but we did not vacation. Not the way that my kids are off to Thailand and Chiang Mai and the USA and god knows where else.


“I didn’t even know resorts like this existed when I was a kid,” said Mairin as we walked around the massive pool, “much less ever dream of staying at one.”


The very notion of taking a break. A holiday. A vacation is such a statement of privilege, because it presupposes that you even have a job. A job that allows you take holidays and one that pays enough to let you do and go where you want. This is what I was thinking about as the cool water from the “rain” shower fell to the granite tiles and rolled beneath the egg shaped boutique tub.


Anyway…it is late and I am tired and we are headed home tomorrow. I am annoyed that the AC is not cold enough in our room and that the music from some bar is louder than I want it to be. I am also thinking about how I was in Kenya not too long ago and that I will be in Manilla in not too long from now.


I can’t decide if my problem is that I think too much or not enough. Or maybe my problem is that I always think that I must have any problems at all.

…

Joshua Ferris’ book To Rise Again At A Decent Hour has got me thinking and neurotic in the best way. It was a pleasure to read. It is not going to pass any bechdel tests, and the characters and plot could use some…something, but his attention to words and the mundane and the unnecessary are beautiful and captivating. You can be cynical and say that he is another uber-intellectual white dude whining about nothing ala Franzen and Eggers, and that we have heard enough of this white male privilege, and I might agree with you, but I can always take another 300 pages worth. There are some choice scenes. He spends two pages on hand lotion. What more can I say? Scott, Ari, Chris, Shasta, Jordan, curious what you all think.

Slight Sting

I was feeling the slight sting of that last Cascadia beer this morning when I woke up. It wasn’t crippling, but it made my eyes burn a bit, you know, in that I shouldn’t have ordered that last beer after midnight kind of way. All I wanted was to lay in bed and sleep till noon, but Mairin had us all up and out of bed and headed toward Bedok before nine. She was off to her Zumba class; Skye had a play date; Kaia and I had agreed to run around the reservoir. This was not something I wanted to do, but I had promised that my return to drinking would not effect the girls in anyway, so in a matter of minutes I was at the reservoir stretching with Kaia.

From the first step, I knew that Mairin was right. The sun was soft and golden and the water still. We found a comfortable pace and enjoyed the early silence of our run. I’m not sure why, but I raised the topic of politics with her. I realised as a third-culture American, she has no idea who our president is, so I told her. We discussed four year terms and two term limits. I told her we are in an election cycle right now and tried to explain the two parties and the current batch of candidates. It went something like this:

Some people believe that the government should stay out of people’s lives. That we shouldn’t pay too many taxes and that citizens should decide what to do with their own money. These people also believe that people should be more religious, and they often want to make decisions that effect everyone based on their religious ideas. They like to have a big army and are often afraid of things that are different and that they don’t understand. They don’t want too many people from outside of America to come to America. They call themselves conservatives or Republicans.

The other group thinks that the government’s role is to help as many people as it can. So if you are lucky enough to have an education and a good job, then you should pay slightly more taxes so that we can build better schools and help every American have the same opportunities. These people believe that everyone has value and that diversity makes our country stronger. They prefer to solve problems by talking instead of fighting and think that our army might be too big and causing more problems than it is solving. They work toward peace and equality for all and think that your religion is your business and has no place in government. The people are called liberals or Democrats.

One thing that is exciting is that one of the candidates is a woman. Which is cool because the USA has never had a woman president. She is a Democrat and many people are excited about her, but she is running against another Democrat who is much more liberal than her. He really wants to create a government that helps poor Americans. I voted for him last week.

On the other side there is a business man who has lots of money, but has never been in government. He is saying some very aggressive things and people seem to like him for it. He wants to build a wall to keep people out of America. He thinks that Muslims should not be allowed into America, and he is often rude to the other candidates. he makes fun of them and calls them names.

He is running against a very religious man who thinks that America should be run like the bible and that women need help deciding what to do with their bodies. There is another guy too, but he doesn’t really stand for anything and he does’t have a chance. Any questions?

