Friday, May 19, 2017

Back to the Present



There are days when my mind is so divided that I cannot hear what I think. Sometimes, when I react to situations and know my inner thoughts, I see the monster in me. I believe that there are many versions of us with traces of every trait that we see in others. Every individual is ultimately a few versions merged into one.

No matter how hard we try to erase some stuff from our memory bank, they tend to replay in our head like a broken record. The ghosts of these past form part of us and after some time they become blurred and we can no longer recall why they had mattered. We have to decide what and who should matter in our lives. We have to be mindful of our thoughts and try to understand why we are affected by what is going on around us. From time to time we land our own reality so as  to move on with  life.
All Our Wrong Todays written by Elan Mastai is the story of a time traveller. The year is 2016.

First there is Tom Barren who lives in a techno-utopian world that we are supposed to have, that is with ‘ flying cars, robot maids, food pills, teleportation, jet packs, moving sidewalks, ray guns, hover boards, space vacations, and moon bases.’  It is a ‘techno- utopian paradise of abundance , purpose and wonder’.
Imagine a world where every avocado you ever eat is perfect and all the banal functions of daily life are taken care of by technology. The menial and manual jobs are automated and mechanized.

Getting dressed involves an automated device that cuts and stitches a new outfit every morning, indexed to your personal style and body type. This fabric is made from laser-hardened strands of a light-sensitive liquid polymer that’s recycled nightly for daily reuse.

 Tom’s father, Victor Barren is a genius.

After finishing his third PhD, Victor Barren spent a few crucial years working in long-range teleportation before founding his own lab to pursue his specific niche field – time travel.

In the techno world that is built on the limitless energy of the Goettreider Engine , oil is irrelevant and basic resources are plentiful yet not everything is perfect because people still get anxiety and stress and there is still corruption, unrequited love  and failed marriages, childhood could be a playground or a dungeon.  Pharmaceutical use is rampant.

In his voice, Tom writes,
‘I’ve never succeeded at anything, so for me failure is pretty much synonymous with life itself.

In  the techno- utopian world, his mother is dead. When she was alive, she was more like a mother to his father because his father needed  everything that didn’t involve his big brain managed for him. So within a few months of her sudden death, everything became a total disaster.

Tom is unable to find his place in this dazzling and technology advanced world and he makes a rash decision by travelling back in time to drastically change not only his own life but the very fabric of the universe itself. He wakes up into his own dream and find him in the world that is similar to our  real world but for him, our world seems like a dystopian wasteland. He discovers a different version of his family.

Tom  is John, a successful, driven and impressive architect in another reality. His dad, Victor Barren, a tenured professor of physics at the University of Toronto with a specialty in photonics who teaches undergraduate and graduate courses. He has a sister, Greta  and he has his parents’ rapt focus yet he chronically shrugs them off.  He meets Penny and he tells Penny that he is an accidental plagiarist. There is Tom in John.

Okay,” she says, “but what if every creative idea that someone has is unconsciously borrowed from that person’s experiences in another reality? Maybe all ideas are plagiarized without us knowing it, because they come to us through some cryptic and unprovable reality slippage?

Does that mean, like, the version of you that had the idea in the other reality also stole from another version of you in yet another reality ?’ I say.

The conversation between Penny and John continues.

Or maybe we’re giving individual human beings too much credit. Maybe a vast alien intelligence is seeding original concepts into our minds to test if they can pass through whatever boundary separates us from other dimensions. Like, some ideas are porous, while others are impermeable and can’t escape their root reality. Maybe the best ideas are the ones that travel freely and don’t really belong to any one person.

I often find that ideas flash through fast and freely as if someone channels them , some inconsequential while a lot of it are elusive and some of it make sense vaguely. Here is a passage in Tom's voice,

The truth is , there are no alternate realities. At least not the way Penny describes them. Maybe an infinite multiverse is born from every action, whether it’s two atoms colliding or two people. Maybe reality is constantly fluctuating around us, but our senses aren’t equipped to detect those quantum variations. Maybe that’s what our senses are, an ungainly organic sieve through which the chaos of existence is filtered into something manageable enough that you can get out of bed in the morning . Maybe the totality of what we perceive with our senses is as clumsy a portrait of reality as a child’s chalk drawing on a sidewalk compared to the face of the woman you’re already falling in love with lying next to you in a mess of sheets and blankets, her lips still pursed as they pull away from your mouth.

The story is cleverly crafted and told in an engaging voice. I am  a fan of time travelling stories and thus I have enjoyed reading  All Our Wrong Todays,click a smart and witty debut novel by Elan Mastai. click A mind-bending story where the protagonist gets to decide which version of his life he wants to live in. 

The idea that what if there is another me in another timeline is intriguing but for now , I have to get on with my reality whatever that makes sense to me as John narrates, 
But in terms of our actual experience, there’s just one reality , this reality” 




Thursday, May 4, 2017

Bright and Precious Days


A couple of months ago, we had to convert our study into a guest room. Before its conversion, the study was spilled with my books  that I could not  stop buying and in constant need and urgency to devour them. Some of the books have now taken residence in my daughters’ room while some unread journals, exercise books, folders and papers are packed in boxes and tucked away in the storage room. I had been thrown off my daily rituals and for a few weeks, I was not able to do much reading let alone writing. I knew I could easily settle on a new corner for my personal space yet I was on edge for days and weeks! Despite my rational self telling me that I was acting immaturely and that I was not practising  what I believe : One must get out of one’s comfort zone, I was feeling out of sorts when I could not settle into my reading and writing. I knew why I was  resisting the change yet I could not think clearly and hear what I think. Now  that I  have returned to  my  reading and  writing rituals, bright and precious days ahead. 

