tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5577982772347282632024-03-13T23:45:45.742-04:00The Book RemedyWe pop pills in book form.Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-10089441144688430132014-02-17T05:30:00.001-05:002014-02-17T05:30:32.397-05:00Almodovar inspires: Life is not just an endless, onward push into oblivion
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KUkAgm_4D_u0TRrTSTqMchL7P7JeXeM57N6mjPXmmR_oBAmPAq_VJXKjK5hYrXn-7LvhB6yyQ9SdN39ow7MsDjJxolpoF4KZeDWtwYPKZIaPZxDkGrG8l_ACKW7nvvrDlYLY5M1GrU9O/s1600/Van_Gogh_The_Olive_Trees..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KUkAgm_4D_u0TRrTSTqMchL7P7JeXeM57N6mjPXmmR_oBAmPAq_VJXKjK5hYrXn-7LvhB6yyQ9SdN39ow7MsDjJxolpoF4KZeDWtwYPKZIaPZxDkGrG8l_ACKW7nvvrDlYLY5M1GrU9O/s1600/Van_Gogh_The_Olive_Trees..jpg" height="254" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olive_Trees_(Van_Gogh_series)" target="_blank">Van Gogh's "The Olive Trees" 1889</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In
the small masjid that flanks the west side of the house, we sit fanning our
faces with our hands, the air heavy and warm against our necks. Maghrib prayer
has just ended and our hosts are seated at the front of the masjid, their
voices soft in the din of cicadas that rises from the grove outside. They
speak of their efforts with </span><a href="http://www.juntaislamica.org/" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Junta Islamica</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, an organization dedicated to the establishment and integration of Islam in Spain and</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><a href="http://www.webislam.com/info/60403-about_us.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Web Islam</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, a project of Junta Islamica that focusses on the dissemination of information about Islam in Spanish</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the years, Web Islam has become the primary Spanish language website providing information about Islam. It aims to fulfill what we've quickly come to recognize as a hunger for information related to Islam. There is a genuine curiosity among the local populations to investigate a history that weighs heavy with Islamic influences, a history that simultaneously seems to coincide with and provide new light on modern day events. I
make note of the website and then slide my journal into my satchel, my eyes
drifting to the doorway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Outside,
there is a fountain-tap – a tiled structure with taps that stream cool water
used for ablution before prayer. The masjid spills a circle of light onto the pebble-flecked
dirt that is packed around the fountain. I step over ankles and knees and slip
my feet into my shoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
sky is inky blue, almost black, and it rises in breaths of stars. I stand at
the edge of the grove, where long strands of dry grass have webbed themselves
into heaps that scrape at my ankles. I look into the darkness between the
trees. Olive trees are squat; their branches drape low and I can reach out and
hold a young green olive between my fingers. The leaves are small and slim,
they taper to a point and I think of what my mother – an avid gardener – would
notice if she were standing here in my place, these stems of olives in her
hands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-r2hyphenhyphenS89vCyJl_JCdv4rlsY0EujUhZa9xXWpOWixP-y9dY-A_ObYoxG7l3HVyxe0egW9pdv_zCsw4eu1aeFu2HtO9wXuRniuiZt4U89XoVSFqhHO_91ybsJfvtSqFuI1xGH_hO2VmwDD/s1600/olivegrove-night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY-r2hyphenhyphenS89vCyJl_JCdv4rlsY0EujUhZa9xXWpOWixP-y9dY-A_ObYoxG7l3HVyxe0egW9pdv_zCsw4eu1aeFu2HtO9wXuRniuiZt4U89XoVSFqhHO_91ybsJfvtSqFuI1xGH_hO2VmwDD/s1600/olivegrove-night.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://shop.photo4me.com/picture.aspx?id=101867&f=canvas" target="_blank">"Olive Grove Night Drive"</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
But as I look into the trees, I am frustrated with my own insistence that there
must be meaning, that there is something to be gained from simply making an
effort to find it. This insistence that meaning must exist wherever I look is
the kind of hunger that isn’t satisfied. It doesn’t allow for a moment to
simply exist, for you to exist in it as a point among many points in a diagram
of infinity. It dismisses insignificance and makes an appeal for purpose, for
signs, for something that tells you that you are here and you matter, <i>this</i> matters, the world itself matters.
But as I stand in the grass, brushing my ankle with the toe of my shoe to
disperse imagined insects, I want to simply be still. To allow myself the
simplicity of existence. Of being here just because He decided to put me here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Something
lands with a thud by my shoe. I bend and find a purple, plastic pony, its nylon
hair gleaming in the light. I turn, pony in hand, and find a small girl
standing a few feet from me, a half-smile tilting her lips. She wears a
cotton flowered dress, her hair in a slim braid that juts out from the back of
her head. I smile and fling the pony into the air, watching it arc into the sky.
As it rockets down, I reach out and catch it in midair. The girl skips and
breaks out a smile. I toss the pony to her and she reaches out to catch it. It
bounces off her shoulder and hits the ground. <br />
<br />
She picks it up, throws it to me, and I catch it. She jumps, clapping her hands
together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> Me
llamo Khadeeja. </i>She points to her chest. <i>Como te
llamas? </i>She points at me with her chin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> Me
llamo Shoilee. </i>I press my hand to my chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We
toss the pony back and forth skirting the edge of the olive grove, the moon a
saucer behind us in the sky. As the pony arcs through the air, sometimes
landing at our feet, sometimes hitting an elbow or flicking off the tips of our
fingers, we trade words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I
point to the olive trees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<i> Oliva, </i>she says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> Oliva,
</i>I repeat.
