Today I had my rock star English students respond to lines in the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  Here is MY response.  Student responses follow as comments.  Enjoy!

For I have known them all already, known them all;

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

T.S Eliot

Poor J Alfred Prufrock.

When I teach this poem to my high school English classes, students find it difficult to identify with the balding, socially inept Prufrock and consider him  to be pathetic at most. What they can identify with, however, is the idea of  symbolically measuring the “worth” of one’s life with a repetitive action or routine. Actions or routines that help define who we are.

A validation, or proof of sorts, that we exist.

J. Alfred’s measurement is the endless afternoons he spends alone contemplating his inadequacies over endless cups of tepid sludgy tea.

Sad, but there it is.

I’ve had students state they’re measuring their life  with dance recitals performed, or hockey games played. Proof that some thing had been accomplished.  My graduates have been measuring their lives by papers or midterms written (Facebook statuses read “only 2 more to go until summer break!  Only 1 more to go!).  Proof that learning has occurred (… or in some cases, maybe not!)

I believe our “units” of measurement vary depending on what time in life we happen to be treading. I took the year off  work some years ago and I kept track of all the wonderful books I read during that time. THAT’s how I measured my life during my hiatus.

And it felt good

and full

and worth my while.

Proof that I finished a story, a different story every time a new book opened.  Stories that contributed to my own.

Is life measured in paychecks earned?  Children birthed?  Hearts broken? Or do you find a more symbolic value in the little actions that fill your days like smiles performed and good deeds accomplished.

Proof that you’ve worked.

Proof that you’ve loved.

Proof that you exist within someone else’s reality other than your own.

Every year when I teach this poem, I too try to come up with a measurement of my life.  Papers to be marked?  Hugs to be given? Stories to be written?

Here’s a question to ponder if you’ve got a moment:  How do you measure your life?  What action or routine is your symbol?  And once you’ve figured out what this is, are happy with with this revelation?  I think what you discover will say a lot about how you percieve yourself at this moment in time.

And if you don’t like it? Go out and pick out a better measuring stick.

P.S  And go and find yourself a copy of T.S Eliot’s “Love Song for J. Alfred Prufrock”!

“He is the long-delayed but always expected something that we live for.”

Tennessee Williams “The Glass Menagerie”

What is YOUR “long delayed but always expected”?

I’m reading “By Nightfall” by Michael Cunningham and I’ve come across this passage:

“ – a study- with profoundly comfortable swaybacked armchair, in which it seemed you could sit and read forever…there were three lordly and lazy old cats, the shelves crowed with books and elderly board games and seashells from Florida and framed, rather haphazard-looking photographs, the faint smells of lavender and mildew and chimney smoke, the wicker porch swing on which someone had left a rain-boated paperback copy of Daniel Deronda”(page 45).

I love the description of this space and I want to visit it.  Inhabit it for a summer.  It is a place I could spend an entire season cuddling with the cats and  reading all of the books  (yay George Eliot!) in a big comfy chair.

Lately it seems as though there has been a plethora of books and articles and websites telling us how to create a personal niche that is truly and exclusively your own.  Some say to create a “dream collage”, or “sacred space” or even a “meditation corner”.  I say phooey.  You don’t need a formal name, an area with a label.  All you need a place where you can breathe and be distracted from reality if only for a few minutes. Nothing formal, nothing premeditated or organized.  Just a spot.  A personal” time out” site.  And it doesn’t even have to be in your own home.  The little corner table at the coffee shop down the street, the back desk on the third floor of the public library.  A place to roost.

I have two spots.  One is my bedroom especially now that it’s been repainted.  It’s calm and cozy and all it needs is a suitable bookshelf to house all the books I’ve bought but have yet to read (yes…there are enough to fill a bookshelf.  At the moment they’re residing in my kitchen cupboards…loooong story).  The second in the “big boy” lazy boy recliner at my mom and dad’s.  There seems to be good feng shui where that Lazy Boy is situated that can’t be explained.

