autumn books

It took me most of the semester to read Halldor Laxness's Independent People and all its Icelandic digressions on sheep guts and merchant cooperatives; it took me four days to read Dreams and Stones by Magdalena Tulli. But then, they are very different works. Even more different is Mile End, by Lise Tremblay, which I reread while in the thick of Laxness's novel.

How to put them all together? They do share a thread.

Independent People is the grandest in scope, putting rural Iceland and the stubborn shepherd Bjartur in an epic frame, with violent ghosts haunting sheep, World War I a distant event in the periphery, and America a destination to which a young, ambitious son escapes (and, we are told, dies). It is through Bjartur's son and daughter that we see a yearning for cities (the mysterious glories of Reykjavik never revealed)-- a tugging away from the rustic life Bjartur clings to, though conditions for the sheep and shepherds are so grim (we read of constant summer rain, green snot, heaps of snow, ring worms, and tuburculosis) it can hardly be described as pastoral.

The other two works are slender and focus their energies on those urban tugging forces. At first I thought Dreams and Stones was a novel, but it is difficult to call it that. A treatise on cities and imagination? One hundred pages of generalizations, punctuated with wonderful specificity? A long prose poem, perhaps-- a poetic myth. Trees vs. machines. City vs. countercity (our conceptions of cities). Does she say that memory = water? Or that water = oblivion? Or was there a more complex equation? There was an archaeological bend to it: dreams as stones. Stones as building blocks. Buildings, stones, as representations of our elusive dreams. Something concrete to dig our fingernails in.

There is no specific character in Tulli's work. A city emerges. Then groups of people. Workers and builders are of different classes. Our imagined Paris, Belfast, Hong Kong, New York. The A of the Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The mythic quality of the book complements Laxness's epic; the subject matter works well with the next and last book.

Mile End is set in Montreal. The obese narrator buries her anger under her layers of "yellow fat," drinks Southern Comfort in large glasses, and hovers toward psychosis as a mediocre pianist at a ballet school. Paris and New York are mentioned as stand-ins for other forces, influences on the Quebecquois city. So cities here have characters too, but the narrative, the characters are specific again. The language is more simple than Tulli's and Laxness's works and the underlying anger of the book seems to compel a quick read like a gust of hot air, whereas Bill Johnston's translation of Tulli's book requires a careful chewing of sentences. Laxness's book, finally, is sprawling and wonderful, but may send one's imagination careening to other places in multiple digressions (not always a bad thing). Read slowly and enjoy.

My Favorite New Toy 2

The other day I stumbled upon a new fun toy: World Cat. Whereas last year I was obsessed with Duotrope's Digest, my new favorite diversion is seeing how many libraries carry obscure and not-so-obscure publications. It even tells you how far away the libraries are from a chosen zip code. Someone in Brisbane could be reading the Mass Review or Gender in Archaeology right this second. Wow!

Fantastic Women

Last week M. & I went to a Tin House reading at the PPOW gallery in Chelsea. The evening was themed around women and the fantastic, with readings by Lucy Corin, Kelly Link, Shelly Jackson, and Samantha Hunt. The art work in the gallery, by Julie Heffernan, was most stunning, with pale female figures (self-portraits) in enormous fruit-or-flower headdresses and elaborate skirts made of animal carcasses. (I found the dead octopus especially charming.)

Whoever planned the minutia of the event thought of everything: magenta lilies filled the room with an almost-too-sweet-but-just-right scent; mini cupcakes frosted in a range of creamy pastels and dotted with bright pink, blue, and yellow sugar globs filled our mouths with delicious devil's food. Heffernan's work is, naturally, on the cover of Tin House's Fantastic Women issue. More events like this should be had. More.

The Massachusetts Review

It's in my hands and it's lovely. The Fall 2007 issue of The Massachusetts Review arrived in the mail yesterday, with my story "Skitter" on pages 364-369. Sweet!

northbound escape

I'm skipping town for 2.5 weeks, escaping New York's hot damp stinky breath till just before Labor Day. It's exciting because I get to show M. around Montreal (where its in the blessed 70s) and then get down to work for two weeks at the Vermont Studio Center.

In other news, my story "Skitter" is said to be forthcoming this October in the Fall issue of The Massachusetts Review. Naturally, paranoia prevents me from being more sure about that, but when I'll have it my hands I'll be a very happy lady.

F-train Scene

It smells like Port Authority when we get on the train at Jay Street-Borough Hall. We were waiting for 20 minutes after getting off the A to transfer to the F. A carefully-enunciated announcement warned we would have to get back on the A/C and switch trains at the dreaded Hoyt-Schemerhorn Station and an orange-vested MTA worker had been barking the same- "No F-train, no F-train- transfer to the G at Hoyt-Schmerhorn"- waving his arms and indicating we should move to the other side of the platform like a bunch of large-eyed, dumb cattle. No signs had been posted anywhere indicating the change of service (not that that's so unusual) and people huff and scuffle.

