Reading: Fall-ing out of August

In this post I visit Katherine Heiny’s Standard Deviation; Andrew Sean Greer’s Less; Carys Davies The Redemption of Galen Pike; Ross MacDonald’s The Wycherly Woman; and Liz Nugent’s Unraveling Oliver.

Impeach The Motherfucker Already. Me, modeling my pussyhat and ITMFA pin, made for me by my dear Twitter pal, Dierdre.

August is coming to an end, a time when I usually remark about how quickly the year has flown and look forward to my favorite season, Fall. Not in 2017, I’m afraid. It seems since January we’ve suffered through at least a decade, every day bringing a new horror, abomination, defilement of decency, and a lowering of the bar as to what constitutes acceptable behavior, all thanks to the sociopathic buffoon who somehow managed to ride a wave of hate and deceit into the highest position in the land, surround himself with racist, misogynist, homophobic, anti-Semitic, xenophobic, classist, fascist  toadies, bigots, and hypocrites of every stripe, all of them determined to chip away at all that is good and kind and right about this country, to reverse the progress we’ve made toward equality and peace, and move the world backward to a time when only old heterosexual white men claiming to be christian had any power or say.

I wake every day with only a few seconds of joy before I remember what’s been done and being done to this country, to this world, and I am filled with fear and sorrow.

So, I escape into literature. As much as I can. Here then are the last few with which I filled my end of summer days.

Standard Deviation, Katherine Heiny, Hardcover, 336pp, May 2017, Knopf

From the accretion of telling, penetrating details in episode after sharply, wittily drawn episode Katherine Heiny builds a hard to describe but fascinating whole in her debut adult novel, Standard Deviation.

Graham Cavanaugh divorced his first wife, the outwardly staid, stable, and sturdy Elspeth, to wed his second, the unbound, unfiltered, and unafraid Audra, a union which produced Matthew, a son whose results on educational and emotional tests fall outside the standard deviation, resulting in a diagnostic label of Aspberger Syndrome. How these four characters interact with others and navigate the confusing, noisy, complicated modern world is the landscape Katherine Heiny uses to map many varieties of love, leaving, and loss in ways insightful, humorous, touching, poignant, and ultimately eloquently revelatory.

Katherine Heiny manages the sleight-of-prose trick here of using humor — and this is funny, indeed in a sophisticated, sly, dry way — to explore the unknowable distances and secret, private spaces in all relationships, even the most loving, tender, and treasured. Autistic Matthew is hardly the most emotionally reserved and touchy of the people here; all have their own manner of arms-length-ing others, an observation the author elucidates subtly through action. One is taken by surprise as one comes to the end of what started off feeling like yet another light-hearted, near-sarcastic take on the dilemmas of the privileged but has turned into a moving examination of what love is, what it takes, what it does, and how it grows and goes and sometimes, makes for wisdom.

Less, Andrew Sean Greer, Hardcover, 272pp, July 2017, Lee Boudreaux Books, Little Brown and Company

One of the many pleasure of reading is discovering an author whose voice speaks to your soul and realizing, “They have a backlist!” So it is for me with Andrew Sean Greer and his most recent novel, his sixth published work, Less.

There are novels with indelible opening lines, for me, the ideal being Joan Didion’s Play It As It Lays:

What makes Iago evil? some people ask. I never ask.

It has stuck with me since the first time I read it. Of course, it’s followed by another 200-some wide margined, amply spaced pages of exquisite genius during which Joan Didion manages with her precision of language and laser focus what most novels — no matter the page count — never even hint at.

Point being, I remember Play It As It Lays not just because of its opening line — which is brilliant — but because what follows is equal to the opening.

With Andrew Sean Greer’s Less, the order is twisted: when you reach what seems the inevitable, only possible final line, the preceding 250-some pages — which might have seemed twee or gimmicky in less skilled literary hands — feel earned and right and have that heft of, “Oh, I’ll always remember this.”

And what more can one ask of a book but that it gives you something you will always remember?

So, perhaps I ought synopsize rather than babble. Our hero, Arthur, a self-defined failed (or failing) author about to turn 50 receives an invitation to his boyfriend of the past nine years wedding. To someone else. Desperate to avoid the ceremony without saying no and seeming broken, he accepts a motley deluge of invitations to literary events and opportunities which will take him around the world, making it impossible to attend his long-loved one’s nuptials to someone else.