But, because this is MY space I and I do have a penchant to dream…and dream big I did actually find a picture of my dream “time out” spot.  Want to see it? I found it on  http://www.desiretoinspire.net/

Here it is:

Isn’t it beautiful?  What is your “space”?  Your spot of refuge and vegetation?  Write and let me know!

Right now I’m reading The Passage by Justin Cronin.  Now, I’m not the biggest Science Fiction fan but I enjoy the book

when I’m reading it…

…but the story just isn’t “calling” me.

I’m wondering if the plot is so far-fetched that I’m having trouble emotionally attaching myself to any particular character.  I almost formed an attachment early in the book.  To six-year-old Amy.  But now that she’s taken a hiatus for the last two hundred pages

I’m not as committed to the story as I was.

Does that ever happen to you?  You’re in the middle of a book when all of a sudden, well, you just don’t care who survives the Apocalypse.

Is it worth it to finish?  Do you stick with the story just because you’ve invested in over 300 pages?

I do appreciate Cronin’s writing.  But is this appreciation enough to keep me reading?  We’ll have to wait and see.

Today the students in my 11th grade English Class had to choose their favourite quote in the play “The Glass Menagerie” and respond.  Here is the example I provided for them.  Please feel free to read their responses in the comments section of this post!

“He is the long-delayed but always expected something that we live for.”

Tennessee Williams “The Glass Menagerie”

The above quote refers to the character “Jim” in The Glass Menagerie.  A man who at one time was the quintessential high school hero, the one “most likely to succeed.” But Jim hasn’t amounted to a whole lot. He hasn’t achieved any fame or fortune.  He is a mere cog in the wheel of everyday, middle class, 9-5 existence.

But Jim is holding out for his time to come.

He is making plans.  He is taking courses.  He is getting married.  He is not just going to sit,

inert,

waiting for that “something” to fall out of the sky and land on his lap.  He’s going out to find it.

The character Laura, on the other hand, has had her “something” fall on her lap.  It’s Jim.  Her high school crush taking space in her ethereal, fragile glass world.  Her long-delayed but never expected something has arrived.  But it’s not a perfect arrival.  It’s one filled with heartache and disappointment.

It is broken glass.

What is your “long-delayed but always expected” something?  Is it entrance to the perfect university program? Is it your ideal job?  Is it finding a soul mate?  Winning the medal?

How long have you been waiting?

How long are you willing to wait for it,

whatever “it” may be?

What are willing to do to increase your chances of getting it?

Or

has it already arrived and you’re not all that pleased with how it’s turned out.  Has it been one big disappointing, bubble bursting experience.  Do you find yourself searching and waiting for another “something”?

And what do you do while you wait?  Sit on your bum and twiddle your thumbs?  Stick your head out the window every five minutes to see if you can spy it coming down the street?  Or maybe you go out and about and search

and search

but to no avail.

I guess the thing to do is to, as they say, is to expect it when you least expect it.  Live each day appreciating what DOES exist.

The tangibles and touchables.

Filling each and every moment so there are no gaping crevasses of expectation.

So that when that “long delayed always expected something” is nothing

but a pleasant surprise

I am a book geek. Not only do I always bring home a book from the bookstore EVERY time I visit (even though my intent was just a scouting trip) I also make finding the nearest bookstore a priority every place I visit…San Diego, Honolulu, New York, even visited the few English bookstores in Tokyo (where it’s standard procedure to neatly wrap the cover of paperbacks with butcher paper so that no nosey subway passengers are privy to your choice of literature. I have to admit it felt all so clandestine!).