I turn and point to the sky. <i>Moon. </i><br />
<br />
<i> La Luna, </i>she waves her hand in
the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I
toss her the pony. She catches it and her eyes widen. I cheer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
She flings the pony into the air. It
sails past me and rolls into a heap of dried grass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
We toss the pony back and forth – <i>oliva,
la luna –</i> before I head to the fountain. The group has begun to spill
outside, women reclining against the fountain, breathing in the night air. One
of the women turns on the faucet and splashes water onto her face, leaning forward
into the spray. Even after sunset, the heat is thick, the air like a sodden
blanket on our faces. The tiles are wet from splatters of water. I find a dry
spot and sit, leaning back on my arms. Khadeeja stretches out on her back next
to me, her eyes squinting in the dark. She asks me a question in Spanish, her
brows furrowed. The words spin from her mouth in quick succession. I shake my
head and offer her a half-shrug. She wrinkles her nose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I
ripple my fingers towards the sky. <br />
<br />
<i> Stars. What do you call them?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> La estrella. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Khadeeja raises her hands in
the air and then clasps them over her chest. She turns to me, her gaze
insistent. She repeats her question twice, then three times and I can do
nothing but shake my head and smile weakly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
have no words to offer her – I wish for the ability to say something more, to have
words click with meaning in my mind and roll off my tongue in those fleshy notes
of Spanish that seem to dance out of peoples mouths so musically. I lean toward
her and smile. She sighs. She speaks to
the sky. She speaks with such emphasis, her brows furrowed, her lips screwed
tight, her hands playing with the air. In moments, her voice drifts into soft,
dreamlike tones and it is as if she is the only one here, lying under that
giant platter of a moon, ripples of light painting stripes across her face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_VTCnAFw7UmHcBeMGRfOt8_6G6gCaWolrLxOunEWAP3Po4NprS40ApBH8aPK3EFvfx-zSkK0C2Ato8peGxRfZTB84aqNUjhRcnKyfGn8DChY1tEA0PNtkRT-p-3C6iDzcR4DVT-PGOWo/s1600/IMG_6024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo_VTCnAFw7UmHcBeMGRfOt8_6G6gCaWolrLxOunEWAP3Po4NprS40ApBH8aPK3EFvfx-zSkK0C2Ato8peGxRfZTB84aqNUjhRcnKyfGn8DChY1tEA0PNtkRT-p-3C6iDzcR4DVT-PGOWo/s1600/IMG_6024.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gathering for our evening meal. Photo: Khalidah Ali</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In
a few moments, everyone trickles out of the mosque and gathers on the verandah
for a home-cooked dinner. The walls are a burnt-orange and in the light that
spills from fixtures that look like lanterns, everything glows. We balance
small clear bowls of brothy soup on plates piled with potatoes that are so
soft, they fall apart on our tongues, with stewed eggplant that boast a tart,
but heavy-bodied flavour that heats us from the belly up. There is warmth and
simplicity in this food; it fills us up and our hunger is stayed, but it does
something else too. In the best possible fruition of clichés, it fulfills the
most basic of bodily needs, while triggering our souls into a state of
gratitude.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
is awe that propels us into gratitude – look at where we are, our legs dangling
over the edge of a verandah that overlooks an olive grove, the soft
burn of conversation rising around us, this limitless sky, this gift of a
perfect evening. But, there is also fear, this unrest that curdles in the
centre of your chest and spreads out in a paralytic haze. This is the burden of
gratitude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkeVJoBu0sasyTJDOsypK7Ak6ReJDqzCVGWIcWede09pGt0Bo1s3u71vP9_8RBh8Jyh1n3vFYtZI9sD-Dzb7YrYTgBbCwdhKamQuh5VgtjYKJ90nU1uBHpwqTXD0awxwm2ngT2Ks2nwxzg/s1600/IMG_1382+copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkeVJoBu0sasyTJDOsypK7Ak6ReJDqzCVGWIcWede09pGt0Bo1s3u71vP9_8RBh8Jyh1n3vFYtZI9sD-Dzb7YrYTgBbCwdhKamQuh5VgtjYKJ90nU1uBHpwqTXD0awxwm2ngT2Ks2nwxzg/s1600/IMG_1382+copy.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home cooked meal at Almodovar. Photo: Memona Hossain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dua
– the act of calling out to Allah (swt) is something that we consciously do,
but it is also something that our hearts, in commune with our souls, is in a
constant state of doing, sometimes without conscious effort. Our souls attach
themselves to their Creator and it is as if when our existence begins, we are
in a lifelong battle to return to Him. When there is pain in our lives, often
so overwhelming it creates a state of numbness inside us, it is a manifestation
of our need to connect, to be understood, to rise from the daily infliction of
pain in its multitude of forms and simply be relieved, to exist in a state
where you no longer have to get <i>up</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With
our hearts in their vulnerable, even nightmarish states of pain, disease, and
disillusion, I don’t wonder at our inability to articulate what it is we need
to heal ourselves. And I think, it is in these stretches of silence that the
duas we never thought to make, are taken up by Him and fulfilled. When we are
given moments like this, when we experience connection and unity and fulfillment,
when we find ourselves standing up with every cell in our bodies somehow
revived, it is thrilling, but it is also terrifying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Awe
can bring us to gratitude, but gratitude is also a state of awe. And perhaps
this is it – the acute understanding of His magnitude, His endless mercy, His
understanding of every shadow that spreads like a watermark across our hearts –
perhaps this is what brings us to our knees. This is what makes us know how
small we are, but also how much what we do matters. The realization that
everything matters – moments don’t just blip on and on into an endless
compendium of other moments. They exist as pinpoints in a map of our life,
every moment contributing to the next one, every destination a prerequisite for
how we can or will<i> be</i> in the moments
to come and how those moments affect and collide with moments in a million
other lives in ways we can’t begin to imagine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And
so, this evening with the Almodovar community of Muslims, this witnessing of
community revival and survival, this experience of how vast and varied the
spread of Islam was and continues to be, this union of goodness among people of
such diversity – it places the tremendous weight of gratitude upon our hearts.