“Are we muslim? Is Grand-ma? Will the rude rich guy let us back in America since we live in Singapore?” No. No. Yes.

Then there was silence and we ran for a while as the sun shimmered in golden ripples on the reservoir and a dragon boat team grunted their way across the water.

…

It’s nice when people like your stuff: your ideas, your world view, the things you say and write and share. It’s nice when people like you. Writing these daily posts has been a very positive experience for me. It is interesting to see what people like and who and when and how often. Somedays, the posts are lame and float by unnoticed as they should, and on some days the words seem to resonate with people from various stages of my life. People have sent me private messages saying what they enjoy or told me in person how much they are appreciating the post. At first I thought I would turn a lot of people off. Who the hell wants to hear about anyone’s daily life? But apparently some of you do. So thank you. Thank you for reading, liking, commenting and participating in my life through this bizarre tiny cyber-window.

…

I finished the running book. It got okay at the end, when his wife left him and he questioned why he ran and contemplated some life decisions. But the majority of the book was like this:

I am training for a race. I don’t think I can win. I am vegan. I almost lost the race, but because I am a great runner I won. This narrative plays out for like ten races. I am sure he is an amazing athlete and and inspiration for sure, but a writer and a storyteller he is not. I found this quote from a review to be perfect:

Reading this book is like getting stuck in a one-sided conversation with the most boring dude at the party. In this particular case, the offender is an ultra-marathoner who's discovered the miracles of a vegan diet. As much as I love veganism and running, turns out I can't stand the person who's most famous for living/promoting the two.

Anyway, glad I read it. Had a few gems that made me think differently about running, but it was a marathon to get through. Next up….The Bell Jar.

Sunday Sounds

It was a bit before noon and the sun was out, but not too hot- at least by South East Asian standards. We had scooted to the park and the girls were dipping their toes in the water; we all knew they would be neck deep in a matter of minutes. I took a few photos of the clouds, the ships, and admired the gentle lapping waves, the aqua water and the fluidity of each breath. 

I laid my head down onto the ground and kicked off my shoes, gently digging my toes in the sand. Eyes closed- I could hear the sounds of Sunday competing with the silence in my mind. We stayed an hour or so. The girls ended up playing tag in the water fully clothed and soaking wet. Upon leaving, Skye with her new shades walked to her scooter with a swagger that she is learning to master.


As soon as we got home, I told them to get showered and dressed and ready for lunch and a movie, while I was washed the sand out of my hair. It is amazing how much they can do on their own these days. We had a great lunch at Wine Connection. It was nice to hang-out just the three of us. We all missed Mairin, but sometimes it just feels different when one parent is not there. We ate and talked and enjoyed each others’ company. Kung Fu Panda III was funny and smart and damn entertaining.

Dinner at home and an easy bed time. All in all, it was a very relaxed and perfect Sunday to end a very relaxed and perfect weekend.

…

I watched and read a bunch of Trump and Sanders stuff today that has me thinking, but I am too calm and too tired to do it justice tonight. Besides it probably needs a few more days to properly stew and soak up the flavours I want.

…

Back to school tomorrow, should be a good week. We are wrapping up units in grade seven and eight and the kids are doing great work. Read some essays tonight and wow! These kids can write. It always feel good when you work your butt off and the results can be seen in student work. They are thinking deeply and articulating their thoughts clearly. What more can a teacher ask for?

Death Cab for Cutie tomorrow should be a nice school night treat and I am looking forward to finishing this Eat and Run book that is killing me with its mediocrity. I am ready to be reading something else. It is a big disappointment after The Season of the Witch. It’s amazing how much what I read effects my moods and my work flow and my daily motivation. This running book is putting me in a rut and I need to get out of it. Maybe his plan was to write a really monotonous, boring, predictable book to show you what it feels like to run an ultra-marathon.