Years ago I went to Las Vegas with a group of friends complete with feather boas and themed t-shirts. The ladies and I went to shows, we shopped, we played the slots. After a day my book radar did a scan and nary a blip was found. Nowhere and at no time during the 3 days we vacationed did I find a bookstore. It was so bizarre and between mojitos I found it very disconcerting. No pocket books in the gift store at the hotel, no bookstore in the airport (unless I missed it) no bookstore anywhere on the strip. Now I realize most people don’t go to Vegas to read and I certainly didn’t go to Vegas to read, but if there ever was a reading emergency I would have been hooped. I have to admit it freaked me out some.  I have since learned there actually is a bookstore in the mall on the “strip”.  I blame the previously mentioned mojitos for not being able to spot it.

Booktown. Sidney British Columbia. One summer I was looking to visit Vancouver Island and I found an advertisment for a new spa hotel opening in Sidney. Google-ing “Sidney BC” I happily found out that Sidney is also referred to as “Booktown” Canada. Having only 11 000 residents it boasts 12 bookstores making it Canada’s only “Booktown”. My favorite is Beacon Books right on Beacon street and well within walking distance of the hotel, but you can check out the “Haunted bookstore” and several other as well. Now you won’t be partaking in beverages of the alcoholic nature on Sidney’s promenade, and if you glance into any restaurant you will see a sea of grey heads, but it is charming and slow and the Thursday summer market rivals the one I’ve visited in San Francisco. If you’re interested http://www.sidneybooktown.ca  will give you all the information you need.

Paris. Home of THE most charming, eclectic bookstore ever to be found on the Left Bank. It’s called Shakespeare and Company. I discovered it over fifteen years ago during my first trip to Paris and I make sure to visit it every time I return. The last time I was in Paris I was accompanied by a group of students. It was wonderful seeing the excitement and wonder they had exploring this store on their own. Shakespeare and Co possesses within its  walls both new and used books. It smells of history and dust and imagination. There are little beds scattered throughout the store, squished between shelves and tables. You can sleep in the store for free if you promise to work 2 hours a day and, what I love, read a book a day. There is a piano with a cheerful sign written in black pen inviting patrons to “play me”. Written above the entrance is the phrase “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise” inviting all to enter. Check out Shakespeare and Company on http://www.shakespeareandcompany.com

I’m holding out for the piece de resistance. A small town in Wales called Hay on Wye. http://www.hay-on-wye.co.uk . The mecca for all bibliophiles. 41 Bookstores, 1500 inhabitants. I don’t think I could handle the excitement of the Guardian book festival in the spring, but I live to walk the streets of the village, ducking into bookstores, stopping for tea, dodging into another bookstore….

Some day.

Soon.

Just as a bookcase is the soul of a home, I believe bookstores are the soul of a city. Filled with history, and adventures …a place of escape from reality even if it is only for an afternoon.

We started an independent novel study in my 10th grade English class today!  And although some of my students were a little less than enthusiastic about reading “a whoooooole book!!???” they seem to have taken to the challenge with gusto and determination.  I’ve asked them to share some their understanding of their novel on this post.  Here is what I am having them do:

1.  State the title of the book they are reading.

2.Share an interesting quote from what they’ve read thus far and explain why they find it interesting.

3.  Pose a question or share a comment on content, author style, personal connection etc.

I can’t tell you what a perfect morning it is when I see a class of 33 young people read!

Enjoy!

“When I am attacked by gloomy thought, nothing helps me so much as running to my books. They banish the clouds from my mind.” Michel de Montaigne

So true.

I cycle a few favourite “go to” books that will always lift my spirit and take my mind off the muckage life throws. Here are the ones I’ve been migrating towards lately:

1. Jane Eyre. No matter how horrible life gets, Jane’s is always worse. I mean how many of us have the psychotic ex-wife of the man we love hold up in the attic? And Jane never considers herself a victim. An intelligent, well spoken “plain” protagonist who gets swept away by a brooding, tortured gentleman who, let’s face it, seduces her shamelessly.

2. Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. Far better than the movie (and that’s saying lots because I get all puddley for Jude Law). Some of the most intriguing characters I’ve ever met. I especially like the blind goat lady. AND the last fifty pages are the most romantic ever written without the gag factor.

