TwoBusy: Labels

March 27, 2009

Labels

There are times when my son finds comfort in imposing his own logic - his own sense of organization - on the world around him. Granted, this is not a permanent and ongoing thing: a significant reason for why I call him TheHurricane is because it serves to describe the kind of chaos and disarray that he generally leaves in his wake. More often than not, we know he's spent time in a room if we walk in and it appears as though someone has fed its entire contents through a wood chipper.

But.

There is another part of him that craves structure. That seeks out definition, and finds expression through his categorization and creative arrangement of those things that can and should (and some that can't and shouldn't) be called his. A part that suddenly allows him to segue seamlessly from gleefully destructive force of nature to calm, quiet, focused and quite committed worker bee — spending upwards of 40 minutes at a shot compiling, labeling, moving and arranging manageable segments of his universe. A part that dovetails with his love of writing and remarkable ability to use up entire rolls of masking tape in less than an hour.

Last night, while his sisters watched Cinderella for the twelvety-fifth time, and TheWife and I joined them on the couch with a little pizza and beer, he quietly went to work. He started with a row of markers, and several pieces of paper. He cut them down to size, and neatly began to write. As he finished each piece, he would recap the marker and then hand us the roll of masking tape. "Can you help the tape please?"

We would tear off a small piece. Roll it into a circle. Hand it back over. He would apply it to the back of the paper, and then run over to our sun/office/toyroom. Then return. Repeat. Run. Return. Repeat.

At some point, TheWife asked what he was doing. He just giggled. Said his own name, laughing, in a tone suggesting a semi-scold. "Silly guy," he called himself. We laughed. Smiled. Gave him a quick hug, before he ran off again.

Finally, we heard a scraping noise. Looked over, and saw him pushing over a big plastic storage container. Then another. And another. Then ran back into the other room, only to return with a smaller blue plastic container clutched in his hands. Carefully labeled. With matching, just-reorganized toys inside.

We watched, with not-unfamiliar amazement, as he brought them all in. Arranged each blue container carefully atop the larger base. Some he moved, shifted from one end to another. Others stood fast and solid, cornerstones of the new order. And then he was satisfied. Done. And looked over at us: his eyes huge, his smile broad, all bright and blinding with joy and pride and accomplishment.

"Look at all the toys!"

04:08 PM | Permalink

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But.

"Look at all the toys!"

Do You Hear What I Hear?

A Winged Victory for the Sullen: A Winged Victory for the Sullen
My 2011 album of the year. Achingly gorgeous neo-classical compositions designed to leave you on the verge of tears. I've been listening to it almost non-stop for months; you should do the same.
Hammock: Longest Year EP
There are few things more frustrating than trying to describe the gorgeous, evocative and profoundly atmospheric post-rock music of Hammock without A) resorting to clichés that, while not necessarily inaccurate, do little to accurately describe the listening experience; or B) having the musical vocabulary to adequately describe just what it is about these lengthy, largely wordless compositions that hypnotizes and moves me so profoundly. So I'll just say: imagine a film. No words; just images. Flashing, semi-grainy images of someone from your past — impossibly beautiful, vibrant and full of life. Someone lost to you forever. Imagine that feeling, of love and impossible longing and desperate, hopeless desire to recapture that moment and make it last forever. Now hunt down the title track to this EP, close your eyes, and listen. And you will know: this is the music for that feeling.
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

Daryl Gregory: Raising Stony Mayhall
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
Yeah. It's every bit as good as you've heard. And every bit as lovely, heartbreaking and tragic, too. The idea is brilliant: Jack is five years old, and has lived his entire life in Room. With his Ma. And with occasional, after-dark visits from Old Nick — who, Jack doesn't realize, is the man who years ago kidnapped and imprisoned a then-19yo girl in Room. As far as Jack is aware, he, Ma and Old Nick are the only real people in the universe. Everything else - what he sees on TV and what little he can view through the tiny skylight at the top of room - is make-believe. I could say more to describe what happens, but really... there's no way I'm going to give anything away. I'll just say, instead, that Donoghue does an impossibly masterful job of creating an entirely believable 5-year old boy who might have been born and raised in such an environment — and who might react to the things he experiences in the way that Jack ultimately does. Every piece of this story has the ring of absolute truth, and that (more than anything else) is what helps to define it as one of the most haunting things I've read in a long, long time. Highly, highly recommended.
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
Remember back when Michael Crichton was cranking out blockbuster-movie-plots-disguised-as-novels and every review was pretty much the same? The details varied from book to book, but almost without exception you'd read a review and learn that he'd put together a book with a propulsive plot, a bunch of surprises and thrills, lots of technical and/or scientific detail to show off all the research he did, and little doubt that the characters and dialogue were anything more than paper-thin. Well, Crichton is gone — but with Fragment, Warren Fahy makes a solid attempt to recreate the Crichton model... for better and for worse. The novel is basically built around the same initial concept as King Kong: a tiny, remote island out in the middle of nowhere in the South Pacific is discovered — and is quickly found to be inhabited by all kinds of fascinating monsters. Boatloads of energetic scenes of people getting shredded by the aforementioned monsters inevitably ensues. Fahy's Crichton-esque take is to cast this island and its bizarre inhabitants as an ultraviolent evolutionary offshoot, where billions of years of isolation have resulted in the creation of all kinds of horrifying and efficiently bloodthirsty inhabitants, including (most memorably) the spiger, which basically looks like a 15-foot long hybrid of a spider and a tiger (it even has orange stripes). Sounds promising, right? Until you realize that Fahy has failed to back up this premise with things like "believable characters" or "dialogue" or "depth." Which leaves us with a passable beach or airplane read... and not much more.