Purity- Franzen

It's important sometimes to read a novel in a vacuum. Because when we attach too much weight to other peoples' expectations or the entire Internet's views of a given author, then we could cloudy and murky up the author's actual work.

People, for some reason, either love or hate Jonathan Franzen. Yes, it is well known that he made waves when he called Edith Wharton ugly; he's known for hating the internet, and he gets a lot of shit for being a popular, domineering, overly-hyped white male. I get it, he is a lightening rod for many peoples' issues.

But what can I say? I like his work. I like his pretentious, bloated, trying-too-hard prose There is room for it in my literary diet and I enjoy the sensation of being stuffed when I consume one of his novels. Sure there is some indigestion with some of his lines, and most often his characters leave me a bit gassy, but over all, reading his work makes me feel like I went to a fancy restaurant where everyone involved was trying their best to give me a good experience. From sous chef to the sommelier, it's all hands on deck with a Franzen novel.

This post isn't meant to be an official review, because to be honest there are enough reviews of Purity on online, most of which are better written and more insightful than anything I could piece together here as my daughter plays with Lego.

Instead, I will try and weave together a few ideas that have been running rampant in my head for the last 563 pages.

Men and women are different, and although we may be trying to be what each gender needs the other to be, to make the other happy, we are often lost and confused and cause each other pain.

Franzen's characters, as per usual, are flawed and dysfunctional. To the point where they are depressed, homicidal and suicidal. I couldn't help but hate most of them for the same reasons I hate myself. The characters in Purity are all trying to be "good" but instead tend to find themselves wallowing in shame for acts they cannot seem to control.

They feel very human to me.

I am not sure that Franzen ever gets it right, as I don't think any writer ever can, when it comes to the "battle-of-sexes." I know many of my feminist female friends will cringe at the cliche characters of both genders, but what I respect is that he is trying to say something about what men and women want from each other.

And what he is saying is that we have no idea. Yes, we want equality and love and commitment, but what we tend to ignore is that all relationships are about a balancing of power, and this need for power, this equaling of the equation is not as simple as we hope. My showing the relationships between couples, men and men, women and women, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, mothers and daughters and sons and fathers, Franzen shows us that balancing power in human relationships is a mess.

In the end, this book made me think. It frustrated the hell out of me. It entertained me and left me satisfied. What else can we expect from literature? I am not sure I would label it as a work of art, or that it has any long term staying power, at times it felt like a pulp novel focusing too much on the over-the-top plot, but this novel does what Franzen does best- this book forces us to look deeply into a mirror of our own (sexual, marital, parental, friendship and cyber) dysfunction and ask what the hell are we doing there? Who are we loving? Who are we hurting? How are we human?

If you hate Franzen then you will hate this book for sure, but if you can appreciate his work and his ambitious attempts to look at what it means to be a broken human being under a microscope for five hundred pages then give this one a read.

All This Life

Joshua Mohr's fifth novel, All This Life, begins in traffic. On the Golden Gate Bridge. In a car.  A father and a son. Both broken and searching for something to break the tedium of their lives. The father, recently divorced, ponders,"How can he tell his only son that being an adult is learning to live with your failures?"

A miraculous event during the traffic jam of this opening scene becomes the catalyst for the rest of this beautifully crafted and perfectly paced novel. The characters are trademark Mohr. Each one flawed in his/her own way, but this time around, each character is more vulnerable and likable because they each reflect our own insecurities about living in the modern age. Although the characters vary in age, gender and class, they are united in their yearning for the things that make life more than an endurance test. They each remind us of what it means to live.

By parading a cast of broken characters,  Mohr shows us the many ways that, "Everyone swims in the earth's dirty broth." This time, however, he also tenderly reveals moments of grace and hope.

While tackling a wide range of theme and topics like parenting, Twitter, relapsing and addiction, growing old,  or the gentrification of his beloved Mission District, Mohr operates with a deliberate and thoughtful prose which dare I say sounds like poetry.This is the kind of novel you will want to read in one sitting, knowing that you might start it from the beginning as soon as you finish.   

