Bluestalking

Colson Whitehead - Zone One (temporary post for resume)

2013-05-16T15:13:34-05:00

Review

A highly literary, humorous, and richly sensuous novel that reflects on the irony of fate in post-apocalyptic Manhattan

As a child, "Mark Spitz" (the ironic nickname of the otherwise unnamed main character who can't swim) dreamed of living in Manhattan, captivated by the bright lights and soaring buildings of his family's visits to his Uncle Lloyd. Ultimately, he does make it to New York City but not in the way he imagined he would. Instead of a modern luxury apartment, his home is "Fort Wonton" in former Chinatown; rather than a career as a lawyer, his profession involves killing undead stragglers left after a first pass by the military. This is not the stuff of childhood dreams. It's nightmarish. And Spitz's childhood love of monster movies adds yet another layer of irony to his fate as a zombie hunter.

Colson Whitehead's post-apocalyptic, dystopian zombie novel is a complex mix of mischievous irony and grotesque imagery, sprinkled with violence, alternating hope and desperation. It isn't a work easily defined by any one genre. On the surface it's a tale of survival in a world taken over by zombies that eat and infect those who stumble across their paths versus those who battle to take back the world.

Delving more deeply, it becomes apparent Whitehead takes particular pleasure in playing with his readers. This masterful, award-winning writer tells jokes with such a straight face it's disarming. His humor is dry, so understated it takes the reader aback wondering what his intention really is. The answer? He's flexing an extremely well developed writing muscle, pulling off a very difficult, advanced style, producing a multi-layered novel of slyly deceptive depth.

Ludicrous details like a former porn star becoming the head of what's left of Italy, distributing glamour girl shots of herself to raise morale like some post-apocalyptic Rita Hayworth, showcase the author's wry wit. During the initial horror and pandemonium - the government claiming the whole thing was an isolated terror attack - commuters become alarmed, not when police cars surround their train, but when they start losing internet connectivity. No wonder the hopeful term for eventually restarting the world is referred to as a "reboot."

Whitehead is in his element poking fun at modern life, particularly adept at getting in subtle digs without crossing the line into parody or overt sarcasm. But it isn't all social satire. The story is also poignant, and there are occasional moments of tenderness. Each survivor carries a "Last Night" story, a memory of the final moments of blessed ignorance before the world fell apart and the extent of the horror became clear. As they share their stories, so does Whitehead expand the depth of character development; he compares and contrasts the experiences of those from different walks of life, thrown together by universal pandemic.

The result is a cross-section of Americans battling a cross-section of the undead: the half-crazed, uninfected are barricaded in bunkers of their own making, and they shoot at anyone who comes near - friendly or not; the zombie "skels," are actively attacking and spreading the disease; and the horribly sad, doomed, and soulless infected, go through their last motions over and over, unaware they're even dead.

Zone One may not be Whitehead's finest novel, but it's a satisfying, riveting read. The beautifully long, descriptive sentences are richly sensuous, and the languid plot is driven by characters rendered life-like through the author's choice of third-person omniscient narration. Those in love with the written word will most appreciate Whitehead's magic. Lovers of zombie genre novels may find it less appealing. It's a story to be savored slowly, melting on the tongue like fine chocolate. While not a masterpiece, Zone One is a distinct cut above the average and an impressively multi-layered novel that is well deserving of praise.

Despite it all, I still loves me some library

2013-05-15T00:04:37-05:00

It hasn't yet been a week since I lost my job but the hours drag on so slowly it feels like months. I want to smack the clock to get it going again.

The feeling's so wretched, the nerves still raw, getting more so. There's a knot in my stomach; I feel nauseated sometimes. Worse yet, I keep replaying the whole, awful episode in my head: over and over. Every time it cuts just a bit more deeply.

I compared the feeling to grief a couple days ago, only half-jokingly. Turns out it does bear a strong resemblance to that awful, permanent sense of loss. Eight and a half years (a little more than) is a decent stretch of time, long enough to have made memories - good and bad.

Like the snowman a co-worker made last winter, after a nasty blizzard left us all shoveling off our cars at the same time, the parking lot so deep with snow, our windshields covered in at least three inches, ice underneath. Passing scrapers and brushes back and forth. That was one of many times I was thankful my commute was all of ten minutes, on a bad day.

Wedding and baby showers, the gifts and the food and the collective good will.

The mixed bag that always was the staff party - not officially a holiday party, not officially not. The year we won the movie-themed gift basket! The year I received my five year award.

INTERMINABLE STAFF TRAINING SESSIONS!

Shared stories of interesting patrons: the schizophrenic, the rude computer guy, the people who'd call to ask for loooong lists of really obscure titles in a loooong series. Dudes watching porn.