I have the habit of reading multiple books at one time. In that way whichever book that I can engage in  gets read faster than the others. Whenever I have my free time during the week, I try to make sure that I alternate my reading between books so as to be able to read them all eventually in whatever time it takes. There are times when there is too big an interval between the last time I read a particular book  and the time I resume reading it,  I usually conclude  that  it is just not the right time for me and it   has absolutely nothing to do with the writing as I would not have bothered picking  up the book otherwise. Certain books have to be read more leisurely as they require more attention and concentration . For me  the momentum of reading a particular book only picks up when I get into the rhythm of the voice and theme of that particular book.The past long weekend was idyllic and I managed to  read Bright, Precious Days by Jay McInerney, the last installment of the trilogy by the author. It must have been a decade ago when  I last read  Brightness Falls ( published 1992) and The Good Life ( published 2006). The story about an attractive couple, Russell Calloway and Corrine Calloway continues in Bright, Precious Days. It is the portrait of a couple who live the dream that first drew them to Manhattan and continue to  face  challenges in their union as they enter into  their 50s. McInerney captures ordinary life with wit and apt observation. He has an acute narration describing the glamour and life in New York City and he is deft at capturing personality traits of the characters in his fiction.

Here are the opening lines of the book. 
ONCE, NOT SO VERY LONG AGO, young men and women had come to the city because they loved books, because they wanted to write novels or short stories or even poems, or because they wanted to be associated with the production and distribution of those artifacts and with the people who created them. For those who haunted suburban libraries and provincial bookstores, Manhattan was the shining island of letters. ‘
Russell Calloway is from Michigan. He  is an independent publisher who has excellent credentials as a book editor but minimal cash flow. 

And if the realities of urban life and the publishing business had sometimes bruised his romantic sensibilities, he never relinquished his vision of Manhattan as the mecca of American literature, or of himself as an acolyte, even a priest , of the written word.

Corrine has long quitted her job as a stockbroker and devotes herself to raising the children and help feed the  hungry poor in the city. Soon they find themselves being priced out of their loft in TriBeCa, a neighbourhood that has become newly fashionable and too expensive to remain in. They find their marriage tested more severely than ever with their twelve year old twins, a  son and  a daughter caught in the balance. As they move past each other’s  past indiscretions, the memory of their best friend, Jeff Pierce begins to haunt them. Their life becomes complicated when  Corrine, feeling unappreciated and discontent, faces a moral dilemma with the reappearance of Luke McGavock, a man she met while she volunteered at Ground Zero during the time of 9/11. When Russell’s publishing business has a tumble, his resolve begins to erode.

He’d always been an optimist, able to convince himself that the best was still ahead, that every day held the promise of new adventure, but now he seemed increasingly conscious of his failures and anxious about the future. It was impossible to be optimistic at three-forty-five in the morning, at the age of fifty-one, and there were times when he was absolutely terrified at the prospect of his own extinction. Finally, he took half an Ambien or a Xanax and waited for the panic to subside.’

How was it that after working so hard and by many measures succeeding and even excelling in his chosen field, he couldn’t afford to save this house that meant so much to his family? Their neighbors seemed to manage, thousands of people no smarter than he was – less so, most of them ---- except perhaps in their understanding of the mechanics of acquisition. Partly, he knew, it was his lack of the mercenary instinct. Never caring enough about getting and keeping and compounding, he’d felt himself above such considerations and stayed true to the ideals he’d formed in college, at the expense of his future. If he’d been savvy and resourceful, he could have bought this house years ago, or , more important, a place to live in the city, but as things stood, he owned nothing; he’d missed the biggest real estate boom of his lifetime and even now that the bubble is bursting, his own finances were more precarious than ever. It was increasingly difficult to avoid the conclusion that he was, by the conventional measures of familial and professional achievement, a failure.

Bright, Precious Days is set against the financial crisis of 2008. Although the story of the Calloways is straightforward, the middle-age malaise and restlessness felt by the main characters are well depicted and the ensemble of the interesting side characters make the fiction a pleasurable read. Alas I did want the book to end partly due to the fact that I was eager to  get back to my pile of books despite the author's  prolific prose.



Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Tutoyer ou Vouvoyer?


We establish rituals in our everyday life. 
There were times I  used to pick up a coffee from Starbucks on my way to work just like how I used to pick up a kit kat from the newsagent after my law lectures.At times, these rituals seemed addictive and compulsive. At other times, certain rituals would provide me a structure in my otherwise directionless life.

When my children were in their growing years, my daily life was organized around rituals like school pick up times, groceries shopping, yoga and tennis. I read whenever I had a moment but the kind of books I read were more chick lit or books that I could easily pick up from the page where I last left in between errands, commitments and my work. I binge on written words wherever I am. I used to  read whatever that I could  get hold of while waiting for my children to get out from their tuitions and extra curricular activities . Now that my children are grown up, I have since established new rituals that involve more reading and writing and learning  French intermittently.