3. The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery I read it the first time and was mildly entertained. The second time I cried like a baby. Renee and Paloma are two characters whose voices are so distinct they stick with me long after I’ve read the book.

4. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. How I only found out about this book five years ago I’ll never know. I must have been living under a rock, or at least waaaaaaaaay up in the snowy Canadian north to not even realize this book existed until a lady in my book club recommended it. Charming. Heartbreaking without being hopeless.

5. Jamaica Inn by Daphne Du Maurier. I found this book in my mother’s collection years ago when I was about eleven. Mystery, Romance, and a strong female protagonist. Easy to sink into when the thoughts of the day won’t settle. And Jem rivals Mr. Rochester when it comes to handsome scoundrels.

What are your “go to” books? The ones who attack those gloomy thoughts, as posed by Montaigne, with the vigorousness of a Rottweiler with a new toy? Please share!

I’ve been chastised and persecuted and ridiculed in public to the point where I have to go underground in order to practice a ritual that is so frowned upon by society I dare not reveal it to anyone…

…ok, maybe to you.

Here it goes…

I don’t read novels the same way most people do.

Friends have screamed,”but you ruin the ending that way!” ” Why would you do that? That is not how you’re supposed to read a book!” ” It’s just wrong!” ” You’re a freak!” And I am not giving way to melodrama here…these are direct quotes, most of them from loved ones.

Granted I am the type of personality that hates surprises. When I was a kid, and Mom and Dad where out, I’d search the house high and low to find my Christmas gifts. And I don’t particularly like going to movies because I can’t skip ahead or fast forward to the end of the movie, watch the resolution, then rewind the flick back to where I left off.

I much prefer DVD’s for this reason.

When I start a book I don’t just flip to the first page of the first chapter. Rather my reading ritual is to scour all the publication or newspaper acccolades (snippets that are listed on the first page or two of some books, or sometimes grace the back cover). I’m not sure why I want to know other opinions before I come to my own but if one of the accolades is from an author I admire, I’m more likely to purchase the HARDCOVER of the intended book. I then usually read any author information, or book club or readers club suggested questions and answers if they are included in the publication. Finally I read the interview with the author at the back of the book if there happens to be one.

Then, and only then, do I settle in and read the first quarter or first third of a novel. Next I flip to the back and read the ending. Now I don’t just leave it at that. I DO go back and continue from where I left off. I do have a genuine interest in seeing how the author gets to his final plot destination.

Who’s to say an author’s true intent is to have his or her novel read from front to back, beginning to end, following the story in order of the page numbers?

I’d like to think I do this is because I enjoy the journey of the read as well as the destination. There have been a couple of books where skipping to the end has given me NO clues to the resolution of plot. “Boys in Trees”  by Mary Swan being one and “Four Letters of Love” by Niall Williams being the other and I still enjoyed both immensely.

Is there a proper way to read a book?

Harold Bloom writes in the preface of his book How to Read and Why : “There is no single way to read well, though there is a prime reason why we should read… Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you, because it is the most healing of pleasures. It returns you to otherness, whether in yourself or in friends, or in those who may become friends. Imaginative literature is otherness and as such alleviates loneliness.”

To me, reading a novel has become almost ritualistic. A comforting routine that allows me, as Bloom suggests, solitude without loneliness.

What is your reading ritual?

Books are love letters (or apologies) passed between us, adding a layer of conversation beyond our spoken words.” 
― Donalyn Miller, The Book Whisperer: Awakening the Inner Reader in Every Child

I started a book club over ten years ago and although members have come and gone over the years

there has been a core of five that have suffered and celebrated life events over the magic of prose.

Our group is now made up of 10 and we’ve become a bit of an institution of sorts.   I am often asked “what is your book club reading this year?” and so I thought I’d share our entire list with all of you who are curious.

How did we come up with this eclectic array of titles?

Simple.

We all meet in September with books that we’ve read and loved,

or want to read but haven’t had time,

or have heard about and are curious….

or are scared to read alone for fear of frustration.