The time someone pooped on the floor in the large print section... Still working that one out.

Being a part of a five-star library, knowing Adult Programming was one of the factors in our election.

The loss of a co-worker to cancer: how quickly it happened and the hollow feeling seeing her desk sitting empty.

When a young man had a seizure and I called 911 for him. Paramedics carried him out on a stretcher. I heard he was fine, thankfully.

Getting to know the regulars who attended most of the programs.

The year I snagged us Elizabeth Berg and Goldie Goldbloom for the ILA meeting, when our director was president, and Michael Cunningham the keynote speaker. I met him, had him all to myself for a quiet conversation. Interviewing him, making it into the ILA Reporter. His graciousness. And hotness.

Hard to believe it's over.

But I won't let it stop me from believing libraries are good and right, defenders and repositories of information. It isn't the same anymore; it's evolving into something different but still it's the library. And I won't leave the profession just yet. They may have to pull me out kicking and screaming. Or, more likely, writing strongly-worded essays.

Day by day by day. It will get better. Eventually.

Unemployment: The scourge and the process of recovery

2013-05-13T10:44:28-05:00

Right, then. No grass growing under my feet. Let's do this thing.

Our position is more fortunate than that of a lot of Americans. My husband is still employed and we have a cushion to fall back on, savings and investments ensuring we won't lose the house or starve. Do I want to deplete that? Of course not and, with a few economies, we won't have to. At least not until next year's college tuition bills start rolling back in, when my daughter starts her second year of school. That's only three months away but I'm determined not to stress over that. Yet.

Speaking of, stress has a huge negative impact on body and soul: it's a big factor in raising the odds of developing disease, can trigger depression, is a big instigator of insomnia (which has its own share of issues) and even causes weight gain. Don't dismiss it; stress is a killer. It affects you biologically and psychologically. Allow for it, whether you're in dire financial straits or not.

I wish all the unemployed could be in less urgent financial need, as we are. Not everyone has been in a position to save; not everyone lives more freely than paycheck to paycheck, as we've done. And it isn't always from laziness or wasting money. I don't hesitate to qualify not in all, because there's a lot of frittering, misuse of money that could go to better use than, say, cigarettes, drugs, alcohol and luxuries no one should consider a right when money is tight. I'm not going to go political; that isn't what I'm about and it takes me off track. Just for the record, not everyone can justify extraneous expenditures. Full Stop.

I'll admit we spend an awful lot of our disposable income on non-necessities, things we can afford but don't honestly need. We have smart phones, satellite TV and cable modem. I'm writing this on a laptop computer. My kids have tablets or laptops, video games and systems, collectible car models. My daughter has more clothes than the rest of us combined. And that's nowhere near the end of the list. We own a house with more room than we need - though, we chose it because it offered the best value for the money we were willing to spend, back when houses cost a lot more. But it's no McMansion. Not even close. It's far edges of the Chicago suburbs big, as in who wants to commute that far spacious.

While it can certainly be argued our wi-fi is not a true luxury in the 21st century, there are alternatives I don't necessarily find unappealing. Though, I question the impact the internet's having on our society, culture and the family unit. Again, off-topic rant.

There are options to paying for your own wireless, options that don't involve stealing from your neighbor. The public library offers free wi-fi, as well as the computers to make use of it (but, I would caution, use hand sanitizer or wash your hands after - I've seen a lot of pretty gross things). A growing number of businesses offer free wireless access: there's Panera Bread, Barnes & Noble and I think Starbuck's, as well. Our health club (which could be argued to be a luxury but I'm inclined to say less so than, say, smart phones) even offers it, as a new perk to draw members.

You get the idea. Disposable income shouldn't be disposed of lightly and it sometimes takes things like job loss to make you stop and take a hard look at exactly how you're spending your money.

Back to the actual job search itself, the resume's in draft number, oh, fifty or so. It's gotten to the point I'm almost happy with it; I just need to polish and put it into a format I like. I tried one of those online resume template sites then found, while it will create a beautiful resume you can format in nearly endless ways, when it comes to printing, emailing or actually using the blasted thing you have to pay real cash money. I'm out of work. How much extra money do I want to spend on something I can do myself, with a bit of creativity?

I've also located the listing of available librarian positions in Northern Illinois, within the humungous RAILS library system (one of, if not the biggest library systems in the country). Let me tell you, that number is not large. In fact, you could say it's rather small. Depressingly so.

But the job listings on the RAILS site don't represent all the openings. I know, because I've done some library-to-library searching of my own, some website hopping. I found TWO positions not listed on the Mother Site. See! It's not so grim!

...