But, with this weight, there is hope. Life is not just an endless, onward push into
oblivion. There is hope that what we do with what we are given, however small
and labored our efforts, is accounted for, is part of something bigger that we
haven’t come to comprehend, but we believe in. It’s how we go on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-52734248097846923072013-10-07T03:30:00.000-04:002013-10-07T03:35:26.324-04:00Almodovar: Against Soft Sighing Skies<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Early evening light drips through the giant windows of the tour bus and we lean our heads against the glass. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">We've spent the morning at the Grand Mosque in Cordoba and now, as the sun slowly makes its way across the sky, we wind our way up a road that twists round hills of dry earth. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">We are just outside Cordoba en route to a family farm in the hills, where the Almodovar community of Spanish Muslims are hosting us for salat al-maghrib (evening prayer) and dinner. As the bus heaves up the hill, I place my hand against the glass and feel the warmth against my fingers. I hardly know where I'm being taken, but this sense of submission, of being lead to where you need to be, no input required, is liberating. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">"Look up there -- " </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Our guide, Tariq (from <a href="http://www.islamic-spain.com/" target="_blank">Andalucian Routes</a>), points to the hills. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">We shift in our seats and follow his gaze. The skies are already yellowed from the onset of evening. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">"Do you see that building? That's Madinat Al Zahra -- that's where we're going tomorrow." Tariq holds the microphone loosely in his right hand and there's a furrow in his brows as he explains how we will visit the ruins of a palace built by Abdur Rahman III, that we'll walk through the remnants of what was once the most functional, advanced, and prosperous city of its time. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Tariq has a particular way of speaking that even on this -- the second day of our travels -- I've come to enjoy. He is impassioned, but not overbearing. His accent doesn't have the grating edge of a posh Londoner and though I know he's from Birmingham, his intonations are soft, but quick, one word kicking into the next in quick succession. Combined with his placid </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">demeanour, his voice has the unique effect of simultaneously engaging and calming you. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5myhY3mp2J3nPMsx_KuRz5Lwdqg4WfKs8BQeQLVcJaBi9JwvDzaV1aUxxu8TLNN-8v_UgbRr29fVXBI3nitixXNV8YX7WVqV7eKoxQh70i4ST4FZ-_6Hv3zHNRqnTG0WWPyAf57RJGIj/s1600/IMG_0481.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5myhY3mp2J3nPMsx_KuRz5Lwdqg4WfKs8BQeQLVcJaBi9JwvDzaV1aUxxu8TLNN-8v_UgbRr29fVXBI3nitixXNV8YX7WVqV7eKoxQh70i4ST4FZ-_6Hv3zHNRqnTG0WWPyAf57RJGIj/s320/IMG_0481.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out the window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">I scan the hills--mounds of green shrubbery dot rippled earth that alternates from ruddy brown to light shades of dry brush.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"> I spot a sprawling building perched against the rocky cuts of earth -- its walls are a soft, butter yellow and the ledges are carved into delicate motifs that seem to scrape gently into the surrounding scenery. I glance around the bus to see if I've spotted the right structure and as if reading my mind, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Tariq leans over and looks out the window. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">"No--no--not the monastery. That big yellow building is the monastery. There -- up, on the left." He points again and as I shift my gaze, the bus rounds a curve and the view is lost. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Shaykh Abdullah Hakim Quick sits at the front of the bus, just in front of where Tariq now stands, and when Tariq pauses, he turns in his seat and speaks to the group. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">We are immediately attentive. As anyone who has grown up listening to the Shaykh's lectures knows, his measured, but direct manner of speaking has the effect of making you pay attention. Every sentence seems to have a push of energy behind it, an intensity that exhales into a state of awe--it's as if he is always marvelling at how things are and how they could be. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">"Madinat Al Zahra is the point when the idea of building palaces for <i>yourself</i>, the idea of a leader somehow <i>deserving</i> a palace--this marks the beginning of a loss of imaan (faith)." He nods, his glance flitting up the aisle, then resting at some distant point out the window. He turns back, handing the microphone to Tariq. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Already, there is a sense of loss that accompanies each site we visit. As the bus lurches on, up this winding road that seems to curve on and on into the burning horizon, I have the distinct feeling of being placed in a story, of knowing what it truly means to be a traveller. You step forward into new landscapes with your chest split down the middle, your ribs yanked open like a gateway. The good -- it flows in easy and you walk on eager, chin lifted to the sun. But to lead with an open heart, is to walk forth vulnerable and exposed, every branch in your path scraping your heart raw, every moment you experience taking hold and not letting go. And though this can injure, I think there really can be no other way to travel -- not if you want the experience to be more than fleeting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">We have moved deep into the hills and as the bus curves round, we see the first signs of the village -- lines and lines of whitewashed houses stacked like lego bricks at the base of a hill. Tariq points out the window again, half smiling. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQlpPjbwDg6tz_ApFC8lxH1ijsjgT2sjDhN5CGxYWXe2PeTya5SkxYxMOkdbWdpdjNh7NEUpgijdsd37zGhJ7Gqjo18Jzdo0NHPrcJrUoyrz0A4I0SFjhbfKfZ8vF64mfkHNRcSi_KvFF/s1600/IMG_0490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQlpPjbwDg6tz_ApFC8lxH1ijsjgT2sjDhN5CGxYWXe2PeTya5SkxYxMOkdbWdpdjNh7NEUpgijdsd37zGhJ7Gqjo18Jzdo0NHPrcJrUoyrz0A4I0SFjhbfKfZ8vF64mfkHNRcSi_KvFF/s400/IMG_0490.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Almodovar Castle, Cordoba</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">"They've got a castle in their backyard." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">High up on a hill, rising up from the earth like an ancient fairytale is the <a href="http://www.cordoba24.info/castillo_almodovar/html/castillo_en.html" target="_blank">Almodovar Castle</a>. Built by Muslims in the year 760, it was lost almost five hundred years later to Fernando III in the year 1240. It stands today on one of the highest points of the landscape, perched like a crown against soft sighing skies, a testament to the way history will unravel itself in slow, but deliberate turns, every catastrophic loss a pinpoint on a map we can only see in fragments. There is perfection, but we see it in hindsight; we hardly recognize the light or the beauty until we stand at the very edge looking back. It could not have happened any other way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"> eastern sky sighs from blue into white and</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"> we circle round and round, higher, then deeper. We snap pictures, our shoulders pressed up against the glass, the reflections in the window showing up as gleaming streaks in our photos, the flashes from our cameras as flaring, artificial moons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The bus pulls to the side of the road and exhales, slowing to an abrupt halt. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Into the bush</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Cicadas -- we are off the bus and trekking down a wide path of hard-packed dirt into a deafening cacophony of shrieking cicadas. The path is lined with thick vegetation -- short, stubby pomegranate trees with nubs of small fruit, low draping branches of olive trees, the giant, dinosaur-like aloe vera that looks monstrous enough to eat you. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The incline of the hill is not severe, but we are breathless once we reach the clearing. Here, the rest of the group has already gathered. Tariq stands next to a young man -- he is slight, his features gentle. He smiles wide. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">"Welcome--" He addresses the group in English, a Spanish lilt edging his words in thick strokes. He tells us that this place -- a family farm, but also a hub for Islamic gathering and learning -- was started by his father, a Spanish Muslim, and continues today through the efforts of his children and the local <a href="http://www.webislam.com/info/60403-about_us.html" target="_blank">Spanish Muslim community</a>. As the day slips out from under us, I smile. There is loss at every turn, but then there is this -- a small community of Muslims amid groves of olive trees. Muslims, here in Spain, passing the branch of Islam from one generation to the next, and the next -- </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Almodovar, Cordoba</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The horizon deepens to rust and we climb an iron staircase that leads to the rooftop. From here, we stare out at the plains where lines and lines of olive trees roll over the dry earth in calligraphic strokes of brooding green. We lean over the railings almost breathless -- the sun burns low behind the hills and the sky sinks from bright white to purple shadow, the air still. And all the while, cicadas buzz like electricity in voltage lines -- everything seems electrified. We take turns posing for pictures with the backdrop of the castle behind us and at sunset, a hush spreads through the group. The </span><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">adhan, quiet amidst the hum of the cicadas, undulates outward into the plains, or emanates from it -- it seems part of the landscape, rolling out from the earth itself. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The call to prayer is just a human voice that beckons people to submit. To come, acquaint yourselves with success, to walk forth in the name of your Creator, to press your forehead against the earth and know with certainty that He made you. That your heart, that nub of flesh that winds in upon itself in hurt, in grief, in anger, in rebellion, in abandonment, in hope -- that your heart is made by Him and He knows, He knows. Every pulse of pain that makes you cave inward -- He knows. Every grief that has you press your hand against your chest to dull the ache -- He knows. And the adhan -- it calls you to Him, to return again and again and again to the one thing that will relieve and revive you, to the one thing that will carry you through.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adhan in Almodovar<br />
Photo Credit: Khalidah Ali</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The group slowly files back down the steps to the mussalah (a dedicated prayer space) to join in congregational prayer. I turn back and rest my arms on the railing -- I know that this was written for me, for each of us. To think that He wrote this moment for me -- standing on a rooftop in the plains outside Cordoba, me and these brilliant burning skies -- to think that He put each of us here so we could speak to Him, so we could bear witness to the perfection of His plan -- is this not a blessing? Is this not mercy? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">The sun has sunk low and the horizon is ink against the fire of the sky. I am alone on the rooftop and the cicadas still hum, their buzz like the white noise of rainfall all around me. I hurry down the steps to join my companions. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">Stay tuned for Part II of our visit to Almodovar.</span></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-89837187554272698812013-09-05T23:52:00.000-04:002013-10-07T03:31:10.141-04:00Greetings from Al-Andalus: Contemplation (1)<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My journey to Al-Andalus - </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the Medieval Islamic empire that covered what is now Spain, Portugal, and the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Southern</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> bit of France -- was something I'd booked with hardly a second thought a few months ago. It was a historical tour of Islamic Spain with Sh. Abdullah Hakim and guided by <a href="http://www.islamic-spain.com/" target="_blank">Andalucian Routes</a>. After a quick browse of the website and an additional week in Morocco added to supplement the time we would spend in Spain, it was booked and almost forgotten.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the days leading up to my departure, I found myself in a such a hectic frenzy of obligations, I hardly had the time to reflect on what I was doing. I didn't pack until the night before and I barely checked our itinerary until the day of our actual flight. I relied on my friends to tell me when to be at the airport -- and for someone as OCD about flight times and details as I am, this was just something else. I wanted to avoid this kind of frenzy, this mindless onward push through life, but there I was yet again, in the midst of it all, barely breathing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">“[Those] Who remember Allaah while standing or sitting or [lying] on their sides and give thought to the creation of the heavens and the earth, [saying], 'Our Lord! You did not create this aimlessly…'”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> [Quran 3: 191]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Contemplation. This is what leads us from one peak of our life to the next. It's what guides us out of our valleys, up onto the rocky sides of mountains we don't think we can climb, to the brief plateaus where we marvel in awe, in grief, in submission, and up, up, up to the highest point of our lives. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Life pulls you on and on and sometimes it pulls you so far in, you are pulled apart. Y</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ou wake each morning and you fulfill your obligations in a state of numb disarray; you do because you must, or simply because it's what you've always done. A litany of destination points stretch out before you--you will meet each one and then you will move on to the next and you will go on doing and doing. And the years will pass. