You people were right about that Irish book. Cahill makes history very readable. I don't agree with all of his conclusions, but I'd much rather read this sort of colorful, opinionated account than some dry factual record. I've had several ideas for other I books (not to be confused with iBooks), but the latest one to catch my attention is Indecision. The author is doing a reading at Powell's tomorrow night, which sounds to me like a fairly entertaining way to spend a Monday evening.
It's been quite a weekend. (Shoutout to my contra homies: tomorrow's forecast, 100% chance of ibuprofen.) I guess the most remarkable thing to happen was that my church had its final service today. I've been going there for about eight years, sometimes (I readily admit) more enthusiastically than others, and for me, the strongest emotion accompanying this closure was relief. Central had become a mere shadow of the church I joined in '98. I felt like we had all sat vigil by its hospital bed for ages, praying for some sort of miraculous revival, owing it too much to want to let it go. Now, at last, the plug has been pulled. There is great loss to be dealt with, and grieving to be done; but also, we can finally stop hanging out at the hospital and get on with our lives.
For others, though, the loss was more devastating. There were a lot of tears shed this morning, a lot of voices breaking with sobs. It was hard to see these people I love in so much pain. But to watch them offering praise to God out of the midst of their grief was one of the most beautiful things I've witnessed in a long time.
Indigo Girls - Reunion
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
In Which I Post About H Before It's Too Late.
The three books I've been reading over the past couple weeks are all historical in nature. The one I'm reading now is How the Irish Saved Civilization, and the one I started out with was The Hyphenated Family. The latter was written by Hermann Hagedorn. How's that for H cred, huh?
Hagedorn's book was a memoir, both of his family and of his own life as the son of German immigrants, in the period leading up to WWI. It's long out of print, and so obscure that I believe I am the first person to ever blog about it. I must have picked it up way back when it was discarded by my high school library. The immigrant experience is one of the few areas of U.S. history that I find truly compelling; all my immigrant ancestors died before I was born, and I often wonder what America meant to them, how they reconciled the old life with the new. In this book, the Hagedorn family never really severs their ties to the homeland, and is wealthy enough to visit frequently. It made quite a contrast with the other story about immigrants I read a while back. The title and author escape me, but it was about a poor Scottish family. The adults were so happy to have reached the land of promise that they taught their American-born children very little about their roots, speaking of Scotland only occasionally, in such tones as one would speak of an old love who broke your heart and whom you never quite got over.
The book in the middle was historical fiction: Catherine, Called Birdy. It was what they call "young adult fiction" these days, about the daughter of a minor noble in the middle ages who is quite unhappy about her father's efforts to marry her off. I would describe it as good fiction but poor history; though the author had clearly done quite a bit of research, collecting authentic factual tidbits about medieval medicine, cuisine, and hygiene, she never seemed to have a handle on the medieval worldview. Birdy was a lively and interesting character, but she seemed far more like a twenty-first century American teenager than a product of the Dark Ages.
So that leaves Cahill's book about the Irish, which I've only really just started now, at the end of H fortnight. But fear not: the letter I comes right after the letter H. No beats will be missed.
Hamburgers? Herbal tea? Hugs? Hospitality? Yes. Health? Sometimes. Homestar Runner? Absolutely.
Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek
Hagedorn's book was a memoir, both of his family and of his own life as the son of German immigrants, in the period leading up to WWI. It's long out of print, and so obscure that I believe I am the first person to ever blog about it. I must have picked it up way back when it was discarded by my high school library. The immigrant experience is one of the few areas of U.S. history that I find truly compelling; all my immigrant ancestors died before I was born, and I often wonder what America meant to them, how they reconciled the old life with the new. In this book, the Hagedorn family never really severs their ties to the homeland, and is wealthy enough to visit frequently. It made quite a contrast with the other story about immigrants I read a while back. The title and author escape me, but it was about a poor Scottish family. The adults were so happy to have reached the land of promise that they taught their American-born children very little about their roots, speaking of Scotland only occasionally, in such tones as one would speak of an old love who broke your heart and whom you never quite got over.