Then, like a ghost, the F-train slips into the station, and all who'd waited on the platform roll their eyes and shake their heads. We get on and I sniff the air suspiciously. A woman (seated) with shaggy red hair and dirt streaked all over her face chatters about Chinese takeout to someone I can't see. Had she been in a fire, I wonder? Why was her face covered in soot? M. and I find a seat nearby and I try not to stare. Just another New York night. But I can't help it. She must've had the longest day.

Her eyes are made up. Despite the heat, she is in a black fur-lined coat, black pants, and black boots. The coat is open and she is wearing nothing underneath, revealing pale cleavage and tummy rolls. She is talking to no one (this much is now obvious).

Another woman, perpendicular to us with brown curls piled atop her head and black square-rim glasses, pulls on a thin sweater and apologizes to the man beside her for poking him with her sharp elbow.

"Cold?" he asks with a warm smile.

"Freezing."

He says he is hot. She says she is envious. He touches the top of her arm, laughing lightly, saying he's always too hot. She smiles upon the contact and I wonder whether she hasn't flirted in years and whether she wants to sidle up to his overheatedness.

"Good night," she says, getting off at Bergen Street. The man smiles to himself and gets off at the next stop.

The redhead in the fur coat remains on the train, ordering tuna salad from the banana at her ear. Then she puts the banana down and picks up a teddy bear in her lap (had this been her conversation partner all along?), and gives it tender kisses on the snout.

changes

M, a.k.a. my betrothed, has a new blog called Zoned-In. It's all about hot topics in urban planning (adaptive re-use, congestion pricing, and the like) and makes for good, hearty reading (not that I'm biased).

In other (saddish) news, I've resigned from my post at 55 Words. It was a fabulous year; I'd missed being on the editing side of things since working on Scrivener at McGill and working with Rosemary on this project was a great way to jump back into the publishing fray. Seeing what people could do (and attempted to do) with such a restriction in form was a treat. Alas, I decided it was time for the guest stories to be received by a fresh set of eyes (not mention I've become greedy with my free time as I focus more on the novel). I'm looking forward to seeing how 55 Words evolves. I think every writer, particularly long-winded writers, should try their hand at the 55-word story.

A Splash of Color

Yesterday, at the last moment, we decided to run out and catch the fireworks. We'd procrastinated because of the rain, then made a mad dash for the car, careening through the damp streets of Brooklyn till we hit the inevitable congestion on the BQE. Of course, little amateur shows abounded, afar in Red Hook and the like, which provided entertainment along the way. On the radio, Susan Cheever talked of the electricity that crackled between Margaret Fuller and Nathaniel Hawthorne and Thoreau (coincidence?). We parked in Williamsburg, beneath many a gawking loft party, and shuffled in the drizzle to Kent Avenue, along the water. The big show had already begun, rumbling and growling over the water, red lights reflecting off Manhattan windows, smoke curling in the sky. A little boy cried for ice cream and a larger girl played with a whoopie cushion. There were, as M. puts it, the three H's of the neighborhood: the Hipsters, the Hasids, and the Hispanics, some entranced and many playing, ignoring the smiley face explosions, the green cubes, saving their awe for bigger, sparklier numbers...

Oh, I've added a bit of color to my website, via some photos I've taken over the last couple of years. I plan on changing up the photos every now and again. Let me know what you think.

Misc Updates

I've finally put up two papers from my days at Teachers College, both from a course I took in Interactional Sociolinguistics this past fall.

I'm also in the process of reconsidering the design of my website. I'm actually considering adding some color (gasp!), though something stubborn inside me wants me to stay true to the simple black and white. Any comments and suggestions on that one much appreciated.

Finally, I've got quite a backlog of arty tidbits to report on, hopefully by the end of the week.

La Gloire de mon père, par Marcel Pagnol

This is the story of a precocious French youngster at the turn of the 20th century. He teaches himself how to read and his mother fears his head will explode. Subsuqently, his family goes to the countryside for the summer (bien sur) and the central story builds around his school-teacher-father and boasting-uncle's big hunt in the mountains--and whether our little protagonist can join in on the bloody glory. I'm generally a fan of stories involving precocious children; the humor and charm of this short novel (see especially the section on nose picking), combined with the bucolic setting (the mountains! the herbs! the birds! the goats!), makes this a lovely (albeit mildly sentimental) choice for summer reading.

Summer Treats2

I will be spending some time this August at the Vermont Studio Center. I was thrilled to be accepted and am very much looking forward to having time to write away from daily distractions and among so much creative energy.

Summer Treats

Spring is in full force, in case you haven't noticed. All my windows are open. I can hear children screaming. Salsa blares; the rattles and chirps of birds make their way in too. My apartment smells like fresh laundry and various barbequed meats from yards down below. One of my students gave me a Japanese name. She translated the two syllables of my name, An-ka, into "Fragrance of Apricots." M. has informed me that cellphone radiation has killed 70% of the world's honeybees. Tomorrow I go to the Cherry Blossom Festival.