As a librarian, a lover of research and just plain (over) thinking, there are so many opportunities to learn here. It sucks, don't get me wrong, but I know I'm not alone in having lost my job. Neither am I as badly off as many. On the one hand it's tough, on the other, heartening.

There's great potential here, the chance to dig in and understand the human - especially American - condition as it pertains to lifestyle, economics and both the psychology and reality behind what's really necessary in life.

But, because this isn't an element of culture and the arts, not related to books or, technically, professional advances, I'm going to move this thread off Bluestalking to the other blog I own, which has fallen into disuse. I started it to cry about being a 40-something, suburban mother of three teenagers, as a response to all the mommy bloggers who talk about potty training and preschool. NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT! I just feel my segment of the population's being ignored, taken for granted because we aren't the taut-skinned or perky-breasted. We are the greying, the sandwich generation, stuck between the sleek and the geezers. And we're mad as hell!

Not really. It just seemed to flow.

I'll link here when I post about these topics there. That way, if you're interested in how I'm progressing in ways other than reading you can pop over and check. If not, hey, FINE. YOUR CHOICE.

But, for those of you who care, you can follow me at Much of a Muchness.

As for Bluestalking, resuming normal transmission.

God bless us, everyone.

Innocuous post: Doctor Who: Every Single Usage of "Exterminate" in Series

2013-05-11T23:16:57-05:00

Break ranks. Not book related.

I lost my job this week. I am part of the collective dis-en-work-ized. The how and the why and the unfairness. I won't go into it.

Let me just say: I will miss my library. I will miss my co-workers. I will miss my paycheck.

I AM NO LONGER A LIBRARIAN.

Wait. That's not true. They can't take that away from me.

I AM A LIBRARIAN!

I am. I really am. I have a degree.

The True, The Proud, The Librarians

And, so, it begins: the 5 stages of grief.

Day one: Denial.

Really? Me?

YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

Day two: Anger.

...

Day three: Break from Dr. Kübler-Ross.

GORGE ON REALLY FATTENING BURGER AND FRIES.

Emotional range: YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS! Fat tastes good.

Health: Nauseated.

This pretty much brings you up to speed. The guillotine has hardly cooled and I have not yet picked up my things: the box(es) of things which, belonging to me, have been gathered and will be waiting for me to show up and collect.

I am angry, sad and looking ahead, all at the same time. Over the next few days I'll be working on my resume, checking out my options and considering what career path is best suited to both my incredibly diverse talents and the economic environment.

An interesting situation, this. How will I proceed? What steps will I take? It's all so fascinating, I don't know where to begin. I am enthralled.

I've had the rest; it's here that's best.

2013-05-02T09:00:21-05:00

Our newest proud possession: an espresso/cappuccino maker touched by God himself

Ever since my husband and son returned from their spring break trip to Italy, all I've been hearing is ITALYITALYITALYISSOGREATISSOGREATISSOGREAT!

Hence, the appearance of a DeLonghi espresso maker (to replace our old, deceased model, bought after our last trip to Italy 20 years ago). A brick of Italian coffee. Espresso and cappuccino cups... Those tiny, adorable spoons. Dried porcini mushrooms, re-hydrated and tossed in pasta imported from Italy. Salami. A slab of Parmesan cheese - brought over in a suitcase, made in the region my husband's family calls home - bigger than my head. A cheese grater with tiny, tiny holes...

And the Clouds Parted, and the Angels Sang...

At first that was charming. Oh, of course it is! There's so much history in Italy, the pace of life so much slower, the food, the sights! I could look on the two of them - especially my son, who'd never seen Europe before - with understanding, since I've been so many places, seen so many things. I fit more of Europe into a very packed seven years than most will see in a lifetime. Been there! Saw that!

Not to trivialize it at all. It's so, so very different from the States. We're the melting pot, the vast country with a mish-mash of cultures, making up the most unique nation comprised of everyone and everything on earth.

Each country within Europe and the U.K. has its own distinct feel, its identifiable culture and its venerable, ancient history. Our country's history is venerable and ancient as well, though it's an archaeological dig of the indigenous people - the Native Americans - who were stewards of the land before the Europeans arrived. Our cathedrals date from the mere 1700s at the oldest, built in a much more slap-dash style, comparatively speaking.

History here consists of the same as all young nation states: early trading of furs and resources; claiming of territory and wars in the interest of securing power; determined colonists fighting guerrilla battles, picking off British soldiers dressed in scarlet - who may as well have just painted targets on themselves, screaming "SHOOT ME!". Look back at the history of any country; you'll see much the same. Only, ours is more recent, like just yesterday compared to most of the world. We're seeing a modernized version of a new nation, essentially. Did the world's established nations have it all together in just under 240 years?

I think not.