While I was in secondary school, I wrote a script for a mime and my classmates acted in it. At sixteen going onto seventeen, I was thinking about meaning of life: Are we supposed to live in pursuit of money, material comfort and success, fame, knowledge or academic success? I have since resolved that  it is entirely up to each of us to decide what to make of it. Once upon a time, I started learning French and the man I was dating then asked ‘ What is the purpose of you doing French?”  I could not answer the question and I quitted doing French . I so obviously lacked self-possession then.

You do not need a reason to do something. If it is something you want to do during your lifetime, you must go ahead and do it. More than two decades later when I was well into my middle age, I resumed learning French as a beginner and ten years later I am still learning the language. I do not like to acknowledge that age does matter when come to acquiring another language. I find it disheartening at times when I seem to take forever to learn the language. There were times when  I had to appear before a registrar in court, I found myself answering “Oui”  instead of “ Ya” in Bahasa, I was appalled. Perhaps it is a good sign that the French language is battling for a place in my brains.


In Flirting with Frenchman How a language Charmed Me, Seduced Me, and Nearly Broke My HeartWilliam Alexander wrote about his journey in mastering the Art of French speaking and in his memoir, apart from sharing his frustrations and aspirations in learning French, he also shares his insights about learning French from linguistics to biology and brain science. The following facts are established in his memoir:

Firstly, age does matter when come to acquiring another language  as biology plays a role. Apparently babies are born with a head start on language. 
Secondly, declining testosterone also affects our rate of speech, word retrieval and fluency.
The author writes that language acquisition is ‘ directly affected by the levels of both dopamine and acetylcholine, neurotransmitters that play critical roles in the brain in everything from cognition to emotion and that , like testosterone, decline with age.’

William Alexander, at fifty–seven , an unrepentant Francophile, was well into ‘what politely referred to as late middle age’ and yet he persevered. His memoir is funny, insightful and informative about linguistics research, Noam Chomsky's grammar theories and the difficulties baby boomers  face in learning a new language, 

Here is how his memoir begins:
Last night I dreamt I was French.
This mainly involved sipping absinthe at the window of a dark, chilly cafĂ© , wrapped in a long scarf that reached the floor, legs crossed, Camus in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette in the other. I don’t remember speaking French in the dream, and just as well, for in real life I once grandly pronounced in a Parisian restaurant, “ I’ll have the ham in newspaper, and my son will have my daughter.”’

William Alexander dropped French after his sophomore year and fell in love with France after spending several months backpacking throughout Europe at age twenty-two. When his love for France took root,  he decided to bury the ghost of Madam D--- , his French teacher in high school and started learning to speak the French language in his late middle age.

William Alexander wants to be French and he has such an inexplicable affinity for all things French that he wonders if he was French in a former life. But he also writes this: The world has changed greatly since France ruled during the Enlightenment, but one thing hasn’t changed : language follows economic power. Thus I may love French, but when I have grandchildren, and they’re ready to study a foreign language, I‘m going to advise them to learn Mandarin Chinese.

William Alexander agonized about the usage of vous and tu in French. When you first meet someone, you generally address each other as vous and you change it to tu when you have chatted and become well acquainted with the person.   In his memoir, he has  even drawn up a chart entitled ‘ A Short Guide to Using Vous and Tu’. There is also a recipe for Julia Child's croissants adapted by him for the 21st century home. When his wife, Anne a physician gets home, she asks if it was a lot of work making  croissants, he replies, "About as easy as learning French." 
She takes a bite. " Oh, God, these are good! Let's do this every Sunday!"

Reading Flirting with French motivates me to continue learning the language and the memoir is transcendental in reminding me that  baby boomers can still acquire a new language . Courage!!click


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

The Past is Read Only


The Rocks, Sydney
Before Samsung and Apple, I purchased a Hewlett Packard handheld PDA thinking that I could use it for my jottings. Sadly, that  has since become a white elephant lying somewhere amongst my possessions. Although I possess an iPhone that has an expansive storage space, I resort  to notepads or scrap papers  for  scribbling my thoughts and ideas. A notebook serves well as a writing pad for  fragments of my ideas, doodlings, bits and pieces of information about everything else and also titles of  books that I need to acquire or look up. There are times when I cannot quite make out my own notes as they are too sketchy and unintelligible and at other times when I revisit what I have written , it feels a little dreamlike.

The Black Notebook written by Patrick Modiano  has been translated into English from French by Mark Polizzotti. The story is  about Jean, a writer who discovers a set of notes that sets him on a journey through Paris in search of a lost past.  He tries to recall Dannie , his former girlfriend from years ago, a mysterious woman with  multiple pseudonyms and she seemed to hang out with gangsters who lived in the Hotel Unic in rue du Montparnasse. Dannie had lived under the name of Mireille Sampierry and she could be involved with a possible homicide. When she disappeared, Jean was summoned by a certain Langlais who was conducting the investigation about the possible homicide. Jean retraces the nocturnal footsteps he made decades earlier. As he remembers it, he always felt on his guard in that neighbourhood, could he possibly have left behind a double? He knows it wasn’t a dream. The proof is that he still has this black notebook that contains names, telephone numbers, appointments and short texts etc .

