A Summer Reading List

Sorry I haven’t posted in so long. Believe it or not, this has been in the works for awhile. I’ve spent a good part of the last few days organizing all of my books (about two ceiling-high bookshelves full, plus some) and deciding which combination of old favorites and new prospects were worthy of a place in my bedroom bookshelf. After all that, I feel qualified to make a couple of suggestions. If anyone interested comments, I promise I’ll post more. I know this is coming late in the season, but if you’re not ridiculously bogged down with finishing (or just starting) an assigned reading list, check some of these out!

1. I’m sorry, but our blog is named for it, so it’s the only place to begin – Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. It’s jumbled and wacky from the beginning and the harsh ridiculousness of the surrealism Heller plunges you into, not to mention the 50+ characters he introduces can make the book difficult to digest. But once your mind clicks into Heller's world- the bureaucratic nightmare he creates, the truth of the entire book becomes laughably obvious. It’s the best anti-war and anti government satire I’ve ever read.

2. A Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde is next. The picture in question is a clever, though admittedly obvious conceit for appearances vs. reality. Sir Henry really makes the book when he spouts off hedonistic philosophies that he has no intention of ever living by. Just about every character is madly in love with Dorian, which can get a little old, but still the book flows surprisingly well for Victorian literature.

Okay, time for a little non-fiction. I’m trying to keep it short, so just one more.

3. No God but God: The Origins, Evolutions, and Future of Islam by Reza Aslan – this book reads like fiction, which to me is one of its best qualities. As the title implies, it discusses the history of Islam, but it tells the story like a fairly tale which made the book impossible for me to put down. Aslan is surprisingly unbiased and the book is very approachable, even for a non-Muslim. I especially recommend it if you find anything about current middle-eastern policy and politics involving Islamic countries confusing.

A Nioclesian Nightmare

Apparently Kat and I were on quite a sci-fi/ fantasy kick when we were younger. What we have here are three short excerpts from what we thought would become an epic novel. We had originally planned this as the story of a group of friends who lived in a world that was very loosely based on The Lord of the Rings. There were four “races”: the Nicolese, an elf-like race who were artistic and had very pretty hair, the Buffante, a vampire-esque race who were endowed with psychic powers in all of their gothic glory, the Chippini, a race of pixie people who were the pranksters of the world (think thin Hobbits on crack), and the Rutos, the dwarves of the realm who were grossly undeveloped.

Here is an actual chart of the four races that Kat and I made. (Yes, we made a chart.)

Elf-like Race Nioclese

Beautiful

Artistic

Long Lives

Aristocratic

Tigger/Pixie Race, Chipini

Fun loving

Bouncy

Jump very high and long

Pranksters

Giggly

Move lightning fast

Glow in the dark

Eyes of weird colors

Vampire-like Race Bufante

Smart

Morbid

Each has their own “dark gift”

Same level as elves

See in the dark really well

Suck energy/feelings

Dwarf Rutos

Strong

Loyal

Sorta Dumb

Sorta Ugly

Love Food

With that explanation out of the way, on to the mocking (Kat’s comments are in italics, mine are in bold).