All This Life is Mohr at his best and most hopeful. I wish I had more to say about this remarkable novel, but I would rather you unpack it yourself. This book deserves your time and attention, if for no other reason that to remind you that, "We will always be lost. We are the walking wounded and there's love in our hearts." 

The Purpose of Literature

Crushed. Assaulted. Broken. Pulverized.

I am not sure the purpose of literature. What do we expect from books? Where do we hope they can take us? Who do they reveal us to be upon completion? Do they make us think? Feel? See things we never knew existed? Are they meant to tear our hearts out, burn them to ash and force us to choke on the ash? Are they supposed to reconfigure every molecule of our being and leave us exhausted and unable to piece ourselves back together? Is obliteration the purpose of good art?

If so, then A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara will not disappoint. I started this 700 page plus tome last Sunday and quickly buried myself in its world. I fell in love with its characters, while also loathing them for their inability to give me any answers.

This post is not meant to be a critical review. I will not tell you about who these four men are or how their lifetime of joy and suffering is a testament to our human ability to endure unimaginable pain. There is no need to look at the plot, that spans decades and covers a nation, but rests in New York City. All you need to know is that this book will haunt you.

I was going to write that I have not read a book of this magnitude in years, but I can honestly say, excuse my hyperbole, that I have never read a book that made me feel this uncomfortable. I am at a loss for words.

I often ask my students to tell me what a book is about without mentioning plot or character to see if they have a basic understanding of the themes. A Little Life is about:

Pain and redemption. Forgiveness and self-acceptance in the face of abuse and trauma and self-hatred. It is about victim-hood and friendship. It is about rape and sex and sexuality. It is about a more imaginative look at masculinity. It is about what we demand from each other and what we offer and call love. It is about the fragility of childhood and how we can never escape our past. It is about self-harm, suicide and fear. It is about how easily we are broken and how long it takes to heal.

I am not sure the purpose of literature, but I suspect that at the very least it should shatter a small part of our universe and force us to diligently put it back together. And what we recreate, will never look like the original. The broken shards will leave scars and we should be prepared to hurt.

But it is fiction after all. The stories of men and women who have never existed.  We see glimpses of them in the mirrors we look into everyday, but through literature the hurt and the pain and the scars are self-inflicted. We can put a book down. Walk away. Contemplate. We can learn.

To be more loving to ourselves and the ones who we love and who love us. We can be more kind to strangers, seeing that we are all suffering in our own small ways. We can be more grateful and patient and understanding. 

This book is a dark scary alley. Not one I recommend exploring light heartedly. But sometimes your entire being needs to face its fears. You need to grope around in the darkness and feel the terror of  real pain. If for no other reason than to remind you of the beauty and warmth of life. We can allow literature to remind us that the world is more complicated and just as simple as we need it to be. We can allow it to change us. Crack us open and shift the light. Letting some in and some out.

Literary Shenanigans

“There is something wrong with you!”

I can’t count the number of times my wife says that to me on any given week. Day? It's usually after one of my eccentric obsessions reveals itself, before burrowing back into the depths of my...Want to use the word soul, but realize that such a word is far too trite, but I am too lazy to think of a better one, so I will leave you to do it dear reader. Please humor me...
 
I am not here to argue with her. There are indeed more than several things wrong with me, most often at the same time. The older I get, the more I realize that I have borderline OCD tendencies. I'm definitely somewhere on the spectrum. And I am okay with that. This post is but one example. You tell me-- something wrong with me or am I on my way to becoming a cuddly old man?

I take my relationships with media (books, music and film) very personally. When I read an author, listen to a band, or watch films by a director or writer I respect,  I like to swim deep. If I experience something profound and life-changing, I will often consume everything the artist has ever done. I will research their life online, make connections to their influences and hopefully tangle myself in his/her web. Because let's face it, we are little more than nodes in complicated webs of meaning and beauty. I love my media. I am my media.