‘On one page of my black notebook I had written : “Country house, With Dannie.” Nothing more.
  “ Country house with Dannie.” I hadn’t recorded the name of the village. Leafing through the black notebook, I experience two contradictory feelings. If these pages are lacking in precise details, I tell myself it’s because nothing surprised me back then
Youthful unconcern? But I read certain phrases, certain names, certain indications, and it seems to me I was sending out coded signals to the future. Yes, it’s as if I wanted to leave clues, in black and white, that would help me clarify at some later date what I’d been living through at the time without really understanding it. Signals keyed blindly, in total confusion. And I’d have to wait years and years before I could decipher them.'

He and Dannie went to a country house at La Barberie and he had left his manuscript in the sitting room.

‘NOW AND THEN OVER THE YEARS, I HAVE THOUGHT about retrieving that manuscript, the way you recover a souvenir – one of those objects connected with a moment in your life, like a dried flower or four-leaf clover. But I no longer knew where the country house was. And I was overcome by lethargy and a vague apprehension when leafing through my old black notebook; moreover, it took me a long while to discover the name of the village and the phone number, written as they were in such tiny script.
Today , I’m no longer afraid of that notebook. It helps me to “scan my past”, and that expression makes me smile. It was the title of a novel, A Man Scans His Past, that I’d come across in the library of the house – several shelves of books, next to one of the windows in the sitting room. The past? No, it ‘s not about the past, but about episodes in a timeless, idealized life, which I wrest page by page from my drab current existence to give it some light and shadow. This afternoon, we are in the here and now, it’s raining, people and things are plunged in grey, and I’m impatiently waiting for night when everything will stand out more sharply, thanks to those same contrasts of shadow and light.
Arc de Tromphe
            The other night, driving through Paris, I was moved by those lights and shadows, by the different varieties of street lights and lamp posts, which I felt were sending me signals from the avenues or street corners. It was the same feeling you get from staring at a lit window: a feeling of both presence and absence. Behind the glass pane the room is empty, but someone left the light on. For me, there has never been a present or a past. Everything blends together, as in that empty room where , every night, a light shines. I often dream that I’ve found my manuscript, I walk into the sitting room with its black-and-white tiled floor and rummage through the drawers under the bookshelves.
               
                I am learning French and it has taken me forever. I certainly hope to read Patrick Modiano's novels in French one day.  Click

Jean's memory about Paris is akin to my memory about Sydney, a city where I used to spend my growing years in. Sydney is a young and modern city thus it does not have the grandeur and old charm that Paris has to offer but  it is a city that means  a lot  to me.

Harbour Bridge, Sydney
            For a decade or so, whenever I returned to Sydney, nostalgia hit me. As years go by, Sydney has changed its landscape so much so that the connection I have with the city is becoming increasingly distant. Nonetheless I recall possessing the melancholic feeling years ago when I was up in Collins Bookstore at Broadway (near Central Railway Sydney) looking down  at City Road,  the road that I walked plenty of times during my varsity years. During my  trip to Sydney in October 2015 , although nostalgia no longer hit me as much as it used to, like Jean in The Black Notebook, I tried to retrace my steps  around Circular Quay and locate the kiosk where I used to work part-time selling fresh bread and lamington cakes to early commuters. I also walked along Glebe Point Road where I used to catch films at Vahalla Cinema. It was another lifetime and it feels like a dream. But you know it is not a dream. How I used to take youth for granted.  
Sydney Opera House





Friday, March 24, 2017

Stranger than fiction


Books are my primary indulgence followed closely by coffee and chocolate. I believe that reading expands our consciousness and if only more people read, there may be greater empathy and tolerance amongst the people. Although we are entitled to form an opinion  thus inclined to take a stand , we must read with an open mind when we read. Every reader  reads  about stuff that interest him or her . Every reader has his or her own preferences.

find that words persuade, dissuade, describe and transcend all that define us, our beliefs, our insecurities, our hypocrisies, our truths and the ordinary events that shape our lives. Poignant writings touch our hearts, humour tickle and make us see the lighter side of life while thought provoking passages find its way to stir our conscience. Without words, we are mere beings. click

Some people prefer non-fictions to fictions for the former is intended to be informative and educational. I read fictions and non-fictions but I tend to read far more  fictions than non-fictions as I can get through fictions more quickly than  non-fictions that require more time and concentration. I take to fictions more simply because I  binge on books. I need to feast on words and in reading fictions, I gain a better understanding about humanity. What draws me to a particular fiction is its narratives, the voice,  the words chosen and how the sentences are structured
Hilary Mantel’s prose never fails.  Here is  the opening paragraph of Eight Months on Ghazzah Street. It had me hooked right away.
     September 1984
       IN FLIGHT
‘ Would you like champagne?”
        This was the beginning ; an hour or so out from Heathrow. Already it felt further;watches moved on, a day in a life condensed to a scramble at a check-in desk, a walk to a departure gate; a day cut short and eclipsed, hurtling on into advancing night. And now the steward leaned over her, putting this question.
      ‘ I don’t think so.’ They had already eaten; dinner, she supposed. So much smoked salmon is consumed on aircraft that it is a wonder there is any left to eat at ground level. The steward had just now whisked her tray from under her nose.’You could give me some brandy,’ she said.

