New Year

I have been so neglectful of my blog. I need to get back into the swing of things.

I've spent a lot of time writing and reading, fueling the creative as much as I can. Just last week, I submitted a piece for publication in a writing contest - my first submission in 7 years. I know my chances of winning are slim, but that's not the reason I sent my poem in. It was a huge goal of mine to do that this year, and I feel accomplished. It's the first piece I've written in a long while that I felt proud of: award or not, published or not. Now I feel like I'm finally moving forward.

After a few years without any major writing efforts, a fire was finally lit and it's great. My goal was to have something submitted by 12/31, and I ended up submitting it a little early.

I can't believe this year is already over. Here is a short list of a few favorite things that helped light a fire under me this year creatively, and things that I have been grateful for.

Sigur Rós - 9/25, The Orpheum, Minneapolis

Even if we hadn't been in the second row, I have no doubt my feelings on this show would have changed. Even without strings, Jonsi & friends were more amazing than I imagined. They surprised all of us by busting out 'Nothing Song' from Vanilla Sky; my absolute favorite. 'Gobbledigook' (pictured above) was a brilliant display of confetti, drums, smiles and claps from all points in the theatre. What an experience. Out of the hundreds of shows I've been to, this takes the cake.

The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
I loved it. I loved it so so much that I can't quite find the words.

I loved the intricate, sordid family neuroses and lies and loves and the overall strangeness of such a complicated, jumbled story.

Benjy, and Caddy, and Quentin...oh how I loved them.

Part of me feels like this book maybe should be four stars; and the only reason I say that is because of the structure-mainly the last part of the book, reading third person-omniscient. I felt like Faulkner was trying to prove someth...more I loved it. I loved it so so much that I can't quite find the words.

I loved the intricate, sordid family neuroses and lies and loves and the overall strangeness of such a complicated, jumbled story. This book has been on my to-read list for years, and I'm so glad I finally read it. It's the story of the Compson family, deep in the heart of Mississippi, whose members are plagued with a plethora of problems that are deeply seeded in the family history. Such a beautiful and unique story of life and where it takes us.


President Elect Obama

I've always considered myself of the Independent Party. Politicians are flawed, and so many are corrupt: people are human. Barack is no exception. But I have to say, I can't help but have hope for the direction we're going. I feel lucky to have been able to witness his speech after he won the election, standing in front of thousands in Chicago, both proud and humbled. I have hope.


The Pending Arrival of Jackson Jude Ranney
My best friend's baby, my godson. So excited. She is going to be such an amazing mother.


Dad

After 3 hospitalizations this year, 4 suicide attempts and commitment court hearings, he's still here. He's still on this planet, trying hard every day to keep his chin up. After the past few years he's had, I'd say that's one hell of an accomplishment. Although he lives a few hours away now, he's under 24-hour care, and although he has his dark days, I've seen him laugh a few times, and smile. That in itself is an accomplishment. I'm so proud of him.

Here's to a great 2009.

The most beautiful place on earth.

Before I head back to Duluth for our annual Labor Day fun fest, I wax nostalgic about my absolute favorite bar (and grill) in the area, found just over the bridge in the lovely town of Superior, Wisconsin.

It should also be said that I have a massive hard-on for dive bars. The seedier the better, in most circumstances. The Anchor is kind of on a level all its own, and has a reputation for being authentically divey. You won’t find any faux-retro metal signs for Coke or Budweiser that are now sold in every Target and Wal Mart across the country; no staff members wearing matching outfits and no scenic outdoor seating.

Instead, you'll find exactly what the perfect dive bar should be.

This is a face of excitement and love, courtesy of Jeanine.

The Anchor is a place where the food is ridiculously cheap and AMAZING (burgers, including their Galleybuster with 3 patties, 4.00), and the greasiest, most phenomenal fries on the planet. No chicken or fish or pasta and veggies; don't even bother asking. We've gotten to know Irene, the Grill Master of the Anchor, who we trust implicitly and wouldn't dare question what occurs in the "kitchen area." So far, so good. The only illness that has occurred after eating at The Anchor was purely alcohol-induced.