On the trek which takes him through Mexico, Italy, Germany, Morocco, India and Japan, he falls in love (maybe) and suffers humiliations real and imagined and faces his fears about and the realities of being a gay man alone, turning 50, which equals being a corpse in the youth-oriented world of modern gay life and hookups. Listen:

Arthur Less is the first homosexual ever to grow old. That is, at least, how he feels at times like these. Here, in this tub, he should be twenty-five or thirty, a beautiful young man naked in a bathtub. Enjoying the pleasures of life. How dreadful if someone came upon naked Less today: pink to his middle, gray to his scalp, like those old double erasers for pen and ink. He has never seen another gay man age past fifty, none except Robert. He met them all at forty or so but never saw them make it much beyond; they died of AIDS, that generation. Less’s generation often feels like the first to explore the land beyond fifty. How are they meant to do it? Do you stay a boy forever, and dye your hair and diet to stay lean and wear tight shirts and jeans and go out dancing until you drop dead at eighty? Or do you do the opposite — do you forswear all that, and let your hair go gray, and wear elegant sweaters that cover your belly, and smile on past pleasures that will never come up again?

It goes on, even more eloquently, in ways that made this 50-something, aging gay man with no role models, none of the cohorts I knew when young having survived (in life, or in my life) to show me how to age, especially how to age alone; and age alone here, in a location where the gay community is of limited scope, limited imagination, and just as youth obsessed as the WB network. So, there, on page 22 of a novel mostly funny and warm and comforting, I cried in recognition.

There are so many funny, touching, glorious, beautifully structured, recognizable moments in this skillfully, artfully written novel, I could spend pages and pages quoting, but that would waste the time you ought to spend reading this remarkable, moving novel in which the angst of aging, regret, and self-delusion are described full-blown with humor and warmth and compassion. This novel is uplifting without being saccharine and I could not have loved Less more.

The Redemption of Galen Pike, Carys Davies, Paperback, 176pp, April 2017, Biblioasis

I’m fascinated by good short stories and many of the ones in The Redemption of Galen Pike are very good, one or two bordering on great in the manner of Paul Bowles, Flannery O’Connor, or Elizabeth McCracken. While the settings of the stories vary widely, most of the primary characters are located in the same place: lonely people, living in the empty chasms of unknowingness between people, the spaces between. Some are trying to bridge the abyss, others are resigned to their solitude and sorrow. The prose is deceptively simple while managing to contain depths and shadows and layer after layer of meaning and surprise — there are many twists, unexpected gasp-making and/or tear-inducing reveals.

Piece of advice: You’ll want to read them all, right away. Don’t. It takes away from the impact. They should be savored and spread out, because reading them together gives them a sense of sameness they don’t really deserve nor benefit from. And if you MUST read them all at once in the first go-round, then go back and read them again, slowly, one a week or so, when you’ve time to savor the language and the emotional construction.

The Wycherly Woman, Ross MacDonald, Paperback, Bantam, January 1073, Bantam

I was turned on to Ross MacDonald by Eudora Welty. or, rather, by the collection of their correspondence, Meanwhile There Are Letters, which I love and adore. Too, once I knew I had to sample his work, I hied it to the local used bookstore and picked up a few mass market Bantam paperbacks from the late sixties, early seventies for $3.98 each, all of which posted original cover price of $1.25. Discounting the problem that print this small is something I try to avoid now in deference to my weary six-decades-of-heavy-reading eyes, I love the look and feel  of these paperbacks, they hurtle me time-machine-heartwise to my protected, rural youth where the only place to buy books was the Read’s Drugstore in Westminster, which had a wall full of books, every one of which it seemed imperative that I have. I got my allowance on Saturday, and, usually, we went to “the city” that day and I would blow my $2 on a book and a comic book; I was a sucker for true love and heart-throb and romance comics, an addiction which was disapproved of by my mom, who refused to buy the comics for me, so I would take them to the checkout myself, when no one was looking, and all hot and tingly with shame, knowing I was again doing something I wasn’t — as a boy — supposed to be doing,  I would usually get (or imagine I was getting) a sneer of disapproval from the clerk. How early we learn shame.