With that I bring you my ever-ambitious summer reading list! As I'll have a bit of extra time on my hands in July, I hope to actually write about some these books at that time. Also notice I will update the book lists in the sidebar to reflect what I've *actually* read recently (some of those books I finished long ago) and will perhaps finish some of the books that I've been chipping away at a glacial pace (is that a cliche now?).

Onward. The list over which I salivate:

My Name is Red, by Orhan Pamuk
Nana, par Emile Zola
Germinal, par Emile Zola
The Sound and the Fury, by William Falkner
The Decameron, by Boccaccio
Pierre et Jean, par Guy de Maupassant
Summer, by Edith Wharton
Gravity's Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon
Du cote de chez Swann, par Marcel Proust
The Golden Bowl, by Henry James
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love, by Oscar Hijuelos

I went on a shopping spree at Housing Works last month or so, and bought much of the above for $1 or 50 cents. Ah, I love that place.

Results

The results from Readers' Choice #3 are in! Fun!

Dream+

The concert was on a plane, for about 60 people. We were to take off from Central Park.

"Lagavulin?" The waitress nodded. I sat back in a red velvet chair. The pale man with a maroon-lipped grimace started up his accordian. He sang in a shrill falsetto, then a gravelly voice, absurdly low.

The plane took off; we flew over tree tops. Then, below us, the confetti of exploding buildings. The man sang higher, lower, louder over the noise below us. When all the buildings were gone, the man stopped singing and we had lost our voices. All we could do was whisper.

(When I was little, I used to have many bizarre nightmares. These seem to have dropped off as I became an adult--perhaps due to a drop in sensitivity. So I when I dream something like this, I have to take note. Usually I hold onto these scraps and see if the dream logic spins into a story. But since I can't or won't make use of exploding buildings, however gruesome some of the my stories have been, I've decided to post this here.)

Readers' Choice 3

Our third Readers' Choice contest is happening right now over at 55 Words. The stories are fabulous, so go take a look and send in your picks! Then, get inspired and send in your stories.

silly random memory

When I was in third or fourth grade, I started a writers' club and invited a bunch of my friends to join. We had our first meeting at my house and I was all in a kerfuffle about who would come and what kind of story they would bring. The first guest to arrive showed me her story about a beautiful black horse. At first I was impressed. Then it dawned on me that she had simply copied Black Beauty.

"You can't do that!" I scolded. Plagiarism wasn't in my vocabulary yet, but I was indignantly aware of the concept. Later, my mother scolded me. "Let her write what she wants," she said. "What do you care?"

A few more members arrived and I was giddy with power, having appointed myself president.

"Can't we say we're writing but just play?" asked one of the arrivals. I was furious but held my tongue. I gave in to the small troupe and we played with My Little Ponies and Barbie Dolls while I grumbled to myself and lamented the first and last meeting of my writers' club.

Nips & Bites

It's been a busy winter and I am slowly emerging from hibernation. I passed my Master's essay (yay!). While it is probably not worthy of an academic journal, I am proud of it nevertheless and will probably add it and maybe one other paper to the essays section of my website as a .pdf file. Its title is "Argument as a Relative Threat to Face" and it opens with a scene of monkeys nipping at each other as Gregory Bateson wonders: how do they know which is a friendly nip and which is a hostile bite? The monkeys know and usually (usually) so do we. But that depends on culture too.

changes & updates

A long while back, my friend Roohi asked me what the url for this blog was. When I told her, she said she thought it was a pretty clever play on words--"ancals--like annals, like the annals of anca"--and I smiled and nodded and pretended it was entirely intentional. I've decided to make "ancals" the official title. Thanks, Roohi!

Speaking of the unintentional, this month at 55 Words we've unintentionally put together an issue of animal-themed stories. In January we had a cluster of food-related stories, and in December we had some stories about sight and blindness. It's been interesting seeing these stories come together in clumps for no apparent reason.

Carciofes a la Malaise

Carciofes a la Malaise

Photo from my reading at the Cornelia Street Cafe, courtesy of Max Tzinman.

A Hint of Spring, A Touch of Phlegm

Well, it was my birthday today, and the weather was just as I like it: snow on the ground, spring in the air. Too bad I've got the last bits of bronchitis rattling around in me. Ah well.

Sunday night I read "A Meal" and "Lemon Tree Palace" at the Cornelia Street Cafe. As we were competing with Oscar night, and as one of the other readers was home with the plague, it was an intimate gathering, and very pleasant too. Chris Brandt read a series of poems on Thomas Jefferson, and another on Odysseus, and all were excellent. "Stars bouncing on waves" was a phrase from one of the latter that stayed with me.

After the reading, a few of us ate at the restaurant upstairs (delicious) and watched the snow come down on pretty Cornelia Street. A delightful night, with the only disconcerting bits in the fiction performed.