Beer pitchers are about 4 bucks, and the wait staff are blunt and a bit crabby if you don't immediately know what you want (don't ever try and order wine or beer in a 'pint' glass), and there are strange and nasty nautical items scattered from ceiling to floor and along every wall. Most stools at the bar have rips in them, and it's so dim inside you always assume the sun must've gone down, even at noon.



The Anchor is a place where for a better part of my last few years in Duluth, I spent every Thursday night with longtime best friends Jeanine, TJ and Morgan, monopolizing the jukebox and getting rowdy with the patrons. I have so many fond memories of bitter cold winter nights, sitting by the tiny fireplace at a big, notched wooden table listening to old U2 songs and basking in the beauty and simplicity of The Anchor. A bellyful of burger and an old school frosted beer mug filled with Michelob Golden Light; it doesn't get any better than that.



This was often followed by a very late start to work on Fridays, Jeanine and I worked together at the time and would often claim we had "bad fish." For some reason, they always bought it.

We visit the area 2-3 times a year, and every time, Friday nights are reserved for The Anchor. It's usually packed to the brim with it's minimal seating capacity, so Jeanine and I have gotten incredibly good at "hawking" for a table (otherwise known as hovering between bar and a group of people who are towards the end of their Anchor adventure).



I think Slim Goodbuzz said it best when he stated,

"The Anchor Bar is the love of my life. The beer selection is extensive, the food is excellent and both are cheaper than hell. And though all appearances indicate that it is a bar for thugs, there are no thugs there; the tough women behind the bar ran them out years ago. Fortunately, they grudgingly tolerate the hooligans and drunks, such as myself, who remain. Decorated in early pigsty, the place is dark and greasy-smelling, and is populated by the kind of people who just want to drink beer and act like real humans."

Our own summer

"In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus

Due to a myriad of what could be considered

"negative events" happening in and around my life lately, I don't think I've been my happy, snarky, giggly self: at least not as much as usual.

My father's latest hospitalization due to severe mental illness really knocked me to the ground. I don't know why this time it affected me so much more than the others, but it truly did. After 2 serious suicide attempts in a 2-year period, he's been in and out of hospitals, been on a colorful array of drugs, received electroshock therapy, worked with fantastic social workers and group homes, but has continued to convinced himself he's not worth saving. He cannot function anymore on his own, and is a ghost of the man I once knew; a man I considered not just a father, but my best friend. Five years ago we shared laughs and beers and inappropriate jokes and family memories. Now he barely speaks, and when he does, it's a meshing of self-hate and despair. It's a hard pill to swallow.


Usually when these "sour times" and speedbumps happen in our lives, we use different tactics for dealing with them: some bury them and become assholes to the outside world, others wear their hearts on their sleeve and announce their woes to whoever will listen.
And then there are those who allow themselves to experience the struggle, share a little, and deal with and control the issues, riding it out while trying to maintain some sanity.

I am trying my darnedest to be the last option. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. It probably doesn't help that I have surrounded myself with an array of dark and depressing artistic influences, especially within music and books. I don't want to be a Debbie Downer, not in the least; but lately listening to poptastic explosions like Kylie Minogue and reading "hilarious" short stories just feels...fake and gross.

I think I've reached my limit of the dreary after my latest read, Albert Camus' The Stranger. Camus, being the existentialist that he is, created a simple and complicated book about a "morally corrupt" young man named Meursault who drifts through life feeling and caring for nothing, eventually commits a murder, and is ultimately executed due to his obvious moral emptiness and lack of attachment to anything, including his own existence.


Meursault has no drive, no compassion, no emotion. Not until the final moments of his life does he finally realize what gives him peace. He is godless, he is morally bankrupt; but somewhere in his heart he recognizes that something is in there, that made him love things like mornings on the ocean, his lover's laugh, the sky fading into a deep twilight, cooling everything down and clearing his mind, bringing him peace. For this life, however, it's too late for this realization.

I mentioned to my dad this morning that I'm reading this book, as he was a fellow English major and is familiar with Camus. I told him that I don't want it to be too late for him. There are so many parts of life that he enjoys, but he's forgotten how to see them. I'm so glad I read this book.

I cannot imagine how meaningless life would seem without all the little things that make it worth living, which is I think what truly makes it difficult for me. Simple things, like driving down the road on a sunny day with your windows down, or waking up in the morning to the smell of rain. I don't think he remembers any of those things anymore, or how to recognize them when they're right in front of him.