Eight months on Ghazzah Street written by Hilary Mantel is a story about an English couple who has to relocate to Jeddah when the husband is offered a job after his contract in Botwana has ended. They are doubling his salary and offering free housing, a car allowance, paid utilities, yearly leave ticket, school fees. The only reservation is how the wife will settle in as she is a working woman and she won’t be able to work when they are there. Here is the exchange between Andrew Shore and his wife, Frances.
Well, if you ‘re going to earn all that money, I’m sure I can occupy myself. After all, it’s not for ever, is it?’
‘No, it’s not for ever. We should think of it as a chance for us, to build up more security-’
‘ Will you pass me those salad bowls?’
Andrew was silent. He passed them, one by one. Why, really, should she share his vision of their future? She had come to Africa at her own behest, a single woman, one of the few recruited for her line of work.

Frances Shores is lost within Jeddah’s ever developing streets. The regime is corrupt and harsh, the cynical expatriates are money-grabbing and they tend to have the habit of  laughing  at everything as if it is the safest way of expressing dissent. She hears whispers from the “empty’ apartment above her. You can feel her sense of creeping unease. She has met her neighbours, one Pakistani couple with a small child and a young Saudi couple, also with a baby. Frances feels frustrated as her only source of information is from her husband, Andrew. During her stay, she finds her warily curious Muslim neighbours remain mysterious. Frances ‘is the sort of person who rings dates on calendars, and does not trust to memory; who, when she writes a cheque, does a subtraction and writes a balance on the cheque stub. She knows where all their possessions are, everything that belongs to her and everything that belongs to him; she remembers people’s birthdays, and retains telephone numbers in her head. She likes to make sense of the world by making lists, and writing things down.      She keeps a diary.
          FRANCES SHORE’S DIARY : 14 Muharram
At last the doorway has been unblocked, and I feel that I am going to end this rather peculiar isolation in which I have been living. When I began this diary I described my first morning in the flat as if it were going to be exceptional. When Andrew locked me in , I thought it doesn’t matter, because  I won’t be going out today. As if not going out would be unusual. I didn’t know that on that first day, I was settling into a pattern, a routine, drifting around the flat alone, may be reading for a bit, doing this and that, and daydreaming. I can see now that it will need a great effort not ot let my whole life fall into this pattern.
Andrew thinks that perhaps after all we should have gone to live on a compound, where, he says, it is all bustle and sociability, and the wives run and out of each other’s houses the whole time. I’m not sure if I’d like that. I still think of myself as a working woman. I am not used to coffee mornings. I think of myself in my office at Local Government and Lands. I was run off my feet, or at least I like to think so. Being here is a sort of convalescence. Or some form of sheltered accommodation. You think that after a dose of the English summer, after the hassle of getting out here, you will need a recovery period. You need peace and quiet. Then suddenly, you don’t need it any more. Oh, but you have got it . It is like being under house arrest. Or a banned person.

Eight months on Ghazzah Street is chilling and reads like a thriller  but it ends in suspense. Perhaps that is the way things are as we will never find out what has happened or know what is actually happening. In the present era of media frenzy, we have to decipher the information that is available and decide for ourselves what to believe and what not to.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

En Famille





Imagine a gatecrasher comes to your party uninvited and he ends up 'stealing' your wife. Stealing is clearly not the right word as you cannot steal a person. As it so happens, the uninvited guest steals a moment with the hostess and the demographic of two different families have to be reconfigured.

Commonwealth  written by Ann Patchett is about children growing up in a blended family.

The book opens in 1960s Los Angeles.

Fix Keating does not know who Bert Cousins is when he shows up at his younger daughter’s christening party. Fix is a local cop while Bert is a lawyer in the Los Angeles district attorney’s office. Although they barely know each other, Cousins goes to the christening party to escape from  howling kids and his pregnant wife , Teresa. He arrives with gin at the christening party and ends up kissing Beverly Keating when he is totally drunk on gin and orange juice. They divorce their spouses and move from California to Virginia. Consequently the six kids from their previous marriages end up shuttling from coast to coast every summer. As we follow the Keating and Cousins children, their stories come into focus.  Bert has Cal , Holly, Jeanette and Albie while Fix has Caroline and Franny.
Coffee in a wine glass

In her 20s, Franny Keating has an affair with Leo Posen, a famous writer who ends up writing a best seller based on Franny’s stories about growing up with her siblings.

The story spans five decades and it is like a jigsaw puzzle, the readers get to piece together the story from fragmented memories of the Keating girls and the Cousins children.


But Caroline and Franny were not glad they were home. They were not glad at all. It was in this battered state that the Keating girls returned to Arlington to be reunited with their step siblings.

Holly was certainly friendly. She hopped up and down and actually clapped her hands when the girls came through the door. She said she wanted to put on another dance recital in the living room this summer. But Holly was also wearing Caroline’s red T-shirt with the tiny white ribbon rosette at the neck, which her mother had made Caroline put in the Goodwill bag before she left because it was both faded and too small. Holly was not the Goodwill.'

 Ann Patchett  tells the story in a  succinct style with vivid description for each scene and the story flows in a nonchalant and existentialist manner. 

ALMOST TWO WEEKS  after Franny had so miraculously deduced that Leo Posen’s room number was 821, and had gotten him to that room and gotten herself out of the hotel without anyone’s being the wiser, she got a phone call at the bar. Ten minutes past six and every table was full, every barstool taken .People stacked up behind the people in the chairs , drinks in hand , laughing and talking too loudly while hoping that a seat would open up. One of the other waitresses, the girl named Kelly who had the ex-husband and the child , put her hand on the small of Franny’s back and nearly touched her lipsticked lips to Franny’s ear while whispering to her . Everything these people did was intimate, even the delivery of messages. “ Phone call,” she said, her voice slipping beneath the din.