Italy is a different animal altogether: a country with one, fairly unified culture. We'll never be that. Our people will forever be - as far as I can foresee - a mixing bowl filled with ingredients of all colors and flavors. So it's natural we should be so fascinated by cultures as recognizable as Italy's, as homogeneous.

The point is, it's all great. It's all fascinating and different and diverse. And I've been there, and I've seen and loved it, leaving some countries with an aching heart, missing the people I met and the things I saw - the living history - before I'd crossed the border on my way out. But always, always, when my plane touched its wheels down on the tarmac at O'Hare I've had the impulse to climb down and kiss the ground. This place is troubled, it's filled with grief and faults and the growing pains of youth.

But it's home.

Keep on passing me the espresso! The cheese? Yes, please! I'll gladly share in the best of the bounty from other countries. I'm still glad to be here, though, where it's comfortable. Where I know and understand, to at least a partial extent, what it means to be a part of this whole mish-mash of a hulking country.

I'll always love it here best.

LET THERE BE ESPRESSO!

** Subject line quote: Emily Dickinson

The Art of Aging Gracelessly

2013-04-30T16:24:12-05:00

It's all flying by and that's probably for the best. The sooner these "good old days" are done the better. Alas and alack, but I am a tired soul. An old and tired soul...

But I am reading the most wonderful, sweet book now, on my Kindle: The 100-Year Old Man Who Climbed Out a Window and Disappeared by Jonas Jonasson. Read it? If you enjoyed The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce you'll love it. If not, read both and right away.

Right away!

Old people are endearing, aren't they? The sort who are still with it, I mean, slightly crotchety and with at least a spark of their old get up and go. I drove past a dodderingly adorable old gentleman cutting his lawn today, on my way to the gym, where I could sweat on indoor machines rather than risking the perfect weather (in my defense, my porcelain northern-European skin is rather delicate). I thought good for you! Still out and about and doing things! Then, I would never want to live so long...

I really wouldn't. Total buzz kill, isn't it? "Gee, aren't old people adorable! But don't let me ever be one. Dear God no!"

Unfortunately for me, I have longevity on my mother's side of the family, on the maternal line. Both my grandmother and great-grandmother lived into their 90s. Then again, the rest of the bunch turned toes up fairly early on - 60s to 70s - so perhaps there's still hope. But as to reading about this demographic, that's a horse of a very different color. I adore them:

After a long and eventful life, Allan Karlsson ends up in a nursing home, believing it to be his last stop. The only problem is that he's still in good health, and in one day, he turns 100. A big celebration is in the works, but Allan really isn't interested (and he'd like a bit more control over his vodka consumption). So he decides to escape. He climbs out the window in his slippers and embarks on a hilarious and entirely unexpected journey, involving, among other surprises, a suitcase stuffed with cash, some unpleasant criminals, a friendly hot-dog stand operator, and an elephant (not to mention a death by elephant).

What other sector of the population could do this with as much panache, from a story-telling point of view? The plot relies on the difficulty the character will have staying a step ahead, requiring those in pursuit of him - much younger characters, by necessity - to stumble and bumble behind as he dominates this game of cat and mouse. Until he eventually doesn't, which we can pretty safely assume will happen.

Still early days for me, though, as I'm not very far into the book at all. Allan escapes almost immediately after the book begins and I'm following along after him on his Wild Adventures. He's shown lots of cheek already, the monkey, and was more than a little drunk by the time I had to leave off reading last evening. That is, when my husband grumbled at me impatiently about the late hour and human necessity for sleep.

His, that is.

In any event, the screenplay's already been sold, and Disney Studios slated for distribution rights. So, the author hit it big his first time out of the gate.

The punk. The punk who's older than I am, I hasten to add. Instead of stabbing him in the back, whispering quietly about the inherent unfairness of life, I'll come right out and just say it here, "I AM JEALOUS." Of course, I haven't written a book (not for lack of pondering the idea of its potential) but if I did I'm sure he'd just have sucked up the money and fame which rightfully would have been mine. It's just that writers who hit grand slams on their first ever at-bat make me feel sick and wicked, to borrow a phrase from Jane Austen.

Grumble, grumble.

Smallness aside, I have to admit it's a glorious read. Hopefully it won't disappoint by making me feel less determined to expire while my teeth are still my own. I don't want to like Allan Karlsson that well, or to have him teach me anything about life's potential after age 80 or any rot such as that. Let me be charmed, amused and even shed a tear or two but do NOT MAKE ME WANT TO LIVE!

With that uncomfortable moment behind us, I may as well tell you author Jonasson is at work on his next novel already. It's expected to be funny and enlightening (he would resort to that, wouldn't he) and no doubt as painfully good as this one's starting out to be.

Blast him.