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is a point high above you on the horizon that you never reach -- perhaps you're not even aiming for it. It's a point that remains in your peripheral vision all your life, and though you can see it, you don't always know how to get there. Sometimes the desires of the self, rather than the soul, lead you down other routes. Other times you are lost in the syncopated rhythm of life, every step another beat in an unknown direction. But that point was placed for you in your line of vision and it never moves -- in His wisdom, it's there even when we look the other way. When we turn towards it, He pulls us in. It's the point that leads us home, to Him, to the kind of fulfillment that holds your heart and fills it with light. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our hearts -- our hearts -- they are strong and resilient, but when they are in a state of pained existence, or worse, when the heart is in a state of such worn fatigue that it simply wants to lie flat in a plane of nothing, because in the absence of everything at least it can find rest -- in this state, the rest of the body suffers, the minds suffers, and the soul--it wants to flee. Because truly, how does one exist when nothingness replaces your heart? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Al-Andalus was a point placed on my horizon and when I reached it and looked up, I felt my heart unfurl in the way a leaf uncurls itself to soak in the morning light--hesitant, but so eager for nourishment. I am no great human being; none of us deserve the blessings we receive; they come to us in blinding waves of mercy from Him because even as we cradle our own hearts in fear, even as we build fortresses around our hearts in a desire to protect, He knows our hearts more than we do. He knows, and so He gives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do not want to be the traveller who stands before the wonders of His creation and can only see the inside of her own mind. To contemplate the state of your heart and relate what you see to your own life, desires, and purpose is beneficial. But left unbalanced, it can very quickly draw you into a vacuum where you trap yourself inside your own struggles and fail to truly see the blessings that have been placed before you and the responsibility that has been laid gently, but pointedly into the palm of your hand. If you do not lift your head to breathe, you will miss the brilliance of how the world works so beautifully, you will miss the warmth that exists between your fellow beings, you will miss the miracles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Contemplation. This is an all-encompassing act - it combines the necessity of inner reflection with the twin necessities of external connection and individual action. Contemplation stirs the heart so it can beat in the world again, purposefully, with direction. It is what allows us to receive the blessings we are given with humility and gratitude. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">“[Those] Who remember Allaah while standing or sitting or [lying] on their sides and give thought to the creation of the heavens and the earth, [saying], 'Our Lord! You did not create this aimlessly…'”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"> [Quran 3: 191]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He did not create all this, or us, aimlessly. Every moment has a purpose. Our lives sometimes seem like maps of scattered constellations -- how do we make sense of it all? But there is wisdom in the way our lives spin out before us, wisdom that we don't understand until we're standing at the edge of the map looking back and taking everything in. Only at the edge of not knowing can we look back and see so clearly how everything in our lives is laid out in precision, how every moment had a distinct purpose and that we are brought to where we are by virtue of a thousand moments that only He could place in our path.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pray these records of my contemplations in Al-Andalus will be ways of striving towards an understanding of our ultimate purpose. May they be sources of goodness for me, and for others, InshaAllah (God Willing). </span><br />
<br />Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-74750011837076577852013-04-08T09:58:00.000-04:002013-04-08T10:13:56.447-04:00Be Still: The Art of Not Writing (or, Writer's Block)I was in <i>that place </i>-- that lush, viney creative jungle where everything is vivid, colours blare, and the ideas seem endless--everything is bright and ready. The grey of your everyday is electric with detail and there are connections everywhere. Small things, subtle things, they zip across your line of vision and you hold them; they have weight, potential meaning. You can string together an entire life in a night, or tunnel into the psyche of a character who lay lifeless for months. It's a great place to be. Life resumes purpose and you can smile again. <br />
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But there are dangerous thoughts. <br />
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The creek will run dry--this seems like a non-negotiable conclusion. Eventually there will be nothing to say. You'll reach that place where you look out across a burning skyline and think that this is nothing new, that this is just sky. There are no spires tipping into the wilting fog--there is sky and concrete and the heavy burden of people's stories. This is drudgery. This is too much. Your world is a dry plateau and if you thrust your heel into the earth, there is a disconsolate thud and nothing more. You don't imagine there could be more. Why should there be? Will there ever be anything new? Is this the only thing you will ever create? <br />
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And I suppose this is where the melancholy dips dangerously into a stagnant depression. It feeds a cycle of non-creation and guilt, where once stopped it is difficult to get started again. But I think when you reach a place where stories become burdens, where you can sit in a train station and scoff at the people walking by because you don't care anymore, their stories are simply too much for you to take in--it is a time where not writing becomes a defiant, desperate, but ultimately creative act. <br />
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If you are not writing, you may in fact be creating--or more accurately, cultivating the grounds within yourself that are needed for creation. If stories are burdens, there is a creative need not being met. It is the need for regeneration, the need to recluse and lie flat. This is a period where you feel stagnant, but you must allow nothing--the invigorating blankness of nothing--to lay itself over you. You must relieve yourself of guilt. To be stagnant is to be in a state of non-movement, seeming non-progression. But the stillness you allow yourself, makes it possible to feel again. The urge--to notice, to be interested--comes back.<br />
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It is difficult to be still. Other people move past you; they are alight, everything bright and bursting for <em>them.</em> But, you are here. You are probably alone. It seems that you <em>should</em> be doing many things--writing, creating, accomplishing, but you are doing nothing. This is desolate. <br />
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But to recluse oneself in this circumstance does not mean you must go into seclusion--it <em>can</em>, but it does not necessitate withdrawing from the world and living only with the degeneration of your own thoughts. It simply means to remove yourself from stimuli that you cannot, at the moment, take in. It is a period of latency that is necessary for the period that follows--a period of renewed creativity and vigour.<br />