“You’ll never catch me, Edric!” Andre called out from a tree.
“Of course I will, I just need to follow your voice” Edric told his friend. That sounds oddly like echolocation…were the Nioclese part bat?
“Curses, foiled again!” Andre laughed, quoting a human comic book he had glimpsed
once. Curses, foiled again? What the hell was wrong with me? . I don’t think comic books are even that lame. I don’t know…there’s nothing quite like stealing ancient clichés from cartoon villains to make sure a story starts out right.
“Maybe next time you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“You know perfectly well I can’t keep my mouth shut.” Andre joked
“And that’s why you always lose.” Edric countered, gently pushing his friend with a
smile.
“Heeeeey, shut up!”
“I believe it’s you who need to shut up.” Actually, you should both shut up. The dialogue here is awful. Who talks like this? The boys playfully tussled on a broad tree branch before tumbling out of the tree and landing with a soft thump on a large clump of moss covering part of the forest floor.
“Will you guys ever stop?” Calista mocked, crawling out from her hiding place beneath a decaying old tree stump. “You do realize this means I win.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that” Edric laughed as he leapt at her.
“Children, it’s time to go!” Andre’s mother called. The breathless trio raced up to the car where the matriarch of the house of Mosne waited. “Honestly, this forest is one of the cleanest places I know yet you always seem to get dirty.” Yup, there’s no dirt in these forests apparently. No, there’s dirt; it’s just a very clean dirt. She scolded, wiping a smudge off of Edric’s face, most likely made by Calista’s foot, but in a tussle, you never know. You never do.
Calista, Andre and Edric continued to pick at each other for the full car ride, until they
reached the Nioclesian meeting house, a multi-purpose hall built for the use of their
neighborhood in Coran Arbor. Is that close to Ann Arbor? The Nioclese met at least one a month, but individual families met much more often to chat and enjoy themselves while watching their children play.
Today was the day for a formal meeting, however, and Mrs. Mosne met several other kithen groups, among them Among them…what? What was among them? I’m dying to know how we planned to finish this sentence. I mean seriously, who just starts a sentence and then
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The three grabbed their bags and pulled them out of the car, staring up at the tall, brick
mansion manor that was to be their home for the next 10 months. “Just look at this campus, you guys!” Edric exclaimed, gently caressing a purple flower petal with his finger tip. They looked away from the building and saw the most beautiful mélange of plant life any of them could have ever imagined Ok, we probably used Microsoft Word’s thesaurus for that one. Were we thinking menagerie, but for plants? Anyway, this word is incredibly awkward. Gigantic tropical flowers grew next to evergreen trees, bleeding hearts grew happily intertwined with vines of ivy and ripening apples gestured to the plum trees when the wind blew. How the hell could that happen? Where exactly was this place, and what kind of climate was it? Or was it “magical climate control”? “Magical climate control”: the answer to global climate change! The three friends stood silently, awestruck by the breathtaking surroundings, when Andre, with the keenest ears heard a dulcet voice call to them, “I see you have found the garden.”
He whipped around and his curious blue eyes met a soft gray pair. “You three must be
new students.” Edric and Calista now heard and turned to see who was there. A tall Nioclese with light auburn hair and a whimsical stance smiled at them. “My name is Keni Junip, Mr. Junip will do. No it won’t. Did we seriously make a pun on juniper? And what kind of name is Keni? I believe I will have the pleasure of being your Nature Apperception teacher. He doesn’t know? Either he teaches the class or he doesn’t, especially if he knows they are students. Shouldn’t he know what he teaches? Apperception? Maybe we meant Perception? Or Appreciation? Beginning tomorrow I will teach you of each of these plants and many more beyond, both their *good qualities* and their ills, that you may gain a better appreciation for the beauty of the power and balance of the natural world,” he told them, pointing down a path which led in deeper, onto the grounds. “But I see you already have great respect for the earth and it’s wonders. I must leave you now, I look forward to our meeting again tomorrow. Feel free to further explore this extraordinary portion of our campus, but do not linger for too long, there is much else to see,” and with that he left them by another path. “He left them by another path” oh, how poetic. Isn’t it, just? Couldn’t we have said, “he walked away”? God, no. Right, of course not… that’s far too easy, and plebian.
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Calista gave Andre her “look” and walked into her room, carrying her duffel bag. Why? Was she mad at him? We have no clue. Hey, now, she might not have been mad at him…we don’t know what “her ‘look’”is. For all we know, she might be trying to seduce him. She saw a girl, with long black hair and pale skin, and wearing all black sitting on her bed. “Hello.” the girl said.
“I’m Lunette. What’s your name?”
“Calista.”
“I’m a Bufante (Buffer{i}?)What the fuck does that mean? What are you?” Lunette asked. What are you? How rude is that?! Kind of an odd question when meeting someone…
“I’m a Nioclese.”
“Are you sure?” No, she isn’t…she was only raised as one. But you’re a complete stranger, so you must know.
“Uh.. yeah. Why do ask?”
“What about your father, I don’t think he’s a Nioclese.” Blunt much?
“Well, I don’t actually know him.” Why not just go on Maury? He’ll help you find your father…
“I thought so!”
“What are you, some kind of mind reader?” This cliché makes baby puppies cry. As opposed to those adult puppies? Very, very young puppies…their eyes aren’t open, but they’re crying.
“Not a mind reader, no. That is impossible, as, people can think a hundred things at the
same time. I can read the subconscious though.” Yes, that makes perfect sense! The “mind” is too difficult to read, but the subconscious, where people have thoughts that even they don’t know; well that’s an open book. Freud must be so jealous of this girl’s reading abilities.
“Oh, um... okay.” I like how many “ums” she’s had. Are you saying you wouldn’t have any if your new roommate claimed to know your father?
“The fact is, that your father is a Bufante. And not just any Bufante.”
“What?”
“Your father is Bon Arment Jovien. He is the Bon, the king of the Ancient Ones. And
technically you are his eldest child and heir.” It gets blunter, and far less plausible…I’m so proud. Fun fact: we got the name for the “king of the Ancient Ones” from John Bon Jovi…surprised?
“Right. Are you feeling ok?”
“I’m feeling just fine, but if you don’t wish to accept the truth now, wait until you meet
other Bufante. Is the plural of Bufante, Bufante? One Bufante, one hundred Bufante. They’re like moose. No they aren’t…the plural of moose is meese. Like mouse and mice, duh. They’ll see it too, even if they haven’t discovered their gift. This isn’t from
reading subconscious. We can all sense each other and our leader.” Just don’t drink the Kool-Aid...
“Whatever.” Calista walked out, to see the rest of the campus. This concludes part one of “the mocking things we wrote” on Snowden’s Secrets. Don’t worry; we’ll come up with a better name for part two…eventually.
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I can't even come up with a title for this...