We all try and help him remember. But after all the drugs and therapy and people helping him, he has to want to do it.

And through all this, I have to remember all of those amazing, important parts of life as well. How my dogs are total dorks and make me laugh uncontrollably, or how I feel after a live show that's touched me on levels I didn't even know existed. Most importantly, the family and friends in my life who have watched this whole thing unfold with my dad, and have been such an amazing support to me, always reminding me how important it is to stay happy and take care of myself. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.

So, as much as I love sad stuff sometimes, I think it's time to put the Bon Iver and Morrissey away for a while, and read the latest David Sedaris. It's what humor is intended for: regaining sanity.

Writing "Great American Novels."

"Hard writing makes easy reading." - Wallace Stegner

It's a fairly common opinion that writers should read great books, as it provides inspiration and fuel for our own creations. I also believe this theory to be true, as I always experience the black hole of writer's block when I'm not currently reading. So about 4 years ago, I set a goal to read 50 pieces of literature in a year. I like to switch up what I'm reading, so I don't fall into a slump: from memoirs to novels to short stories and poetry.

I never come anywhere near 50 books. Two years ago, I reached 21, which is the closest I've ever come to my goal.

This year, I opted not to set such an unreachable number, and decided to try to tackle 25 instead of 50. It's July 1, and I've read 7 books. I have a ways to go.

Currently, I'm knee-deep in a character study about 2 couples from the field of English academia who are the closest of friends and have a warm, loving, complicated relationship, right in the heart of the Depression-era. "Crossing to Safety" is a book that looked slightly dull to me after reading the outside jacket, but once I discovered the supreme talent and writing skills Mr. Stegner possesses, I changed my tune. It's chocked-full of English nerdery, and I see why it was recommended to me by someone at work who has a PhD in literature.

I couldn't have picked a better time to read this novel. The story is narrated by Larry, a writer and professor who loses his job at the University of Wisconsin due to lack of tenure and has to actually consider making a living from his writing.

How does one actually do this? To me that answer at times seems unreachable. It's so far from where I am, that I don't know that I'll ever get to that point where my office is a nomadic laptop or a notepad, not a desk that I need to sit at from 9-5.

Don't get me wrong: I love my job. I do. I work in the biggest hospital in downtown Minneapolis, for a data-based research company where employees are respectful of one another, where the doctors have invisible egos, and where everyone wants to learn. My retirement package is so amazing that it will have to take something truly grand for me to leave this place.

But true literary success would most likely send me out.

Deep in the pages of this book, Mr. Stegner gives lots of helpful advice on being the best writer you can be, as well as how unsuccessful a lot of writers are, and how it's important that you write for the "right reasons," which differs from person to person. A vast majority of us who consider ourselves writers would ideally love to be financially successful. We need only to work hard and often, find the niche that best suits us, and pray that eventually, someone will appreciate what we've poured our heart and soul into, and give us a book deal.

In the midst of a dinner scene, Larry is discussing books with a publisher and demeans something that had been recently published by them as "meaningless fluff."

In our time, I wonder what "fluff" would refer to. Danielle Steel? Dean Koontz? Maybe, but that could just be a matter of opinion; Danielle in Dean could actually and truly believe in their writing and be proud of it, and would probably tell people it's not just for the money. If so, good for them.

So "Crossing to Safety" is giving me a little flashlight into the literary hopes and dreams I've had stowed away in my brain ever since I was a little girl. I need to remember why I spent hours of my childhood at my desk, happily writing away and getting lost in writing stories I believed in. I need to write what matters to me, what I'm passionate about, and what makes me happy. However, it's also important to consider the business aspect, and make sure I end up where I'd like to be, whether that be an obscure indie author or another successful paperback on Oprah's Book Club list.

I think finding that balance is going to be slightly tricky. I may not know until I get there.

Persepolis: Iran for the masses

A little less than 6 months ago, a friend from my fun female book group (aptly named Girl-On-Girl Action) selected 'The Complete Persepolis' by Marjane Satrapi.