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Allow yourself to be still. Time will pass. Let it.<br />
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You will start to notice small things--just a word or a phrase that sits on your tongue; you like the way it feels, the roll of it against your palate. Out of defiance, you may resist--you may not want to begin again, but soon the world will start to light up one detail after another. This is when you begin to stir. You push yourself. You write something down. It starts small and simple--the way late afternoon light hits the side of a woman's nose, the skin wet, hair follicles perspiring--and grows. <br />
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The world buzzes.<br />
Begin again.<br />
<br />Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-82704246327217110832012-09-20T01:55:00.000-04:002012-09-20T02:00:39.464-04:00Love, Los Angeles: The Last Bookstore<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Visiting <a href="http://lastbookstorela.com/home/" target="_blank">The Last Bookstore</a> on South Spring Street in Los Angeles is like stepping into a fairytale. When one of the clerks at <a href="http://www.skylightbooks.com/" target="_blank">Skylight Books</a> learned I was exploring independent bookstores during my stay, he recommended I visit this new-and-used bookstore located downtown. His description was a little cryptic--he told me it was pretty magical and that there were two floors with lots of books upstairs. I thought, okay--great. Two floors. Books upstairs. Magical. That's nice, right? </div>
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I walked three miles from my cousin's apartment in Koreatown and arrived blistered and breathless at the entrance. The security guy tucked my backpack into a cubby and told me to enjoy myself. He seemed genuinely excited to see me and even more thrilled when I told him it was my first visit. You know a place is special when the security crew are smiling about it. </div>
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And then I stepped inside. Maybe it's because I've been boxed away in
the big box chain store world of Chapters-Indigo and Barnes and Noble--the gloss of these stores are shiny and appealing, but also sterile, the
uniformity and efficiency busying me into a mode of comatose book
buying--but, from the moment I stepped into The Last Bookstore I felt
like I was unraveling some great mystery, as if I had stepped into some
secret world where bright-eyed bookish people gather to frolic. </div>
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The store's sky-high ceilings and rows of white columns speak to its <a href="http://brighamyen.com/2011/06/05/the-last-bookstore-in-los-angeles-grand-reopening-in-downtown-los-angeles/" target="_blank">architectural origins</a>--the building, called the <a href="http://springartstower.com/citizens-national-bank/" target="_blank">Spring Arts Tower</a>, was built in 1914
and housed the Citizens' Bank. There are old leather arm chairs,
worn and torn, soft and deep, along with velvet backed claw-foot chairs
that look like they're from 1930s Hollywood hotels. These are set up
against columns, people sinking in, heads bowed, books splayed across
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpBgW7H7sfGnGO2bSBn7691NI_WqjEWqrfaPxAs122Wjqdd8DboKrwEzGdZqImMuEoSbrSHw5lRpufu6oQyTr-d2WpwGiEJS9aQ5vyIS2vOqNilBrgcg4BNs9WF6WEqLtwrbDcvzGMptj/s400/IMAG0749.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sky-high ceilings</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Yo7UXyxENd3HORB04ESKEgXy-EYwjIXpRRhw6aV-2T5_lKx0SvUz4HG05h13Jg5ohAcWCxPsUV6iQNZVLg9aBdp7PnbZXTN-BfT9rJRpTUPOxzLELIQ3T2hMrMA-tWAlEqrlF7RXXJxw/s400/IMAG0748.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who perched on this chair and had their afternoon tea before it made its way to book heaven decades later?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHUUAXcjfTUx1R3r4hp9HLOWdipuhHXp4jco6ttNfB8Em9-JuT1SFWacmKyKMsxtAGMRabWdOgzZqi_2MKK6HOUwEBzRGI-LXuuvYn1APrYXPjB_fyF23XToyWUgs2hF4-Cu5qRmAVsUb/s1600/IMAG0751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHUUAXcjfTUx1R3r4hp9HLOWdipuhHXp4jco6ttNfB8Em9-JuT1SFWacmKyKMsxtAGMRabWdOgzZqi_2MKK6HOUwEBzRGI-LXuuvYn1APrYXPjB_fyF23XToyWUgs2hF4-Cu5qRmAVsUb/s400/IMAG0751.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A distinguished library chair. Also the most appropriate place to smoke a cigar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnLuEPr7nHrScOXEF8oBhYoMXvDDBhWYjBNTykwkE7fKpLXTg-TCOwS1FB1IzuK4gbBvkcU93yBCVOYeYzBOudxMoJaNRPptpbpvNxXJK8ihbSuTV8lPAzrkKE-iYz3EzLRkupSIi4DYzw/s1600/IMAG0754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnLuEPr7nHrScOXEF8oBhYoMXvDDBhWYjBNTykwkE7fKpLXTg-TCOwS1FB1IzuK4gbBvkcU93yBCVOYeYzBOudxMoJaNRPptpbpvNxXJK8ihbSuTV8lPAzrkKE-iYz3EzLRkupSIi4DYzw/s400/IMAG0754.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tattered, but lovely reading chair and ottoman.</td></tr>
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Upstairs, there are thousands of books, all on sale for $1. When
you're up there, you really feel like you've fallen down the rabbit
hole. You're in a labyrinth of books, strange little art installations
tucked into hidden corners, as if this is an old curiosity shop--which
in many ways it is. An elderly gentleman, cap and all, shelves
endless carts of books and offers a multitude of historical tidbits when asked. He
tells us that "unfortunately" they <i>do </i>have children's books--far
too many. An entire back room overflows with them, bright paperbacks
slipping haphazardly off shelves that wind back and forth and round and
round, never ending. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMKA1LwkqljFzuGbl4DLR1mIrhBZZKl2gvOkdthK3o3ygqYCJOU8CEAlmm0zRfftO8WgEMHHbLuCm2G0WK3qfdJpciW1VVcHh6-2_84hZD2dIHvGefg1dNTq8J5i83I2ET0r3PUlTNU7v/s1600/IMAG0752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMKA1LwkqljFzuGbl4DLR1mIrhBZZKl2gvOkdthK3o3ygqYCJOU8CEAlmm0zRfftO8WgEMHHbLuCm2G0WK3qfdJpciW1VVcHh6-2_84hZD2dIHvGefg1dNTq8J5i83I2ET0r3PUlTNU7v/s400/IMAG0752.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking up</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27X3qkHy_EhcMEqP9jGaRoKuo1Ro3FOrNOTY0naZLubY4uvCSjwqJ-7v0G11JC-nRjr1dwuAdOujR2yY16bwh3TUClpz_oYzQwT_sChsamZEJ12R5EQZI3yEDt9jvrTnjADcktLtTCs9A/s1600/lastbookupstairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27X3qkHy_EhcMEqP9jGaRoKuo1Ro3FOrNOTY0naZLubY4uvCSjwqJ-7v0G11JC-nRjr1dwuAdOujR2yY16bwh3TUClpz_oYzQwT_sChsamZEJ12R5EQZI3yEDt9jvrTnjADcktLtTCs9A/s400/lastbookupstairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down through an art installation (apologies to the artist--I did not write down your name!)<br />
Photo Credit: Aditi Mahmud</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AmTkmfrEmtae4aiEMNbYVKR0rqVpMtwTMuGUIfQa4bqTiDMWz6cygxcK9XGYSc4wp5LEzRNyghp1ddlHrZeGay9psRIxB9YFu_OYDTsPFMgWHTlX2sCeQ-exVWQLAVEIq679qVyOtufn/s1600/lastbookdowntherabbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8AmTkmfrEmtae4aiEMNbYVKR0rqVpMtwTMuGUIfQa4bqTiDMWz6cygxcK9XGYSc4wp5LEzRNyghp1ddlHrZeGay9psRIxB9YFu_OYDTsPFMgWHTlX2sCeQ-exVWQLAVEIq679qVyOtufn/s320/lastbookdowntherabbit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Through the rabbit hole! Photo Credit: Aditi Mahmud</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Their science fiction collection is housed in what used