But I loved those comic books, the intensity and the colors and the style. And, in the same way, I love my Ross MacDonald paperbacks, now browned at the edges, brittle, aged. Except for the writing which is as fresh and vibrant and sharp as ever it was. The clipped noir dialect. The snarked snaps of hard-won wisdom from the rode rough and put away wet, been there, done that, hard knocks, hard-headed, soft-touch, iron willed, bloody knuckled hero, Archer, are brilliant. I mean that — brilliant.

I’d tell you the plot, but, it isn’t the plot you read these for. It’s the style. As is often the case in MacDonald’s Archer series there is a screwed up family, someone missing or dead, lots of wrong turns and detours and misdirection and deception and good intentions gone bloodily, homicidally bad.

Loved it. Not unlike one of my old family reunions, albeit with a few more bullets and knife wounds.


Unraveling Oliver, Liz Nugent, Hardback, 272pp, August 2017, Gallery/Scout Press

Full disclosure: Let me begin by saying that I’ve a personal connection to this book. That’s right. I’m in the acknowledgements. Well, okay, maybe not technically, but, Liz Nugent does say:

Thank you to Duchess Goldblatt and her loyal devotees, ….

You only need read my title page to see I have LOOOOONG identified myself as a devoted catechumen  of Her Grace, Duchess Goldblatt. So, see there? I’M IN THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS OF A GREAT BOOK. Life goal = check.

Now about this book, Liz Nugent’s fiction debut which was named Crime Novel of the Year by the Irish Book Awards — it’s a WOW! Don’t pick it up unless you have a stretch of uninterrupted time in which to read because you won’t want to stop — may not be able to stop.

Bestselling children’s author, charmer, and sociopath Oliver opens the book by saying, “I expected more of a reaction the first time I hit her.” He’s just brutally beaten his wife. His sick reasons for the attack and the truth of him are subtly and surprisingly revealed, strand by horrifying strand, clue by riveting clue, through short chapters in alternating first person voices from the people who have known him throughout his life — or, thought they knew him.

Liz Nugent has a great gift for tessellation, the colorful and grippingly intriguing pieces of the mosaic of Oliver’s life compellingly meted out in fast-moving plot and prose. Wonderful read.


So, there we have it, my last five reads of August and a paragraph or five of my rage let loose. I am truly grateful for the gifts of literature and the work of authors — past and present and future — which serve to help me escape, and to elevate and educate and illuminate. Thank-you writers, thank-you editors, thank-you copy editors, thank-you agents, thank-you publicists, thank-you indie booksellers, and thank you Twitterati, who enrich my world in ways indescribable, incalculable, and unbelievably loving and light-giving and peace-making.

Love to all, even those buffoons and bigots I now think I hate but am working to see the light in, and so, here I am, going.



Reading: Try to remember . . .

Try to remember meaning 1) I finished these books two weeks to two days ago and have already mostly forgotten them, and 2)the following warning, it may well be MY fault, and not the doings of the innocent books. So don’t take my word for it — read other reviews, or, better, give them a try yourself.

Full disclosure: Current events — political and personal — are making reading more difficult than usual for me. Ever since I began reading, it has been a refuge to which I could retreat, the plots and people provided by authors making up the walls of my castle and its moat, keeping the real world at a safe distance; but those fantasy boundaries have been breached by the invading forces of fascist hate-mongers and chronic-un-diagnosed illness.

I’m trying not to blame the books I read for their failure to protect or rescue me. But, I’m only human, and some days lately, barely that. So, caveat: I’m in a mood.

The Sisters Chase, Sarah Healy, Hardcover, 304pp, June 2017, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

I finished reading this two weeks ago and what sticks most in my memory is how poorly it was edited. There were numerous instances of sentences having been written two ways and not edited into one, parts of both versions remaining, not fitting together. Too, there were homonym and usage errors, and many instances of the same word being used in nearby sentences not for effect but, rather, in awkward, lazy structure. The writing and the production of the book felt rushed and while reviews and blurbs had called it a cunning and surprising thriller, I found it to be predictable from the very beginning, populated by singularly unpleasant characters behaving in odious ways. Not for me.