Though it is an ordinary tale about ordinary people, Ann Patchett  click is good in painting characters and in her subtlety , it shows that nobody is completely bad and the characters evolve as they age.  Through the female characters, she aptly conveys  how a woman’s hopes about life have been slowly dashed in middle-age. She is insightful and humorous in her eloquent narrative.

Often there may be bitter rivalry between siblings, they do share a common past where they each remember things differently. If they could just grow out of the sibling rivalry and let go of  the memories of the past that hurt them  , they might find a deep bond in their shared past.

I first read Ann Patchett's memoir " This is the story of a Happy Marriage". She writes with such ease in capturing small moments in life just like how she tells the story in Commonwealth.
click



Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Book Lovers



Daunt Books
My daughters and I participated in the London Bookshop Crawl on a Saturday in the month of February this year.
When we came to know about the event, we placed our orders electronically  and  had  the  tickets downloaded and printed before our trip to London. I was certainly looking forward to hitting some bookstores while we were in London and the Bookshop Crawl happened to take place on my birthday. Hooray!
That Saturday morning, my girls slept in while I took my time to get ready. I was rather indecisive about which outfit to wear and whether to put on a dress. Whenever I am being fickle minded, I know I should simply settle on whatever I put on next without further ado. Later that evening I felt that I could have paid a bit more attention to some details for those picture moments. The cold weather looked to be warmer ( 4-12 degrees celsius ) and the prospects of a day spending at bookstores made it a brighter day indeed.

We started with London Review Bookshop in Bloomsbury amongst some fifty participating bookshops.When I was at the London Review Bookshop around 11.30 a.m. , I met a young woman who was already onto her third bookshop. If we were taking part in the Amazing Race, we would have been eliminated.

The range of books available at the London Review Bookshop (LRB)was simply amazing. After spending sometime browsing around, both my girls picked up a non-fiction each while I picked up a book of fiction. Being a  bibliophile, I had to remind myself to be prudent. The cakes at  the London Review Bookshop Cafe were irresistible and we had to treat ourselves to some. They were delicious!! Our next stop was  Foyles  where  we acquired  a few more books. For both bookshops, as participants of the Bookshop Crawl, we were accorded some privileges, namely 10% discount  at LRB and 15% off the listed price at Foyles plus a gift bag in the case of the London Review Bookshop. After a late lunch,  we went to Daunt Books in Marylebone where they organise all of their books by country. My girls and I wandered around separately. As I browsed around the wonderful array of books, I heard my girls' exclaiming in unison when they discovered that they had both picked up the same book, Wish Lanterns Young Lives in China by Alec Ash.  I picked up a copy of  The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing and moved on to look under the country, France where I settled on a couple of fictions  by Patrick Modiano and also Toujours Provence by Peter Mayles. An hour  later, we gathered our find and headed  to the check-out counter.When I produced the electronic ticket  for the Bookshop Crawl, we received a free copy of The Trial of Lady Chatterley’s Lover by Sybille Bedford and published by Daunt Books. Splendid. Seeing that we still had an hour or so before our dinner , I suggested grabbing a coffee from Monmouth coffee shop , one of  my favourite things to do in London. Outside the Monmouth cafe, I joined the many customers in need of  a caffeine fix.The queue moved steadily and I managed to pick up a black coffee fifteen minutes later. We then agonized  if we should take a bus that would stop right in front of the restaurant and as we headed towards the bus stop, I told my girls to retract  our steps and head back to Leicester Square  to catch a tube to London Bridge. That was probably the umpteenth time that I was being indecisive on that day.

Happiness is holding a cup of steamy hot black coffee and sipping it as one braves the cold. Even though my boots were killing me after all that walking up and down the roads and in and out of the tube stations, coffee and  books in the bag definitely kept my spirit up. 

Neal's Yard, London
Invisible Ink written by Pippa Kelly click is  amongst my acquisitions from the Bookshop Crawl.  I was drawn to it partly because the protagonist is a lawyer. Though I have my reservations about becoming a lawyer given another life, I have a tendency to read fictions involving a lawyer and also  fictions and  non-fictions written by a lawyer. 

Max Rivers has it all – burgeoning career , a beautiful partner , an exclusive address in London. But life is not perfect as he harbours a long buried secret from his childhood. He has to take care of his elderly mother and feels  overwhelmed by the declining health of  his aging mother and the onset of her  dementia. He  is very much weighed down by the guilt he feels over the disappearance of his younger brother, Peter when they were both children. Maxi’s dad walked out on the family when Peter was still a baby and Maxi was  five years old. 