Recently, I was desperate for a book at the airport, and I found a collection of essays and speeches by Jonathan Franzen, who happens to be one of my favorite writers writing today. I have read everything he has ever published and can't state more clearly how much I love his worldview and mastery of language. Not withstanding the time he stuck his foot so far down his throat with the Wharton debacle, when Franzen speaks, I listen.

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In his latest collection Franzen writes on three topics: writing, birds, and David Foster Wallace. I was intrigued my the last one. Of course Infinite Jest has been a satellite in my orbit for years, but I knew (know) very little about it or Wallace. I didn't even know he was a suicide. Like most popular books, I let Infinite Jest spin ad infinitum until something or someone would shed a brighter light on it, forcing me to read it. Franzen was said beacon.

Here is where the weirdness begins-- I couldn't find Infinite Jest in Jakarta. And since I do not want to do any research or learn anything more about Wallace until I read his seminal work, I have been mired in a state of anticipation and excitement, like a racehorse all saddled up, raring to go, but trapped in the gate and forced to chew on the bit and watch the dust. I haven't read any wikipedia articles or watched any youtube clips on Wallace. I have chosen to leave him alone until I read Jest. That is not true. I saw and bought Pale King, his last novel, before leaving Jakarta. I also ordered Infinite Jest, which my in-laws will bring to me in July.

Problem is that after I bought Pale King, I discovered that it was never actually finished, furthermore after speaking with Ari, I found out that it was left in the room in which Wallace committed suicide. Can you see my dilemma?

I cannot start my Wallace experience with Pale King trumping Infinite Jest. There has to be an order right? Seminal work> research> bizarre final novel/suicide note> other works. Mairin thinks I am crazy.

"This is what you stress about?"
"Ari understands." I mumble.
"Of course he does."

To make matters worse, I was at the bookstore today, a massive Kinokuniya in Singapore, and obvisouly they had Jest, Pale King and everything else Wallace has ever written, but now I have to wait till July becuase the book has already been ordered and shipped. These events make me anxious.  I just want to get lost in Infinite Jest and Wallace and go for the ride, but alas I cannot

So what do I do? I've decided to start the work of another author, one that I've been terrified of since college. But first another short story! What? You're busy? Really? What else do you have to do?  Come on, finish this. It's not like you are reading a 15 page New Yorker essay. It is a blog post for goodness sake. Defy what they say about modern day attention spans. Back to my story...

Back in nineteen-ninety-something I was taking a Post-Modern lit class at San Fransisco State. A class in which the professor doused us in difficult, unapproachable texts and dared us to admit we were lost. I was young and often drunk and not really paying much attention. Despite my lack of attention,  I did discover Barth and Nabokov. True, I gave up on Pale Fire, but at least I was introduced to Lolita.

But Pynchon, oh Pynchon. What the hell was that? It was clear that I was not smart enough for Crying of Lot 49 at the tender age of twenty-something. Not while working and partying full time. Pynchon has haunted me for years. I am thirty-eight now. I was so much older then, I am younger than that now.  I decided today that it is time. I cavalierly scanned his shelf and randomly chose Vineland. Just like that, I will dive into Pynchon while waiting for Wallace. Bold move you say? Wildly irresponsible you say? I agree, but I am ready for some literary shenanigans. 

Sidenote: I also grabbed The Fight by Mailer, a book I have been wanting to read for years. I have been making my way through the Mailer catalog as well. Even reading his terrible Jesus book.

Do you think so much about books? Is there something wrong with me?

Everything is Illuminated

I'm laying on my couch lost in a dream. One from which I hope I never wake, filled with awe and terror, I struggle to find meaning-- make sense. I'm in the midst of something grand, something bigger than understanding, something like magic. Hope. Love. Loss. Faith. I'm alive, this I know as I feel my flesh raise and my heart race.

