TwoBusy: 7 up

September 18, 2006

7 up

Seven years ago today, in the wake of a year-long engagement, a cross-country move and a hurricane that threatened to blow the entire event (and all attending) into the Atlantic Ocean, TheGirlfriend became TheWife.

Seven. Years. How does that happen? I mean, it feels like forever since we had the life we had then -- and at the same time, it doesn't feel like all that long ago that we exchanged rings and high fives in front of our friends, and broke out the celebratory blueberry beers.

Seven. Years. Since we dragged seventy-something friends, family members and whatnot up to the northern edges of civilization, where we discovered that ten months of planning, hard work and nice dreams had failed to account for the possibility of a hurricane roaring up the eastern seaboard. A hurricane? In Maine? Who thinks of things like that?

I remember, two days before the wedding, driving around the park. The hurricane was heading out to sea, but the wind and rain were still fierce. We saw ancient trees, crippled and downed by the storm. Roads flooded, sometimes impassable. We listened to news reports of greater damage elsewhere, and cancelled flights across the northeast. We wondered what kind of a fiasco we had inadvertently created.

Seven. Years. And a day, since we headed into our rehearsal day with the storm weakening and heading out to sea, and the members of the wedding party successfully - sometimes surprisingly - making their way to our destination. I remember standing on marshy ground as the hotel's event planner described the path down the hill our procession would take the next day, weather permitting. (Or where the tent would be set up, if not.) I remember holding my girl's hand tightly, and commenting on how memorable it would be when she - in all her wedding finery, bouqueted with tulips and sweet airs - inevitably lost her footing and slid down the hill on her ass.

I remember that night, when we had our rehearsal dinner. 15 people spread across two comfortable wooden tables. Heat lamps keeping us warm, despite the "tropical" nature of the now-vanishing storm. People laughing. Great beer. Fine food. Family. Friends. Good time.

Seven. Years. Since we woke up, lifted the window shade with great apprehension... and discovered the most beautiful day we'd ever seen. Crystalline blue skies. A slight chill in the air. The water in the distance calm, the boats on the harbor silent.

We walked out onto the field, down towards the village. It was early, early on a Saturday morning. Most of the town still sleeping. A fox darted from behind a fence, stopped to look at us for a moment, then disappeared into the hills to the west. We walked slowly, stunned by the weather, not quite believing that things could possibly work out this well for us.

Seven. Years. Since we dressed up and stood in front of our friends. Since my best man, trying to throw me off, started quoting lines from In & Out as we stood at the altar. Seventy-something guests, watching me crack up as a result. No idea of just how entirely inappropriate a conversation we were having.

Then she made her way down the hill. Slowly. Elegantly. (Carefully.) And then we stood in front of everyone... and had the shortest ceremony of all time. Two minutes? Maybe. Maybe not even that.

And suddenly, it was time for beer, and blueberry pancakes, and a string quartet playing gently in the background, and an amazing brunch buffet, and walking around the room and seeing all these people who'd travelled so far and who were surprised to actually be enjoying themselves, and then the cake came out - with its spun sugar autumn leaves - and there was champagne and a toast or two, and the doors to the deck were open and the air was cool and we could all see flowers and the great green field and the light dancing across the water in the distance.

Seven. Years. Since we changed out of our finery and into our familiar jeans and flannel and fleece, and led a convoy of a dozen friends to the top of Cadillac Mountain. Since we looked down on the waters and forests, mountains and carriage trails, fjords and harbor towns. I remember playing with the new ring on my finger, still the only ring I've ever worn. The sky was so clear. The wind atop the mountain was stiff, and as the sun dropped low in the sky the air quickly began to chill. We found someone to take a photo, of all of us. We are huddled together, squinting into the sun, smiling. (I look at that photo every day, sitting on our mantle.)

It was a long road getting there. And it's been a long road since.

Seven. Years. Amazing.

02:51 PM | Permalink

Comments

Then she made her way down the hill. Slowly. Elegantly. (Carefully.) And then we stood in front of everyone... and had the shortest ceremony of all time. Two minutes? Maybe. Maybe not even that.

It was a long road getting there. And it's been a long road since.

Seven. Years. Amazing.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

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Hammock: Longest Year EP
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Peter Gabriel: New Blood
Man, what a disappointment this turned out to be. I've been a fan of Peter Gabriel's for more than 20 years, and while his post-Passion albums have been uneven at best... I was thrilled when I heard that he was re-recording some of his best songs with an orchestra. I grabbed it on the day it was released, tossed it in my trusty CD player, and... um... didn't love it. So I listened to it again. And again. And again. And now, after four full listens, I've concluded: this isn't music I can love. I mean, some of the songs work pretty well (generally the quieter ones — San Jacinto, Mercy Street and Wallflower are fairly lovely), but as a whole the album comes off as more of a compositional exercise than an attempt to create songs of real and lasting beauty. It's a crime, really, because the great strengths of Gabriel's music have always been rooted in his ability to marry thoughtful lyrics to passionate vocals and complex, deeply-emotional music that supports the first two elements. But here? The lyrics and vocals (and PG is, admittedly, still in very fine voice) are subordinated to overly-busy arrangements that rob the music of the very things that make it so extraordinary. It's a disappointing discovery, and to be completely honest the best thing about this album is the fact that it's forced me to go back to the original executions and appreciate, with a freshened perspective, just how wonderful they are.
Low: C'mon
A tremendous and much-appreciated return to form for this legendary Duluth, MN slowcore trio, and a welcome reminder of why they are both one of the very best and most interesting bands in the world. From the gorgeous, chilly-yet-warm harmonies of married folk Mimi Parker and Alan Sparhawk to the impeccable sense of atmosphere and dynamics that have always defined their finest work as a heady blend of atmosphere, melancholy and quiet beauty... it's all here. Look: just give a listen to "Especially Me" or "Try To Sleep" and tell me you're not charmed, moved and completely hooked. I defy you.
The Cure: Disintegration (Deluxe Edition) (3CD)
Why spring for the 3-CD deluxe edition, even if this is one of the greatest albums ever recorded? Three reasons: 1) Because the original album has been remastered, and now sounds better than ever — the bass is now audible, and the songs now offer a crystalline clarity that bring the aching beauty of Plainsong and Closedown to new levels. 2) The 2nd disc, which offers demos of most of Disintegration's songs, offer a fascinating glimpse into Smith's creative process. 3) The 3rd disc is a live album, and its version of Pictures of You is, simply, astonishing. One note: even better than springing for this? Is having @MrLady do it for you. I highly recommend that approach.