The story unfolds through two narratives. Maxi as a child is  narrated in the first person’s voice where as for Maxi's adult life, the narration is in third person’s voice .  Here is a flashback as Maxi waits for the ambulance to arrive.
As he sat on the cracked, worn lino his legs grew stiff under her weight and, shifting slightly, careful not to disturb her now that she’d finally drifted off, he leant back against the table leg and shut his eyes. The house seemed to wrap itself around him. The  smells ,the  creaks, the very texture of the air, all seemed to be pulling him back, reclaiming him, and an image, a scene as clear as crystal , came into his mind.   
  The three of them are standing in the kitchen. Mum’s trying to brush Peter’s hair. It’s all mussed up from where he’s been playing in the sandpit. She’s pushing his thick fringe out of his eyes but he’s squirming away.
   “ Stand still !”
   Peter’s arm shoots out and shoves her in the tummy.  Max knows that she’d kill him if he did that . Kill him! But instead all she does is scowl and pull Peter closer. Max watches out of the corner of his eye as he kneels to pack his satchel. The sight of the dog-eared covers of his books soothes him. Nothing – nothing – can get to him today because it’s the last day of term. His very last day at St Joseph’s. In September he’s off to the Grammar on the other side of town. Where the big boys go – the clever ones that is .
           Mum’s yanked Peter back so she can finish fiddling with his hair. “You’re not to go up on the fields love because the grass will set off your coughing and we don’t want that. “ He chews on his bottom lip and doesn’t answer. Max knows that Peter will disobey Mum and like always he’ll get the blame. As if she’s reading his mind, Mum says, “You ‘ll make sure that he doesn’t go up there won’t you  Maxi?” He stands up and flings his satchel over his shoulder. “ Maxi?” She’s let go of Peter and is staring at Max, her eyebrows dipping into a V as she frowns.
     “ Yes ,yes .”
“Because he’s not been well Maxi.
Doesn’t he know it? Peter’s kept him awake with his coughing.
    “ Maxi !” She repeats loudly.
   “ Okay Mum. I get the message.” 

The story is about a missing child and  sibling rivalry. It is about how jealous Maxi had felt as a ten year old  when his mother constantly fussed about his brother, Peter who was five years younger than him. In  trying  to suppress and conceal his past from his partner Eleanor, Max Rivers puts his new role as a parent at risk.

The past is an integral part of us and it cannot be reversed nor forgotten. While we cannot re-write the past,  we need the strength and grace to accept that the past cannot be changed but to  move on.

Pippa Kelly's novel explores the complex emotions about loss, guilt and caring for an aging parent. The prose is well written and as the author cleverly mixes the narratives and in describing  the conflicts that are within Max, the reader is  offered images of how Maxi and his younger brother Peter used to play together on the trapeze and climbing into their hiding places. A commendable debut.



Saturday, February 25, 2017

Age appropriate... What's that ?


Rules should be frowned upon as they tend to prevent us from experimenting or venturing into new terrains. Nonetheless I have set some rules  as reminders for taking on the vintage years ahead. Voila.

Rule 1   Don’t chide yourself for getting old when you forget names or things.
Rule 2    Don’t pigeonhole how you must present yourself.
Rule 3    Remember you can still be bold, spontaneous and unpredictable .
Rule 4    It is Okay to put yourself first.
Rule 5   Allow yourself to make mistakes or erroneous judgments.
Rule 6   Don’t fret when things are not perfect. If things must go wrong, they will.

I like to keep an open mind in every situation but some previous experience might have become so ingrained in my head that I cannot break out of certain thinking and operating mode. I have to resign to the fact that age has something to do with it. I must say age creeps up on you in various forms.

Recently, I travelled to London with my elder daughter who is in her mid- 20s. I realized that I had become such a worrier indeed. When we arrived at the local airport to catch the domestic flight, the queue was surprisingly long.  I became rattled while my travelling companion was steady and calm. All we wanted to do was drop our bags when we had already printed out our boarding passes. At 6a.m., there was nothing we could do but to wait in the only queue there was for the airline that we were travelling with . About five to ten minutes to boarding time, the airline staff asked the passengers who were on our flight to move to certain counters, it was only then things started to move. I was anxious that the flight might be delayed and we would not make it in time for  our connecting flight. At the check-in counter, I asked if  the attendant could make sure that  our luggage would  make it to our connecting flight  as the transit time between the two flights was barely an hour. It had happened to me that the luggage did not follow through when the transit time was longer than what we had this time. The attendant cleverly responded that she would not be able to ensure that the bags would make it to the connecting flight but she could try.  I then saw that she had placed a red ticket with the words ‘hot transfer’ to my suitcase before she sent it off.  I have no idea if she would have done that if I had not voiced my concern.  When I was young, I was such a laid back person so much so that on reflection, I appeared to be sleeping walking through my varsity days. I believe age and the legal practice must have made me what I am now. I do not know how I have become somewhat a person who tries to prevent things going wrong and I have a tendency to  anticipate that things might not go as planned. I have become the pessimist that I have avoided to be.

It is not a big deal with luggage, it is just a bit of inconvenience if our luggage do not arrive in time. Why couldn’t I be more relaxed when I was just about to embark on my vacation?  I generally do not like to micromanage a process as I like to give a free hand to others just as I want to be given a free hand to handle a task. However I find that with or without automation, there is a constant need to get  involved with the process of achieving a certain result if it is a matter of urgency particularly so in the present era when everyone is distracted and reliant on automation.

Helen  Walmsley-Johnson  feels strongly about raising the profile of the middle- aged and she is a freelance writer and the author of the Guardian's style column, ' The Vintage Years'. click Thanks to the wide web world, she  managed to use the social media to  raise her profile as the way she used it ‘ became more personalized and more a way of keeping up with what was relevant' to her future plans. She used it to build a network of like-minded people. According to her ,‘It solves the problem of where you find other people like yourself to ‘talk ‘ to when you live alone.’ For  her,  social media has really come into its own because as her real- life social universe shrank, her virtual one grew and became a vital contact with an outside world she often didn’t feel like facing.