Killers of the Flower Moon; The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI, David Grann, Hardcover, 352pp, April 2017, Doubleday

Perhaps not the best time to read a non-fiction book about crooked, duplicitous white male government officials — elected and non — conspiring to take advantage of and wipe out a minority group, murdering them casually and without fear or reprisal in order to gain more wealth and power. No, it isn’t about the current usurper of the presidency and his complicit gop cohorts, but, rather, an episode from the 1920’s during which the discovery of oil on Osage land resulted in further pillaging of Native American properties and human rights. Its investigation — long and labyrinthine and marked by deceitful and homicidal law enforcement officials — was, in essence, the birth of the modern FBI as founded by J. Edgar Hoover, who was himself a repugnant and amoral human being. As foul as the story is, the writing by the sure-handed David Grann is extremely accomplished, shaped like a well done, fast paced thriller — albeit, at times, a convolution of difficult to follow connections and names and familial relationships.

City of Masks (Somershill Manor Mystery #3), S.D.Sykes, Hardcover, 336pp, Pegasus Books

Palace intrigue; people pretending to be what they’re not; power and money hungry fools stooping to any level to get what they want and then MORE of it; secrets and traitorous spies for foreign, unfriendly governments out to cause destruction and ruin — no, not about the current moskvich poseur and his cronies who illegally occupied the White House, but, rather, 14th century Venice where Oswald de Lacy, Lord Somershill, is temporarily stuck with his mother, hiding from a tragic event in his past, soon caught up in a murder mystery that takes him to the darkest places in the carnival city and his own heart. I thought it a little long but fascinating historically and cleverly constructed. And, eventually — spoiler? — the good people triumph.

The Misfortune of Marion Palm, Emily Culliton, Hardcover, 304pp, August 2017, Knopf Publishing Group

Privileged white people doing horrible things and behaving in despicable, entitled, covetous, avaricious ways. No, not about the gop and its current figurehead, but, rather, about a mother who has embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars from her daughters’ school, her once trust-funded husband who she knows is not as rich as he thinks and barely able to leave the house, their equally gluttonous and oblivious peer group, and their two daughters — teen Ginny and pre-pubescent Jane, both of whom are damaged and troubled, and what happens when Marion leaves everything in her life behind, taking with her just a backpack filled with the cash she’s purloined. Written in third person, albeit close third, the style is distancing — which is probably fine since none of the characters are people one would want to know, but the effect is something like watching one of Robert Altman’s lesser films where all the concatenation of utterings and actions of vaguely disagreeable to downright abhorrent characters adds up to little conclusion other than a feeling of having been forced to attend a social event from which one departs saying, “I don’t like those people and those are hours I’ll never get back.”


Well, there it is. I warned you I was in a mood, and I’ve spared you diatribes about the two books I started and gave 50 pages before snarking, “Not today, Geraldine.” It’s difficult drawing the line, more and more — Hell, IS there even a  line anymore? In any event, here I am, dear ones, going.

We Interrupt This Book Blog…


Those of you interested only in my book blogging, take heart; I’ll soon post about the five or six books I’ve finished since my August 8 entry. I’ve read less this month than I did in July, which I believe has to do with being in a period of spiritual and psychological adjustment — a sort of “turn off and re-boot” like one does with a wonky computer, hoping when power is restored the malfunctions will have been magically corrected.

Sometimes, alas, the hard drive is exhausted.

In my case, eight months (or, turns out, maybe three years) later, the geek squad has been unable to arrive at a diagnosis or a cure. The symptoms are unpredictable from one day to the next — hell, from one hour to the next, and run the gamut from fatigue to memory/retrieval/articulating problems to severe gastrointestinal distress to headaches to joint pain so intense it is difficult to move whatever part of my body is being affected by a combination of the above listed.

While these symptoms are unpleasant, what is worse is this uncertainty; in addition to not knowing which symptoms I’ll need to cope with at any moment, I also don’t know the root cause of these symptoms, don’t know if I will ever have an answer, don’t know if an answer would result in a solution, don’t know if the symptoms will continue to multiply, and just generally am mired in a lot of not knowing and wondering,”Why is this happening?”

Which makes sense. In an “it doesn’t make sense” way. Because this outbreak — the manifestation of whatever this is — began the day after the inauguration in January 2017. I had been daily crying since November 9, 2016, the day we discovered how many tens of millions of racists and haters there were in this country, and that their fascist overlord and his jackbooted co-conspirators had somehow rigged the system so the presidency was denied the most qualified person who had ever run for the position, a woman who had spent the last few decades standing up with dignity in the face of a relentless campaign to slander her, yet still served with grace, maintaining her belief in the possibility and potential and equality of all people even when some of those naturally her cohorts, on the so-called left, also fell for the culturally embedded  misogynistic bullshit smear-campaigns aimed at her — those whispers being led by yet another old white man, this one claiming to be so liberal.