to be the bank's vault. An actual, bolts, combination, straight from the
movies vault. If you get trapped inside, the original notice on how to
ensure a nice flow of oxygen while you wait patiently for help, is
posted in the
window--the paper is yellowed, the typeface faded and it very clearly
indicates that the vault cannot be opened from the inside.</span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69qNcADqAbF_CUKRZS9Z-woS4cD3goFSH5k0G-_CRQu94ezheWmgTfM8sRk71ipV5FVe2pE8Tl9CEkeW4R54zswTLXMeTYFogSG96n8j2S_5H6zbhdYiFHalaGeX7TLpNzSDwxBzF8bQq/s1600/IMAG0756.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69qNcADqAbF_CUKRZS9Z-woS4cD3goFSH5k0G-_CRQu94ezheWmgTfM8sRk71ipV5FVe2pE8Tl9CEkeW4R54zswTLXMeTYFogSG96n8j2S_5H6zbhdYiFHalaGeX7TLpNzSDwxBzF8bQq/s400/IMAG0756.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The text reads: </div>
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<u>Procedures to follow if accidently [sic] locked in the vault</u></div>
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<u><br /></u> The wheel located directly above the vault door should be turned as far to the left as possible. Pull wheel and attached spindle out.</div>
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This leaves a small opening through which air may come into vault. It also may be used to communicate with out-side the vault.</div>
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<u>It is not possible to open the vault door from the inside.</u></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The store regularly hosts readings, musical events, lectures, and other
"unforeseen combinations" accepting applications from the public on a
quarterly basis. They also feature art installations by local artists and display them throughout the store. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7blvbTlf7QiSnB1Y7UWYkK80CHESeG-SkYIEpR-INWMYnXFS1YWLLk_nfimJZGubOcWPIF0fTFzMPkmUiGLg9NMAMEzByg9cwEd1oWTzvh6ChTXiA_OxEK0871N62PdcIPJj1B0JCe9Z/s1600/IMAG0750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7blvbTlf7QiSnB1Y7UWYkK80CHESeG-SkYIEpR-INWMYnXFS1YWLLk_nfimJZGubOcWPIF0fTFzMPkmUiGLg9NMAMEzByg9cwEd1oWTzvh6ChTXiA_OxEK0871N62PdcIPJj1B0JCe9Z/s400/IMAG0750.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycle wheels!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg6ZVckRC04W3ZfU4XtxQjqSvNx5s5derpxc7nswAHHa3PUNBzG5Qfd4V3ikkXsKSmV1nkpqflHLYfsQ3DBIvAKEwxDBi6FPcTfSMsU-4J2WVA-UKbEDJ8EUnXnh2r8kxFhdb2vzYolvt/s1600/IMAG0753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg6ZVckRC04W3ZfU4XtxQjqSvNx5s5derpxc7nswAHHa3PUNBzG5Qfd4V3ikkXsKSmV1nkpqflHLYfsQ3DBIvAKEwxDBi6FPcTfSMsU-4J2WVA-UKbEDJ8EUnXnh2r8kxFhdb2vzYolvt/s320/IMAG0753.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I couldn't figure this one out--but something was happening inside a birdcage.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil2aLmruCxcK0wvOPMqw1xX3O6jhxZD-EWbAEXNEw2v6kstwXF5Fl061Xdbn4djLvlWgiqASn_mzZ7E1IPMpRM9vG22-3ee41tfiXVHO9EtzNRQowAoZNkfQhuk58xNYBOWRjATJVTz0Qt/s1600/IMAG0755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil2aLmruCxcK0wvOPMqw1xX3O6jhxZD-EWbAEXNEw2v6kstwXF5Fl061Xdbn4djLvlWgiqASn_mzZ7E1IPMpRM9vG22-3ee41tfiXVHO9EtzNRQowAoZNkfQhuk58xNYBOWRjATJVTz0Qt/s400/IMAG0755.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A table--with pipes for legs!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbovFLwzVqi3c5uk1MLruMXd6PhXjSQDEue9Agux0tIuYOFL253dPIEEPOsHAXnZ6lbgDZTQ05WINm_hh2bi6-o5X7Stej13Wcyv3BNzhLeAkZ5wOs8k5jHaL4-I_6J2E2BW8iUMyfH6u9/s1600/lastbookstoreart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbovFLwzVqi3c5uk1MLruMXd6PhXjSQDEue9Agux0tIuYOFL253dPIEEPOsHAXnZ6lbgDZTQ05WINm_hh2bi6-o5X7Stej13Wcyv3BNzhLeAkZ5wOs8k5jHaL4-I_6J2E2BW8iUMyfH6u9/s400/lastbookstoreart.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's all about the decor. Photo Credit: Aditi Mahmud.</td></tr>
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One of the things I truly loved about this store was how new and used books are placed side by side on the same shelves. If you go looking for a book, you're likely to find the used version sitting alongside a new copy of the same title. Of course they make a profit on the used books they sell, I wouldn't expect anything else. But even so, the focus seems to be on the dissemination of books, rather than simply selling for the most significant profit. And look, I am an avid book buyer--it's the one thing I will readily buy guilt free, money gone in seconds. I think the publication industry <i>needs</i> readers to buy books and I think we should buy them. I just feel that a store that puts reading at the forefront and makes it more financially accessible deserves plenty of accolades. </div>
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There's a genuine feeling that this store is an informed participant in the larger literary and cultural community of Los Angeles. It's part of the culture and in many ways defines it, but it also cultivates it and takes an active role in promoting and fostering a healthy book culture and community. I think this, in the best way possible, describes what a bookstore should aim to be: a dynamic, constantly evolving community hub where words and ideas fuel a cycle of creativity.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Even for a few brief hours, I liked being a part of that.</span><br />
<br />Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-42151241805392957312012-09-12T22:19:00.000-04:002012-09-12T22:19:42.945-04:00Love, Los Angeles: Skylight Books<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I visited <a href="http://www.skylightbooks.com/" target="_blank">Skylight Books</a> on N. Vermont Ave on a warm, breezy
Tuesday evening after I had just finished reading <a href="http://www.simonvanbooy.com/" target="_blank">Simon Van Booy's</a> short
story collection </span><a href="http://www.simonvanbooy.com/books.htm" target="_blank"><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Love Begins in Winter</i></a><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">. I didn't know how much I
needed to read work like his--stories that shatter your heart and then
very calmly and tenderly, piece it back together again. I don't want to
call these fairy tales, but they have that frail spirit of bringing into
fruition what you didn't think was ever possible. His stories are
emotionally honest--lines press at the deepest part of your psyche and
you think how true they are, how they pinpoint the most fleeting moments
of recognition.</span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVyM0HWKQsu0ohK-HQMqI_4XRPtHui1-uKbznJSQMcxEvgU2bb0r64smTJwisoXN454-3BaIrNTTG0QcRparBdiD4GBPHlqshKQ1FmEenkfdvM4xNQluFSqDqiro9glzvwsRC4tcAn1Jx/s1600/lovebeginsinwinter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVyM0HWKQsu0ohK-HQMqI_4XRPtHui1-uKbznJSQMcxEvgU2bb0r64smTJwisoXN454-3BaIrNTTG0QcRparBdiD4GBPHlqshKQ1FmEenkfdvM4xNQluFSqDqiro9glzvwsRC4tcAn1Jx/s1600/lovebeginsinwinter.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
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Once I finished reading, I
wanted more stories. I wanted more secret entryways into the lives of
people I didn't know--strangers flitting past me on downtown streets
into the muddle of their own tragedies. I wanted to reach out and brush
my fingertips against theirs, maybe sit on a park bench and hold their
hand for awhile. Short stories make this possible. And now that I had
finished a collection that had been a companion to me for weeks, I
needed something to replace the void. <br />
</div>