 I stumbled upon Helen Walmsley-Johnson's book when some of my secondary schoolmates were organizing a reunion dinner with a view to celebrate their 60th birthday and the term " vintage years" came to mind. Thanks to technology, I googled and found that the term 'vintage years ' has already been coined to describe the senior years. 

Walmsley-Johnson writes in her memoir entitled ‘ The Invisible Woman Taking on the Vintage Years’ ,
Age, the traitor, crept up on me. For a very long time it seemed as though nothing changed and I might remain in my heyday forever after all, but then , quite suddenly , things began to creak and fall apart, like kitchen appliances before Christmas. Which bits of me had been physically where became more of an abstract memory; as did their size, shape and the existence of clothes that fitted properly. In some ways it was easier for me, as a woman, to acknowledge the onset of natural decay and disintegration because biology conveniently provided a few helpful markers, large arranged around the business of procreation and therefore largely to do with hormones. Men- and I think most women think this –seem to get off quite lightly with a smattering of relatively minor stuff. Hormones play their part here too, but the general perception remains that men improve with  age while women start to crumple up like Dracula on a sunny spring day. For the most part men seem to weather the years in a pleasantly worn and crinkly way, like a comfortable old sweater, but whatever happens to the exterior there is still the younger man, just there, twinkling away behind the eyes.

            Traces of a younger self still reside in every middle-aged person, of course. ......’

I definitely resonate with most of  Walmsley-Johnson’s musings and here is another example .
London
I don’t mind being alone. I enjoy the selfishness of it and the peace, and it’s true that ‘alone’ is not the same as ‘lonely’. All the same, I feel the loss of my sweet, funny little girls, who are now grown-ups themselves, and occasionally I feel it very acutely. What I’m feeling, I suppose, is nostalgia. I miss the more certain time when I was sure of my role in life, whereas now I am a middle-aged single woman adrift in a world that doesn’t know what to do with her. I have to remind myself that this life without ties can be whatever I want it to be . I have to remind myself of what I want and what makes me happy.
Motherhood is only part of who I am but it is a big part and it’s hard to put your heart and soul into nurturing something and then let it go……

Walmsley also writes this :
In all this mountain of quandary and Younger Me-inspired daily torment, there is one other thing that I can’t work out at all, or rather I can but I don’t like to admit to it: why does the sight of the young and carefree provoke a funny feeling around my heart and an urgent need to weep gently into my coffee? I ‘ve been feeling that for a while, I just wasn’t sure what it was –I thought it was hormones or panic. Now I know it’s a mixture of all sorts of things, including happiness, regret, envy and wonderment. The young take their youth so much for granted and , bless them, they don’t know what they’ve got. Then they can’t imagine a time when they won’t have it or when they’ll be grateful they used to have it because others in their heat of life’s race didn’t pass the 100-metre flag. No wonder I’m surprised by photographs of a Younger Me—I’m still here after all, at an age I couldn’t imagine myself being when I was 30. I can uselessly speculate that perhaps I should have been less susceptible  to flattery, less eager to please or less willing to put up with the unacceptable because it was the only thing I knew…but in that not-so –distant past, what a girl looked like was almost more important than anything else so I sued what I had to get me where I wanted to be and that’s why it’s so hard to let go.

Now, at a time when we should be feeling more comfortable and confident in our own skin, what seems to matter most is not how pretty we are but how young we look, prettiness can be added later. Like icing a plain and ordinary cake, we can have every crevice filled , frozen and lifted. We can have our eyelashes extended, our brows tattooed, our lips permanently lipsticked, our hair lengthened, shortened or augmented. ……..’

 Walmsley-Johnson described the woman who had the most remarked upon and admired facelifts of the last decade when she saw her leaving the room.

Or it was until she stood up to leave the room- because there is no surgery ( at the moment) to make you move like the 30-year-old you’re pretending to be. Her posture and movement revealed her as the 66-year-old she was .

It is natural that we are all afraid of losing our looks.
Half of us are worried about what’s coming (or going) while the other half have experienced it already and had their worst fears confirmed, apparently. But who says it has to be a bad thing? The more we worry , the more it becomes a self-fulflling prophecy. The more we worry, the more we erode our confidence and self- esteem; and the more we do this, the more we fade from public view because we accept a biased and arbitrary judgment about our physical currency once we pass 50. And so it continues. But now more than ever, it’s the person inside who’s important and becomes more so as time passes. Whatever magazine, films, advertisers and the media preach at us about doing all we can and more to maintain an increasingly generic ‘beauty’ (doesn’t everyone look more or less the same when they’re enhanced’?) it is always that unique inner person who makes us who we are, even as the outside gets crow’s feet, uneven eye brows and age spots.

As we age, we  have to accept that there will be physical and physiological changes  but I believe that our cores ultimately remain the same and we will continue to  evolve as we  endeavour to improve our cores and adapt to our constant changing self and the environment . I believe when you ask a senior woman if she would actually want to be young again, I am not sure if they want to go through all that pains of becoming grown-ups.

Meanwhile I shall endorse what  Helen Walmsley- Johnson writes in her introduction : 
 The term ‘age appropriate’ What is that ? 
‘Old age is no place for sissies’  --Bette Davis
 Soldier on….

I definitely recommend the book The Invisible Woman  Taking on the Vintage Years’ to anyone who is taking on the vintage years. Kudos to its author and hope she continues to write more .