I was broken. She deserved so much better — she always had. Let’s face it; had she been a heterosexual cis white man, her accomplishments from college on would have won her the presidency at least twice, decades sooner. She deserved better.

I was broken. Another heterosexual cis white man had ridden culturally embedded misogyny and bigotry and bullying and bias to power — and dirty-tricked and cheated his way into it — and people in power had KNOWN of these tricks LONG BEFORE the election and NEVER exposed them.

I was broken. Because I am self-centered and see the world through the prism of ME I conflated what happened to Secretary Clinton with what had happened to me in my life — albeit writ larger and of course, much worse, but still, the same experience. I’d been repeatedly denied possibilities and praise and portals because I was a gay man. I’d been repeatedly pilloried by heterosexual white men in power, and seen those same men who were far less capable and deserving succeed and beat out myself and my female friends, and all the while, those heterosexual white men were chuckling together — often on a golf course or in a locker room — absolutely convinced they deserved every ounce of their privilege, considering themselves naturally superior to we other, and, often, becoming furious (or dismissive) when we suggested — either quietly or loudly — that perhaps the playing field (or, golf course) was not even, that they were winning because they were advantaged, odds skewed and distorted in their favor and on their behalf and they were complicit in this plot.

It happened, again and again, and was still happening, and Secretary Clinton being robbed of the presidency felt as if all the progress for which we had struggled and sweated and suffered abuse for, all the times I was fag-bashed and snickered about, all the times I had failed myself by feeling I had to lie about myself to be safe, all the all the we had all been through had just been erased.

And a rash appeared on my upper right arm. And within a week, my upper left arm. Then my lower arms. In another week it had moved to my legs. Then, soon after, my torso and back. My body from the neck down was spotted with red circles and blotches and now, countless trips to multiple doctors and drug after drug after cream after steroid after malaria pill after biopsies after “you have cancer” after “no it’s probably NOT cancer” after “you have lupus” after “this drug can cause blindness but let’s try it anyway even though we don’t know what you have” after having to be near a bathroom for hours at a time because my intestines are convulsing after headaches so bad I can’t read after joint pain so bad I can’t walk after fifty-seven years of too often being treated as “less than” being exacerbated by having to struggle for adequate medical care since I am covered by insurance so sub-par that I have to drive to another state to find a rheumatologist who will accept it and then, only after a month of calls and re-calls and — after all of this bullshit —

Still, no answer. Still, the why is this happening?

And not just with my malady, but with the election and the wannabe-totalitarian despot.

And it feels as if the geek-squad is trying everything they can to repair the hard-drive, but, I worry; Maybe it can’t be fixed this time.

And so far in life when I have bottomed out into hopelessness and despair, self-pity and melancholic anguish, rather than surrender and die, that’s when I re-boot.

Which, I know, one thousand words after being introduced in the opening paragraph, perhaps took too long to get to. But, it’s taken me since November 9 to get here, a long eviscerating period of mourning and heartache and fury and confusion and fear and disbelief and frustration and — well, you get it.

And, what is my re-boot? Simple. And what it has always been, every time, so you’d think by now I’d be able to get there faster. But, here goes:

It is what it is. How I see it and what I do with it defines my reality.

I know, ridiculously simplistic self-help blather ignoring the circumstances of the modern world and power structure and yakkety-yak-blah-blah-lah-di-dah-pollyanna bullshit.

Or, not. Or, rather, you are entitled to your own re-boot process and opinion, but as my dear aunt said to me, many times:

It doesn’t matter what anyone else says or does or thinks, you are only responsible for what you say and do and think.”

And, in addition, as my dear Duchess Goldblatt said to me:

When we count our losses, we turn the balance sheet over to see what’s been gained, you and I.

And so, in the past week or so, after a particularly awful Tuesday where I was treated with disrespect and rudeness by yet another doctor with no answers who had not bothered to read my file before walking in the room and knew nothing about my case, an appointment after which I went to my car already near tears and was then informed via message that Barbara Cook had died, I hit bottom. I cried so hard, so long, with a wailing of WHY and HOW MUCH MORE that I exhausted my sorrow. There was nothing left.