Reading is Fundamental

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Man, Daryl Gregory is an interesting writer. This is a zombie novel, but it's utterly unlike any other zombie novel I've read (and let's be clear: from The Angels Are The Reapers to World War Z and Breathers, there's a wiiiide range of very good ones out there). Why? Because our title character is a part of the Living Dead community — and he's as rich and fully realized a character as you'll ever come across: an individual loved by his family, first hidden from and then feared by the world, and desperately curious to explore and understand his nature. What, exactly, is he? How is it possible that he was born dead, is and has always been composed of unliving tissue... and yet still grew up? Gregory couples this greatly realized characterization with a compelling plot that follows Stony from his "childhood" on an Iowa farm to a growing Living Dead underground community to prison and revolution and beyond — and the result is a truly compelling read that blends some fascinating questions with a sense of fun and engagement that never wavers. This is a worthy follow-up to Gregory's "The Devil's Alphabet," and while neither of these two novels quite matches the dizzying heights he reached with his stunning debut, "Pandemonium," it's still a terrific read that deserves your attention.
Dennis Lehane: Moonlight Mile
When an author returns to a series years after abandoning it, it's frequently a journey fraught with peril. All too often, they seem to lose their handle on the characters and unique tone that made their earlier work so fun and successful, and you finish the book kind of wishing they'd never gone down this road. Having said that, I was grateful to discover that Dennis Lehane's return to Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro in "Moonlight Mile" is an energetic and very successful reintroduction of the deeply sardonic (and funny) dialogue and dark & twisty plotting that made his early novels such an incredible pleasure. It's been more than a decade since Lehane left them behind to move on to "Mystic River" (still one of the best things I've ever read)... and when we rejoin Patrick and Angie, we discover that a decade has passed in their lives, as well. They've grown older (and possibly a little wiser), just another couple in Boston doing their best to make ends meet — when suddenly they find themselves launched into a search for Amanda McCready, a 16yo girl who a dozen years previously was the missing girl at the heart of Lehane's wonderful "Gone Baby Gone" (as well as Ben Affleck's outstanding film adaptation of the same). What happens from that point forward is nothing if not tremendously satisfying, and while as a novel this may not reach quite the same dizzying heights of some of Lehane's other work... it's an absolute, uncompromising pleasure and a welcome reminder of why we fell in love with his writing and these characters in the first place. Great, great stuff.
Emma Donoghue: Room
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Greg Olear: Fathermucker: A Novel
I wanted to like this. I really, really wanted to like this. The concept sounded terrific: a SAHD in an upper-middle class enclave in upstate NY is told, during the course of a playdate, that there is suspicion his wife is having an affair. The idea is pure gold — a setting and a cast of characters impossibly ripe for comedy, plus an opportunity to add some emotional depth via the very troubling idea of a beloved wife (in an imperfect marriage) who may be quietly shattering our protagonist's heart. Unfortunately... the execution fell far short of my expectations. Let me be clear: Olear can write — he knows how to craft language and put together an interesting story. And he certainly does a credible job of recreating the vast wilderness of SAHM/D life in the 'burbs. But in terms of really delivering on either the comedic or tragic implications of the story... it fails. Problem 1: it's not funny. At all. And the fact that Olear clearly has the ideas and chops to deliver on a strong comic premise - and yet, consistently, fails to do so - became an ongoing source of frustration for me as I went through the book. I'll put it this way: a full-length comic novel that makes you smile and/or laugh a grand total of once? Is not a very successful comic novel. Problem 2: it offers multiple opportunities to broaden into really emotionally resonant territory, both as a function of exploring the wife's possible infidelity and in exploring the emotional impact of having a child on the autism spectrum (Asperger's, in this case) on a marriage. And yet, every time it starts moving in that direction... Olear instead veers into a machine-gun spatter of pages-long paragraphs listing people who attended a playdate and how they interact with and/or screw around with each other (or some other, similar tactic). It's as if he's hoping that if he dances realrealrealfast, no one will notice that he's not ready or willing to write with anything approaching real emotion. All of which leads me to this conclusion: I've read far, far worse books this year... but none that made me feel more frustrated or actively angry for not being better. (Disclosure: I was sent this book by the very kind people at Fathermucker's publishing house, whose name I can't think of right now. Thanks and sorry — I really wanted to enjoy this a lot more than I did.)
Warren Fahy: Fragment
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