For an English major, I feel remarkably incoherent most of the time. I have these ideas, and I know how to express them in words, but the words always come out jumbled up and tangled, like a box filled with yarn that some cat got into. That previous (and incredibly cliche) image is exactly what I'm talking about. As soon as my fingers hit the keys and I see my words on this glowing screen, I realize that that isn't what I want to say at all. What I think I mean and what I actually mean I have become two separate entities, and I'm not sure how to make them into one. Sometimes I'm not sure what language I'm expressing myself in, if any, and if I'm expressing myself at all. I'm effectively mute, and I don't know what that means, exactly.
Words used to be one of the easiest things in the whole damn world. As a child, I would take them apart, and string them back together again. Instead of sand or Lego castles, I built my castles out of words. They were a toy, and yet they were more than a toy. They were my security blanket, my favorite stuffed animal, my kiss goodnight, and my lullaby. For as long as I can remember, words were my reality.
Lately, however, I haven't been able to use words as well as I used to. It seems like they haven't had the same effect. They just don't fit anymore. I don't know what's changed, but I can't write and recognize my words as my own anymore. They feel cold and unfamiliar, like someone's changed them right in front of me. Maybe I don't understand my own ideas. Maybe I have less ability than I thought. I don't know, anymore. And I even if I did, I wouldn't know how to write it so that you'd understand.

The Last Post

There was a contest at my University with a $100 dollar prize, a creative writing contest.
I forget the name of it now but the basic idea was something like this. "In some countries, technological interactions, like aim and blogs, are controlled and censored by the government (we all knew this) If you lived in one of those countries, and this was the last blog post you could write before the law was enacted, what would you say?" The deadline already passed for submissions, but the poster got me thinking. I suppose though I'd probably be in trouble for actually speaking my mind, even if the blog law was not technically in force yet. Bit of a problem there still, but I get the idea. If you knew oppression was coming, hell, if you knew death was coming - it may as well be - what would you say? I thought about it and realized I had no clue.

I think the most fun part of blogging is that we all can feel like Shakespeare; we can bang out a few letters on our keyboards and pretend they mean something, imagine we too are great and that we will touch people's hearts and lives. We can write the American way and celebrate our equality: our mediocrity. If everything out there is special, then nothing really is. So, we get a lot of crap out there, honored with 13th place medals and tucked in the mental crevices of the five people who saw more than the title before hitting that "next blog" link in their perpetual Google search to dull the boredom.

As a cynic (but remember, I'm a cynic who took the time to bang this out on her own blog) I have to ask, is it really that big of a loss?

I already hate myself for that last line. Of course it matters! Free speech matters, no matter how idiotic. This country may be a caught in a cycle of mediocrity, but is that so bad? Only a few will ever be dedicated to excellence, most people will never even strive for glory, but is that a problem; is that a reason to mock them or trivialize the silencing of millions of voices? No, screw the cynics. The principles of equality and of free speech are anything but lukewarm. They may lead to glorification of the average and the remotely interesting, but it all deserves to be out there. The courage to give it to the world, to stand up proud on your dust speck and give a full-hearted yawp is reason enough.

The critics and cynics could slam you into the ground or torture you with anticipation and slowly beat you to death with their winding, nonsensical yet unwavering bureaucracies. Even fellow writers, colleagues and bloggers may tell you its all pointless: no one will like it or worse, no one will read it.

But you click away at the keyboard anyway, so good luck and congrats to all the other bloggers out there. I still have no idea what I'd say if this were my last blog post. I'd like to think I'd have a fierce, emboldening battle cry "te arma! te arma!" But that's another story.

Perhaps the soul's melody is a live cat on a George Foreman grill...

Kat is much better at sharing her soul than I am.
I used to write a lot more than I do, work longer on it, and let people read it. But my writing is fragmented, incoherent, and sometimes I prefer it that way. Don't get me wrong, I know how to shape a good essay or a good letter but my real writing is sporadic at best, and when I edit I have to analyze. It all feels fake to me, the extra words are so empty. Each one feels so rigid, so callous. Mostly I'm afraid. I'm scared that if I analyze my thoughts and feelings all the things I remember and love won't mean anything, and that would be the most empty feeling of all. I don't know if I could handle that. This shouldn't matter to me as much as it does, since only about three people read this blog, and the other two know me better than I know myself.

Its strange the things you remember. . .and stranger the memories that inspire you. I first watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Beth and Katie as we lapped up the last of ice cream sandwiches that dripped down our wrists and stuck cakey brown to our fingertips. I still eat ice cream sandwiches every once and awhile and I own two seasons of Buffy now, but I miss the thick sticky air and the effortless friendship of that afternoon. Nothing is the same twice.
I really miss the days when mountain dew was just crappy. Its actually not that bad but the aftertaste always stings the back of my throat so it goes down hard. I imagine liquor is the same way. But now the green label is a bittersweet comfort that makes me want to cry in the bottle as it reminds me of a smile I'll never see again.

The strangest thing is how love can terrify and inspire all in the same moment. Sometimes my feelings are so exuberant they make me doubt everything and want to escape my own mind. But without his silent coaxing and indescribable love I wouldn't even be able to type this out. That may not seem like much courage to some but all of it means the world to me.

- Stef (who wishes she could claim that "cat on a grill" quote, but its borrowed)