So, at zero, hard drive crashing, that was where I looked at myself and said, “What have I gained from all of this? And what will I do with it?”

I don’t know. Exactly.

But here’s the start; Every day I remind myself in notes, in talks with me, on Twitter, that I still believe LOVE WINS. Which reminder reminds me to share some of my LOVE, every day, to send out into the world the energy I wish to receive. And, interestingly, after the eight months of not knowing, I’ve now evolved past fear and anger to acceptance.

Whatever this is I’m having, lots of people have far worse things to deal with every day, and my days are full of people who love me, people I enjoy being with, books, Twitter-pals, Barbara Cook’s songs forever, the knowledge I once made her happy, many pets to whom I am uncle, and a fresh, new, and welcome perspective on WHY.

Like a toddler just learning the world or a well-trained actor preparing for a role, I am now examining my thoughts and words and actions and assumptions (and those of others) with the magic WHY? Why do I think this or that? Where did that belief/idea/notion come from? Have I thought about it, lived it, or did I accept a cultural trope and make it part of me? What is the motivation?

We accept so much without questioning. Too much.

Who says having a job and making money make one more valuable than a person whose activities and pursuits are not remunerated? Who says marriage or monogamy are the ideal relationship model? Who says the love between two people sexually involved is more valuable than deep friendship, and deserves state sanction and protection and benefits? Who says just because you call it a sport or put people in uniforms and call them a team they should be allowed to beat the shit out of each other? Who says calling it an army makes it okay to kill people? Who says the imaginary boundaries we’ve imposed upon the earth make us different nationalities, rather than recognizing that we are all one people and patriotism is actually another form of bigotry? Who says everyone has to be thin, buffed, teeth straightened, hair this and thatted, bodies shaved and painted and adorned a certain way to be beautiful? Who says imaginary friends are any less fantastic and loved and important than corporeal friends?

Who says my “illness” is an illness rather than exactly the way my body should be functioning now; perhaps it’s a gift, this so-called illness that’s brought me here to this re-boot, given me to ask so many WHYS? and to re-examine my life, doing that Goldblattian-inspired tally of what’s been gained?

Who says almost 2000 words is MORE than enough for one blog post?

Oh, I do, so, Love and Light my dear ones and thanks for sharing the journey, and before I go on any longer, here I am, going. (Spread some love today.)

Reading: The End is Near – So What? Perk the hell up!

In this post I talk about American War by Omar El Akkad, and The Bright Hour by Nina Riggs.

The day after the January 2017 inauguration of the criminal buffoon now occupying (well, when he’s not off stealing taxpayer dollars by vacationing at one of his own properties) 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I discovered a rash on my upper right arm. Since then, it has covered my entire body from the neck down. I have run an obstacle course of medical providers and insurance hell, and I am no closer to an answer than I was in January — in fact, in many ways, I am worse. I cannot help but see my decline and inability to heal as reflection of the damage being done to the country and the world by the gop and its illegitimate siege of the presidency, achieved by vote fixing, voter suppression, russian intervention, and decades of hate and fear mongering. So, reading a dystopian novel about the results a few decades from now of this sort of red vs blue hate in this country, and a memoir about a woman’s living and coping with disease, was both a foolish and an instructive thing to do. Here I am, going.

American War, Omar El Akkad, Hardcover, 333pp, April 2017, Knopf Publishing Group

The venal fomentation of hate and divisiveness which has long been the strategy of the Republican party, has now careened out of control into the surreal ascendance of a sociopathic, narcissistic moron to the presidency; a man who will stoop to any level to aggrandize himself and gain more power, riches, and worship, who lies with the ease others of us breathe, and who encourages civil disobedience and violence, encouraging a class war — a conflict built mostly on myth, fictions, and unfounded bigotries and fear of “other” — using the tactics of fascist authoritarians throughout time to distract the people from his pillaging of the country, from his complete ineptitude at and disinterest in bringing prosperity and union to the people he is meant to serve and lead.

Interpret and project from these signs and omens and realities what a future might be like if we continue along this path of rupture, acrimony, and animosity, and you will arrive at the place where Omar El Akkad’s sadly prescient novel, American War, begins and ends.

