Photo Series: Great Salt Lake Marina

Great Salt Lake Marina, a set on Flickr.

Hello Internet,

I'm testing the auto-upload function from Instagram to Flickr to Blogger. Also, Dear Self, welcome to 2012.

xo,
me

## Update ## I just realized that clicking on the photos to enlarge them will bounce you off the blog and onto flickr. That's mildly annoying, but this is still a quick and easy way to blog a bunch of pics. Again, probably been a feature available for 4.5 years now, but whatever. We come to things in our own time. 

ISBN ### Liberal Biliogasm

At first you may assume it's a Stuff White People Like laundry list, but it's actually the debut novel of Tom Rachman, The Imperfectionists. 

To wit:

• American expats living in Europe
• Newspapers, like, the kind actually printed on paper
• Lamenting the decline of said paper news sources
• Character-driven vignettes with an indie sensibility
• NPR fawning all over it
• Malcom Gladwell and the author verbally masterbating each other on a litany of luddite topics in a bonus Reader's Guide

Beyond the liberal bibliogasm that is the content, the construction of the novel is genius. It flashes between present day (more or less) Rome and historical vignettes describing the creation of an American-language daily. About three chapters in you start to notice the weaving of characters and stories, backward and forward, backward and forward. It's done so well and so subtly that I enjoyed it almost like a mystery novel. It was exciting to anticipate and figure out the way the past and present would dovetail. 

The writing is evocative and reads like a painting, if you could read a painting. For instance:

He opens the window, breathes in, presses his knees into the guardrail. The grandeur of Paris - it's tallness and broadness and hardness and softness, it's perfect symmetry, human will imposed on stone, on razored lawns, on the disobedient rosebushes - that Paris resides elsewhere. His own is smaller, containing himself, this window, the floorboards that creak across the hall.

The character development is deep, complex, and exceptional. What really sticks with me, looking back on the book as a whole, is how genius Rachman is conveying human nature. Embarrassing, voyeuristic, intuitive, brilliant - his ability to develop multi-dimensional characters is annoying it's so skilled. 

"You're amazingly self-sustainedd," he says. "I'm just afraid you'll get sick of me. Of my socks in particular." "There is that possibility. As long as nobody sees me cooking you dinner every night, I'm fine." At least this life takes place overseas. She can point out that she's learning another language and that Rome is such an artistic city and that living here is itself an aesthetic education. When she does return to photography, this experience will have had a salutary effect. If she were tending house like this back in D.C. - well, she simply wouldn't. But living overseas changes the rules. As long as no one sees her. She discourages visits from friends and family, and flies home twicd a year to avert them. After all those efforts to instill the importance of financial independence and a career. Or if Annika's art-school friends saw her Nikon sitting there, its case gray with dust, as her cookbook collection mounts - the domesticated horror of it!

The humor is wry and dry, adding to the 'if you get it you get it' vibe of the book:

His ear twitches at the incessant ringing downstairs. It's after midnight. "Can they not leave me alone?" From the answering machine comes the drone of this eldest brother, Vaughn, calling from Atlanta. Presumably to ask if Oliver has an Italian girlfriend yet. The family fears he is gay. They don't like gays. Or Communists. What about art historians? Same difference. He's not, though. Not what? An art historian. 

It reads quickly and is a beach book you don't have to be ashamed of. Go for it. 

ISBN 978-0-358-34367-1

#bookspinepoetry

I could seriously do this all day. If I were magically, inexplicably, independently wealthy, I would travel the world and create poems out of the titles on book spines. I would do it in famous bookstores all over the planet. I would die happy doing this. Also, you know some diy portlandia granola girl on etsy is already raking in millions selling little square print photos of this very idea. Also, also, if that's not true, I call it. It's mine. Trademark. Done. I'd gratefully be that diyportlandia granola girl on etsy raking in millions selling little square print photos of book spine poetry. #nerd

"You can't go home again, this I believe. Then again, reality is broken."

"Refuge, dancing at the edge of the world, sand in my bra. She's come undone. 

A visit from the goon squad, a call to conscience."

"Girl, interrupted. The vagabond, running with scissors. Rabbit, run to the lighthouse, into the wild. Book of dreams, a heartbreaking work of staggering genius."

Waterboarding. Naked Mormon Missionaries.

Huh. Of all the posts I've ever posted...my blogger stats tell me these are some of the most significant. 

I quit. 

The prodigal daughter...oh, forget it.

I've been thinking about this lonely little blog as of late. I've been thinking about it in a listless, half nostalgic sort of way that has yet to motivate me to log back in and write. Then this woman stopped by. She comment on my tragic New Year's Even post. She reminded me, though not directly, that I'm gratuitously taking up space in the blogosphere while contributing very little to that greater good. Nine months. Nine? Really? I'm a busy woman, but that's pretty lame. So here you go... (mom, since I'm pretty sure you're still the only person who reads this stuff verbatim). 

I had a rough spring, medically speaking. It was the first time in nearly seven years that I wasn't boarding a plane headed somewhere different every three weeks. It was also about six months after wrapping up grad school. I told myself that this perfect storm, this gift of time, must be dedicated to sorting out issues I'd been willfully avoiding. Scary issues. Like issues of malfunctioning lady bits. 

I wish a fond farewell to all the men who just clicked off this screen and back to Facebook. Thanks for making it this far. That's cool. Nothing is getting graphic, but whatev. Ladies that are left, I don't need to tell you how disorienting and quietly scary it can be to go through medical issues like this. You can have 1,482 supportive people surrounding you every day, but you remain uniquely aware that you are still, somehow, going through it completely alone. 

Going through what? Well, I'm actually glad I'm writing this nine months later and not in the moment. The time lapse has put it all in perspective and boiled it down to a soundbite. You don't need details, Internet, you don't want them. The short version is that I was dealing with an issue that triggered a legitimate cancer scare. The longest two weeks of my life were spent waiting for the results of three different biopsies to come back. The longest three months of my life were spent pumping handfuls of supplements three times a day in an attempt to bounce back from intense, severe anemia. 

My iron levels are back to normal - for the first time in five in years, as it turns out. My biopsies were benign. My IUD is firmly in place and doing it's job quite well. The aftermath has left me wondering, for the first time in my life, if having biological children of my own matters to me. My doctor and I worked to essentially close up shop, in what I'm told is a reversible way, in order to save my health and allow me to move on with an active, full life. Being a single woman in her early 30s, this possibly-reversible-possibly-not situation is an interesting reality to face. I've never dreamed of a big family. It's not really my thing. But I've also never sat with the reality that it may not even be a possibility regardless. It's a weird position to be in.

So, World, that's my somewhat ironic memory of a season known for her fertility and renewal. Now, summer...