The book in the middle was historical fiction: Catherine, Called Birdy. It was what they call "young adult fiction" these days, about the daughter of a minor noble in the middle ages who is quite unhappy about her father's efforts to marry her off. I would describe it as good fiction but poor history; though the author had clearly done quite a bit of research, collecting authentic factual tidbits about medieval medicine, cuisine, and hygiene, she never seemed to have a handle on the medieval worldview. Birdy was a lively and interesting character, but she seemed far more like a twenty-first century American teenager than a product of the Dark Ages.
So that leaves Cahill's book about the Irish, which I've only really just started now, at the end of H fortnight. But fear not: the letter I comes right after the letter H. No beats will be missed.
Hamburgers? Herbal tea? Hugs? Hospitality? Yes. Health? Sometimes. Homestar Runner? Absolutely.
Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek
Saturday, April 08, 2006
In Which My House Smells Much Better, Thanks For Asking.
I may have fallen off the blogwagon for a while there, but at least I remained firmly aboard the ABC-wagon. Maybe it was just too hard to stay on two wagons at the same time. Or maybe I'm fishing for excuses. Be that as it may, F had its share of fun and frustration, family, friends, finishing projects, and fondue.
And G is for game, right? So I finally dipped my toe into the world of MMORPGs, which proved, as I suspected, to be a quicksand of the most vicious sort. Sucked me right down, it did. But when you combine pirate-themed adventure with game art reminiscent of my childhood toys... well, let's just say they've got my number.
But G is also for groups, so I tried a writer's group last week. It turned out to be one of those deals where people share things they've written and critique each other's work. I'd never been to a group like that before, and really didn't know what to expect, so I didn't bring anything to share. It was a diverse bunch, with poets and essayists and one other fiction writer, and several of them read things of varying genre and quality, and then everyone talked about what they thought worked and/or didn't. And I sat there thinking, oh duh, I forgot this is what real writers do and still somehow being terribly surprised and even a little put off by the whole thing. Nearly all my writing thus far has been for specific people, professors or gaming buddies or e-mail recipients, and my measure of success has been how well those particular people liked it. But airing my work before a bunch of people whom I don't really know... man. That's serious.
As strange and uncomfortable as that experience was, it would be good for me to have an incentive to write (or dig out and polish) something worth sharing on a regular basis. So I'll go back. But there's another kind of writing group I like better, the kind where you get together with other writers and drink hot things while writing in silence, and then you all take a break and talk about writing, and sometimes you end up talking about other things besides writing, and sometimes you end up doing more talking than writing. All of which is less counterproductive than it sounds. And all of which I did this afternoon.
One G tune before I go. You have to be careful with this one, because it will stick in your head and you'll find yourself wanting to yowl out the chorus at the most inopportune times.
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy
And G is for game, right? So I finally dipped my toe into the world of MMORPGs, which proved, as I suspected, to be a quicksand of the most vicious sort. Sucked me right down, it did. But when you combine pirate-themed adventure with game art reminiscent of my childhood toys... well, let's just say they've got my number.
But G is also for groups, so I tried a writer's group last week. It turned out to be one of those deals where people share things they've written and critique each other's work. I'd never been to a group like that before, and really didn't know what to expect, so I didn't bring anything to share. It was a diverse bunch, with poets and essayists and one other fiction writer, and several of them read things of varying genre and quality, and then everyone talked about what they thought worked and/or didn't. And I sat there thinking, oh duh, I forgot this is what real writers do and still somehow being terribly surprised and even a little put off by the whole thing. Nearly all my writing thus far has been for specific people, professors or gaming buddies or e-mail recipients, and my measure of success has been how well those particular people liked it. But airing my work before a bunch of people whom I don't really know... man. That's serious.
As strange and uncomfortable as that experience was, it would be good for me to have an incentive to write (or dig out and polish) something worth sharing on a regular basis. So I'll go back. But there's another kind of writing group I like better, the kind where you get together with other writers and drink hot things while writing in silence, and then you all take a break and talk about writing, and sometimes you end up talking about other things besides writing, and sometimes you end up doing more talking than writing. All of which is less counterproductive than it sounds. And all of which I did this afternoon.
* * *
One G tune before I go. You have to be careful with this one, because it will stick in your head and you'll find yourself wanting to yowl out the chorus at the most inopportune times.
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy
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