Which might be why it took me almost a week to finish it. There is no other reason: the writing was very, very good; the plotting and pace excellent; the protagonist, Sarat Chestnut, drawn with complicated, fascinating detail. But, the fact that less than a year ago the goings on, atrocities, and unhappy endings of this novel would have seemed an outrageous, impossible dystopian take-off, but now, since November of 2016, seem not only possible, but likely, made this — for me — a very difficult read despite all it has to recommend it. So, be warned.

The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying, Nina Riggs, Hardcover, 288pp, June 2017, Simon and Schuster

Being in the eighth frustrating and now sort of terrifying month of dealing with an illness that remains undiagnosed, increasing amounts of “symptoms” which may or may not be related (or, even, symptoms) — since no one seems to know what it is I have, and a now four week long effort to get an appointment with a rheumatologist who will accept my insurance and perhaps be able to explain my floating joint pains which I thought were the beginnings of arthritis but now, like my digestive system explosions may, I’m told with worried looks by the dermatologist now seemingly in charge of my case, may be connected to the mystery illness — no, not even an appointment, I am still waiting for a referral to a mystery rheumatologist one state away! — and despite that lack of diagnosis and referral, taking a medicine normally prescribed for malaria which may with extended use cause macular degeneration, my long-time biggest nightmare as it partially blinded both my aunt and mother, and which requires twice a year visits to an opthalmologist, visits which no one seems to be able to tell me whether or not are to be covered by my insurance; being in this morass of often feeling like hell, fighting the depression of not knowing, not getting answers, and being treated like a second class citizen because of my insurance — because had I better coverage (which I cannot, could not ever afford) I would have LONG AGO been referred, seen, treated — and KNOWING I am STILL better off than a lot of people in this richest country in the world where adequate healthcare is STILL BEING DEBATED AND DENIED — well, perhaps this wasn’t the best time to read a memoir by a woman who had terminal cancer, who died before the book went to print.

Then again, perhaps it was.

Nina Riggs writes about her illness — no, wrong, Nina Riggs writes about living a life, loving a family and friends, and being fully alive while dealing with the medical establishment’s responses to a body out of whack and the knowledge that her death is imminent.

She is funny. She is honest. She is brutal. She is terrified. She is hopeful. She is sad. She is angry. She is exactly the kind of literate, delightful, upfront, caring, warm, witty, audacious, fascinating, embracing and embraceable person with whom one wants to be best friends.

Her journey from “one tiny spot” of the kind “no one dies from” to stage four cancer, during which her mother and another dear friend die of cancer, is fascinating and instructive. The writing is exquisite and powerful, honest and moving without ever being maudlin or self-pitying — both of which are my go-to reactions to my little medical issues, so I was terribly shamed by the forthright and courageous manner with which Nina Riggs lived until she died.

And managing to write about it — the effects of the illness, the psychological and emotional process of trying to deal with the knowledge one is going to miss one’s children’s growing up, dealing with the decay of her body and her energies — with such spirited candor; I found it miraculous.

By the time I reached her husband’s Afterword, I was sobbing and renewed. And awestruck. Would that I could deal with any of the petty annoyances of my life with some small portion of the grace and insight with which Nina Riggs lived her life.

Read this book, not as a guide to how to die, but a primer on how to live.


And so, there it is, or, was; the dystopian novel affirmed all my worst fears and worries about the world in which we are living, where we are heading, while the memoir that ends in death, inspired my best self, a sloughing off of my self-pitying, poor me energies and a determination to move through whatever time I have with more grace and good humor.

Who knew? Not me. Which is lovely, always, to have more to learn and space of self into which to grow, and so, here I am, going (and growing). Oddly enough, about an hour from now, to another doctor appointment.

So, so long for today dear ones, much Love and Light to you.

Reading: July: Finishing With Gay’s Hunger

In this entry I will be discussing MODERN GODS, by Nick Laird, THE FALLEN, by Ace Atkins, and HUNGER: A MEMOIR OF (MY) BODY, by Roxane Gay.

I read 19 books in July, during which I needed much distraction as I continued my eight month slog through the medical/insurance establishment in search of answers for the questions; “What disease do I have?” “Will this rash EVER go away?” “Why do so few doctors in Maryland accept my Maryland-assisted insurance that I have to drive an hour to an out-of-state provider to get treated?”

But those are issues for another type of blog-post, and, as a friend recently told me, “I think more people like your live-Tweeting about cooking than like your book blog entries because your cooking Tweets are shorter and funny.”