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For weeks I have traveled across time and space. Strung along to a narrative like a kite string tied to nothing visible (something invisible)--only aware it is there when I notice the line become taut or feel it slacken. Tonight I finished Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer.

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I know I am about ten years late to this book, but I cannot help but share some thoughts. I cannot (will not) write a traditional review for this book. It is more than a novel. It is an experience of poetic surreality. It is an experiment with words, narrative, history, fiction, art, poetry. Never sure what is happening, this book is an adventure that will leave you with more questions than answers.

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How To Create Readers

Every night before our girls go to bed, either my wife or I will read to them. Kaia is currently immersed in Judy Moody, and Skyelar is discovering the wonders of "potty" lit. After we have read their stories, I will usually lay in the bed with them as they settle down and fall asleep. I use this time to read my own book.

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Tonight as Kaia was teetering on the edge of consciousness, she looks up and asks, "Daddy? What is your new book called?"

"Everything is Illuminated." I say. 

A few seconds pass.

"I like the cover. What happened to the tiger book?"

"I finished it."

A few seconds pass.

"That was fast!"

"It was really good. I stayed up late reading it."

A few seconds pass.

"What does illuminated mean?"

"Lit up. Full of light."

A few seconds pass.

"Like the sky before it turns night?"

"Yes. Sweety. Just like that."

A few seconds pass.

"Like my skin when the lamp is on it?"

"Yes.. Exactly."

A few seconds pass. She is asleep.

People always ask me how to get kids to love reading. The answer is easy. Show them that you love it. Do it. All the time. Get excited about books. I always talk to Kaia about my books. Look at this cover. Look how thick this one is. I love this one. She asks me what they are about. I always tell her. I talk to her about books and stories as if they matter, as if they are the most important things in life.

Because they are.

Both Pools

Thought that I'd been on a boat
'Til that single word you wrote
That single word it landlocked me
Turned the masts to cedar trees
And the winds to gravel roads

It is no secret to people who know me, that I can be weirdly stubborn and obstinate about a great variety of things, only to become obsessive with the very things I was apathetic about a short time before. Let me give you an example- My friend Ari over at We Buy Balloons, was in love with Josh Ritter. he implored me to check him out, and although I had heard and loved Long Shadows from Bored to Death, and in spite the fact that I had downloaded several of Ritter's CD's I was still lukewarm about his music.

Every few weeks Ari would ask if I had listened to this or that song and I would reply with an tepid shrug of my shoulders. Somehow, somewhere Bryan Jackson sent me a cover of Girl In The World, and my curiosity was ignited. I have another terrible habit of needing more than one person in my life to love something before I get into it. This drives my wife crazy, but where was I....oh yeah my sudden obsession with Josh Ritter.

I began to listen to everything. His songs were like photographs, no like films. Stories? Plays? They were simply perfect snippets of art that told tender tales of being human. I became lost in the simple yet beautiful harmonies. I was  engrossed with the prose of his lyrics.

That was several months ago, and since that day, Josh Ritter is played in my house at least once a day. You can imagine how excited I was when I found out that he has written his first novel Bright's Passage. It was difficult for me to find it here in Jakarta, so I bought a ciy when I was in NYC. I just finished it today.

Bright's Passage is a simple, well written, and perfectly paced debut novel, by a talented songwriter and observant storyteller. Reading like many of Ritter's songs, it is a story of survival in the face of war and destruction. A master of obscure and bizarre situations, Ritter places us in the hills of Virgina at the end of WWI. A small band of shallow characters are brought to life by his lyrical prose. You can read a much better review and synopsis here.

I simply wanted to take this time, use this space to share this delightful little book. This is the kind of novel that makes us aspiring writers think, "I can do that." But on closer inspection, one realizes that it reads so easily, because it is so carefully written. With an astoundingly economical prose and poetic flair, Ritter does what we all want to do- he turns a simple song into a timeless novel. If you don't know Josh Ritter as writer or songwriter, I suggest you jump in both pools.

Pretty cool to see Ritter himself respond on Twitter:

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