I'd been looking forward to reading it for quite some time, and was so glad once I did. It not only re-quenched my thirst for smart, pertinent graphic novels, but opened my eyes to a multitude of truths within Iranian history that I had absolutely no idea about. I was completely unaware that until 1982, Iranian women wore modern clothing and didn't have severe restrictions regarding how much skin they could show. They had worn tank tops, jeans, even mini skirts. I then realized just how much my little Americanized Western-thinking brain had been making assumptions about things I really didn't know about.

As a whole, I loved the book. It was witty and violent and peppered with humor so that even in the darkest of times Marjane kept her sanity. It's the story of a snarky little girl who grows up in revolutionary Iran, and forms her political opinions early on as a child, thanks to her parents, who are smart and teach her early the history of their country and why Iran is in such a messy state. While her family stayed in Iran and endured the ugliest of times, they selflessly sent her off to school in Vienna to experience all that Western Europe had to offer. Marjane endured various hardships and her blunt, honest personality is expressed so vibrantly throughout the text.

It's such an important and accessible piece of modern literature. Even parts that I had qualms with (Marjane's lack of attachment to her country and family for a few years while in Austria), I would simply remind myself that it's HER personal story of survival, and it's how she chose to deal with things. I can't say how I would handle things in a similar situation.

I watched the movie last night. Although decently done, it left something to be desired, as with any book-to-film adaptation. It felt a little rushed to me, and I'm so glad I had the chance to read it first before watching it.

The most important message I got from 'Persepolis' is this: BE proactive, BE political, have an opinion and care about the direction your country is moving in, and be aware of what is going on, as much as you can be through the muted media that the masses are fed. Iran unraveled so quickly, and went from a place of freedom to a country run by government that makes a regime based off fear and an everlasting war, where citizens are viewed as terrorists and traitors for questioning their government.

It's not that difficult to see how things could go that far, and that is truly a frightening thought.

A little bit tired, but Brand New.

According to astrology, Pluto represents a vast spectrum of changes, usually marking the beginnings and endings of significant periods in one's existence.

Death, rebirth, evolution, sex, regenerating and degeneration. Decomposing. Exploding. The phoenix rising from the ash.

These things leave permanent marks on our personas, be that from people coming in and out of our lives, or from moving from one career to the next, or letting go of old bullshit and stripping ourselves down to something naked and vulnerable. It feels more honest, and we're frightened, but temporarily less intimidated and a bit more ballsy. It's Nietzsche's school of "what does not kill us makes us stronger."

With my father's latest hospitalization thanks to Borderline Personality Disorder, I felt things surface within me. Emotions are brimming over, and for once I'm letting them. I'm not going to suffocate and try to bandage it up before the healing process has even had time to start. My eyes are wide open and I'm ready for it all, at least for now.

I'm ready for the death of old approaches and bad habits, and I'm taking everything in. A rebirth is long overdue.

Sometimes we need horrible things to happen in order to wake up.




Bjork - Pluto (live from MTV sessions)

I thought about working on that thing that needs to be done but then I forgot to think about it again.

“Procrastination is the thief of time.”
-Edward Young


One of my biggest pet peeves about myself is my sporadic inability to finish things. It's one of those little "self projects" that I'm always working on and striving to better myself with.

When I was 12, I wrote and finished my first little attempt at a novella. It was 27 pages hand-written, entitled "Trouble on Isleton." The story followed 6 of us who lived in our neighborhood and little mini-dramas that happened throughout the span of a summer. This included such life-altering events as sneaking outside to play flashlight tag and getting caught by our parents, as well as watching a friend's mother get drunk at a sleepover and arm wrestle us. I somehow managed to actually finish this little story and have my dad copy it at work so I could hand it out to friends. My first-ever venture into publishing, which caused quite scandal in our neighborhood.

Fast forward to nearly 16 years later, and I'm unable to finish reading something as simple as a magazine article due to various distractions like the internet and shitty TV. I'm even finding it difficult to write music reviews without stopping to do a million unimportant things like check my email for the 78th time today or look at the clock and say, "Oh shit! The Real World is starting in 5 minutes, better hurry up so I can watch brain-dead 20 year olds spread diseases in a hot tub." It now takes major effort for me to accomplish what I want to anymore. Guilty pleasures are all well and good, but from here on out I'm picking writing and reading over Tila Tequila.

And, you know, hopefully keeping my own blog will help.