Okay then, short and funny, like most of my relationships. Got it. Or, wait, short and tragic? Whatever. Here are the final three reads of July.

Modern Gods, Nick Laird, Hardcover, 336pp, June 2017, Viking

I am of two minds about this novel, which is fitting since it feels like two half-novels awkwardly trying to meld into one cohesive whole. Two sisters on very different journeys of re-invention navigate foreign lands — metaphorically and physically — discovering during the treks that people are not at all what they seem, that they themselves may not be what they imagined themselves to be, and so they struggle to come to grips with the recondite realities of emotional connections, love, forgiveness, and the meaning of survival.

Alison Donnelly is about to be remarried. Liz Donnelly is leaving a disappointingly dishonest relationship and heading to Papua New Guinea to investigate a nascent religion for a BBC documentary. Alison’s husband to be has dangerous secrets she refuses to hear until it is impossible to ignore them, while the subject of Liz’s programme, Belef, a Melanesian woman who has gained a following for her pronouncements about the messages she claims to be receiving from a divine source, is also more and less than she appears to be.

There is a lot of marvelous writing and imagery here — the author is also a poet and it shines through — especially in the opening chapters which feel inspired in ways the middle of the novel does not, and the ending feels somewhat contrived and rushed, almost dishonest in its calculation. In short(ish), it feels both as if the author tried too hard and yet, not quite hard enough.

The Fallen (Quinn Colson #7), Ace Atkins, Hardcover, 384pp, July 2017, G.P.Putnam’s Sons

This is my third Ace Atkins novel and he has become a new “regular” for me. The books are fast paced, compellingly plotted, and I find the Quinn Colson world  — a Southern gothic, near Flannery O’Connor collection of misfits operating in a steamy, dangerous, ole boy sort of noir world in which danger and humor compete for air — to be equally delightful and appalling — don’t want to be a spoiler but there is a death in this book, the occurrence of which made me weep. Be warned. In this installment, a series of well-executed bank robberies performed by bandits in Donald Trump masks vex Sheriff Quinn Colson who’s also busy falling for the new old girl in town who knew and crushed on him as a little girl — she’s not little now and she’s not alone in her crushing. Things do and don’t work out, there is plenty of ambiguity and the final pages set up the next installment and I am ready.

Hunger: A Memoir Of (My) Body, Roxane Gay, Hardcover, 320pp, June 2017, Harper Collins

This was devastating. A blunt, searingly honest exploration of what it is to be other, to be caged in cultural presumptions so powerful that you yourself reinforce your incarceration. So many passages in this memoir resonated for me and echoed my own experiences as a queer man who grew up in the 1970s, it felt as if Roxane Gay had accessed the painful and embarrassing places and traumas I had locked away, kept to myself, refused to face, and done some of the work for me. This isn’t just a memoir, it’s an act of extraordinary bravery and service. Warning: it is NOT easy, in fact, it is emotionally draining but also enlightening and thought-provoking and encouraging; Roxane Gay has survived what could have been an overwhelming amount of horror, pain and abuse (physical and emotional), and ugly energy — from herself (to which she freely cops) and others, and the culture at large. If I had the power, I would make every child entering adolescence read this as it would be a benefit to those who feel alone and unseen and not right (and what adolescent doesn’t feel those things?) as well as those who might be bullies, haters, judgey popular kids who think it’s okay to mock and torture others, never having a thought to the long-term (permanent?) damage it can do.

And so it goes . . . goodbye, July . . .

It’s been a long month of doctor visits and disappointments, but, bright side, I got to read 19 books of which three were 5 Star reads, three were 4 Star reads, twelve were 3 star reads, and only one was a 2 Star read. Pretty good. And I booked and did a couple of house/petsits, had some quality times with family and loved ones, and made the best cake I’m ever likely to make (or eat), Beringer’s Brooklyn Blackout Cake, and created a cookie recipe involving four kinds of chocolate, chipotle, and cayenne, called Milamos. So, in addition to reading quite a lot, wow, I did a lot, too. I’m getting a slower start in August, aghast at how slowly time is moving since January when the tragedies of the inauguration and the onset of my still undiagnosed illness occurred. Not original to me, but, these eight months feel like eight years.

Anyway, off to more reading and family-ing and cooking and pill-popping and such. So, Love and Light to my regulars, nice to meet you to my new friends, and here I am, going.