Then we are all given 10 votes (with the intention of meeting 9 or 10 times throughout the year) and we can put out ten votes on the books we so choose; one vote on ten books, or two votes on five books ….

I once wanted to read certain specific book so badly I put my entire ten votes on that one book! (much to the chagrin of several members…but they humoured me.)

This year we have everything from true crime to young adult, science fiction to literary classics.  We also have an honourable mention list for those titles who didn’t quite make the cut.

Enjoy!  And let me know if you’ve read any of these.  What did you think?  Which is your favourite?

2013/14 Book Club Reading List

The Winners

October: Ender’s Game – Orson Scott Card @ Leanne’s house Oct. 23

November: The Purchase – Linda Spalding

December: Persuasion – Jane Austen and

Life After Life – Kate Atkinson

January: Z: A novel of Zelda Fitzgerald – Therese Anne Fowler

February: Unwind – Neal Shusterman

March: Helter Skelter – Vincent Bugliosi

April: A Trick of the Light – Louise Penny

May: Cutting for Stone – Abraham Verghese

June: The Forgotten Garden – Kate Morton

Honourable Mentions

Pure – Julianna Baggott

Two Solitudes

The Orphan Master’s Son – Adam Johnson

Police – Jo Nesbo

The Empress Dowager Cixi – Jung Chang

The Lion Seeker – Kenneth Bonert

Reconstructing Amelia

The Absolutist

Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Arcadia – Lauren Groff

The Winter Palace – Eva Stachniak

The Lollipop Shoes – Joanne Harris

And the Mountains Echoed – Khaled Husseini

The Language of Flowers – Vanessa Diffenbaugh

The Little Giant of Aberdeen County – Tiffany Baker

The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck

Light Between Oceans – M.L. Stedman

The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared – Jonas Jonasson

The Juggler’s Children – Carolyn Abraham

Game of Thrones

Tomorrow I will get my English students to pick a passage out of “The Stone Carvers”, one they found particularly profound or poetic, and then respond to it personally.  This is one I wrote to use as an exemplar.  If they are brave enough I will have them post their responses in the comment section…and they are brave and brilliant little lightbulbs so I know they will!

“…[Klara] began to believe that, like the fog that was everywhere except indoors, she was not really inside the house of her mind.  Or perhaps it was that unlike the fog she was in that house and nowhere else.  She decided then to let the outside atmosphere into her rooms, and she opened every window, every door, and watched the white, odourless smoke crawl over the threshold and sill, curl around the legs of chairs, and spread itself over tables and beds.  She unlatched cupboard and closet doors and pulled open drawers in various dressers so that the fog touched even her most intimate underclothes and crept around her dead mother’s good dishes.”  The Stone Carvers by Jane Urquhart.  pg. 32.

Have you ever felt like Klara?  Like you weren’t inhabiting your own mind

or living in your own body?

Where you’ve felt too exhausted to engage in your own life or too traumatized to emotionally invest in your own experiences?  So you’ve severed yourself from the reality of your situation and have merely shifted into perfunctory actions,

neurons and synapses firing

(but it seems as though not of your own accord).

So,

you need some sort of invasive force to permeate your being, your space even

(metaphorically)

to tangibly weave and insinuate itself into and around your being  just to prove that you exist.  That you actually do live

and breathe

and walk

and think

and be.

That it is you taking up space and oxygen in a room.

That you consume rather than are consumed.

I get Klara.  I understand why she needs the fog as a manifestation of her confusion- a visual of her “blurred” state.  Making thoughts that are too scrambled and vague to make sense

visible.

Even if it’s absurdly vulnerable in nature.

But what to do when there is no fog.  No natural phenomenon to serve as words to your thoughts?

Do you just sit in confusion until you can claw your way through and serve as your own catalyst

jarring you from your inertia?

Or do you speak or draw or create or cry?

Or wait?

For something.

Or someone.

As ethereal as fog.