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I looked up independent bookstores in LA and Skylight
Books came up over and over again--reviews said what I wanted to hear:
the people at Skylight know their books. I wanted to walk in and ask
someone to give me a book they were passionate about. In my mind, it
played out like a scene from a movie: I walk in, brow knitted with sweat
from the dizzying Los Angeles heat and the clerk at the front desk
offers me a deep, knowing nod. Soon, we're mired in passionate
conversation about words and stories and the power of forging onward and
upward and then there it is: their eyes light up like signal fires,
fingertips brush against my elbow, they lean in close--and
urgently press a book into my hands. </div>
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It didn't happen quite like this, but my experience at Skylight
Books was more than fulfilling. Located on a quiet street lined with
dimly lit restaurants bursting with flushed diners who spill happily
onto patios late into the evening, the store has a communal vibe. Open
late (everyday 10am to 10pm), it really does feel like the
"neighborhood bookstore" where you stop off to pick up a book as
if you were picking up a jug of milk from the dusty convenience store on
the corner. Their calendar boasts readings, signings, and discussions
almost every night and I felt a little forlorn that I didn't live in LA so I could be a
member of their "friends with benefits" club that offers discounts and
access to special events. </div>
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One of the gentlemen at Skylight spotted me staring blankly at shelves of books and when he asked if he could help, I pounced. I'd been
waiting for just the thing. When I told him I wanted to discover a new short
story collection, he spent the next ten minutes combing through the
store putting together a reading buffet for me. He piled the books
on the table and went through them explaining his
choices and giving me mini histories on each author. He shared
collections he was currently reading, gave me a sense of writing
styles, and shared authors he hadn't read, but heard great things about. He
offered collections from the canon, newly launched books, as well as local Los
Angeles writers. And to think that when I'd walked in, the first thing I'd
looked for was a computer terminal so I could conduct my own antisocial
search. Such a hermit.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5B5B3hDN6aGSOIdCDTMPBT48pjLyrBRTOJ2Jk3kdastfL4ffkW34_bQGkFJvGLR3_z8L9zOMiyhMHhqy2iL0GUuhdWIBRnF3gkFoUEXckJpunUzeyqyndthcrBI_59oomL23Y1fwOoMUm/s1600/willfulcreatures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5B5B3hDN6aGSOIdCDTMPBT48pjLyrBRTOJ2Jk3kdastfL4ffkW34_bQGkFJvGLR3_z8L9zOMiyhMHhqy2iL0GUuhdWIBRnF3gkFoUEXckJpunUzeyqyndthcrBI_59oomL23Y1fwOoMUm/s1600/willfulcreatures.jpg" /></a></div>
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From the buffet, I purchased Aimee Bender's <i>Willful Creatures </i>and
Haruki Murakami's <i>Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. </i> Bender's
stories have so far succeeded in creeping me out and making me cry (in
that disconcerting, oh my goodness the ants are eating my skin from the
inside kind of way)--and I suppose this is both a good and bad thing. I
have to give it a fair chance before I wilt away completely. I'm looking
forward to Murakami's work and am grateful for Skylight's helpful and
diverse suggestions.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJIQM51IpFN-adzhDyAE-V1d755SyNSO0p91AXVmfF4h-VPv8H6vZ-hb-uVQBXFrtKLkzV0zutMBKMJGY2e2cq4wqFAvqw-jNf8LTdfmZyXiaYcHey-naEbrkccO68eWfjTD-iCC0ZJbs/s1600/IMAG0736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJIQM51IpFN-adzhDyAE-V1d755SyNSO0p91AXVmfF4h-VPv8H6vZ-hb-uVQBXFrtKLkzV0zutMBKMJGY2e2cq4wqFAvqw-jNf8LTdfmZyXiaYcHey-naEbrkccO68eWfjTD-iCC0ZJbs/s320/IMAG0736.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Read on, minions. Read
on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIz35dyxAAvANgTX1WlQ1H8II_SJFeY8pGWZW5OEe7TQaxZJPLjbAsdsewVACdJvPVd_CL4H3y0ZdZoQtklzzFmsNtri8aBi7gubsqTgVIlvhyphenhyphen9PHNhe6Mrr86ooyGJektYXF4Rr4u2tm_/s1600/IMAG0737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIz35dyxAAvANgTX1WlQ1H8II_SJFeY8pGWZW5OEe7TQaxZJPLjbAsdsewVACdJvPVd_CL4H3y0ZdZoQtklzzFmsNtri8aBi7gubsqTgVIlvhyphenhyphen9PHNhe6Mrr86ooyGJektYXF4Rr4u2tm_/s320/IMAG0737.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mythical Skylight Cat<br />
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I must say that the best thing about this bookstore is that it
has its own cat. She preens and stalks about like she
owns
the place. I think she probably <i>does</i> own the place. Isn't every
bookstore owned by a cat?<br />
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Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-68291434826251455472012-09-08T22:29:00.000-04:002012-09-08T22:30:07.564-04:00Love, Los Angeles: Walking the streets<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
My favourite palm lined streets in Los Angeles have dozens of dusty corner cafes, pupusa shops, thrift stores selling electric blue lamé leggings for $1, and mini malls blaring salsa and merengue tracks from speakers hidden behind mural slathered walls. There are very old men dressed in crisp white shirts hunched over ice cream carts, tailor shops with sewing machines whirring in bright slats of sun, tiny shops with cardboard signs announcing Tomales! in thin strokes of red paint. </div>
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There's a thin, small woman waiting at the bus stop outside a grocery store and she looks stern--her hair is pulled back so tight, it could be scalp, and her vibrant blue eyeshadow strokes up against her thin, arched brows. And there's a man, very tall and robust, his arms full of odd shaped packages, his mouth puddling into a frown because he's irritated--the older woman he is with (his mother? his aunt?) wants to take one more look, in one more shop. There are two men carrying chairs--they have that energetic push in their step that tells you they are not from around here, because yes, they're white and yes, they're antiquing. If you're from around here, you are waiting for the bus, or you are walking with a steady gait to the food mart with a portable buggy, your kids have backpacks sweating up against their small necks, barrettes snapped tight over dollar store hair extensions--one pink, one blue--and you have the weight of life slowing you down.</div>
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But there's this energy beating up against the soles of your sandals, a syncopated beat flicking off the uneven pavement and you know that whatever it is that makes you love this city is right here, striding along with you, heating you up and making you go on, earnest and true.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqmI5Hn97fFCj7tvBpXn_J2eu8xfzQwhhQ6sEP3PPAPAG5J2liLI5Z5xBX7tf1GbUh53rF1GvzIlwMdxIvTfyCush9-yYscrk9z_WVMjgE0KBzkAA6VCq33vNsk5uOA9GVg-QQtDG4S0I/s1600/losangelesbyshht.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqmI5Hn97fFCj7tvBpXn_J2eu8xfzQwhhQ6sEP3PPAPAG5J2liLI5Z5xBX7tf1GbUh53rF1GvzIlwMdxIvTfyCush9-yYscrk9z_WVMjgE0KBzkAA6VCq33vNsk5uOA9GVg-QQtDG4S0I/s320/losangelesbyshht.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Los Angeles" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shht/5903243054/" target="_blank">Shht!</a> (m.caimary)</td></tr>
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Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-88048819507638918932012-07-25T06:04:00.001-04:002012-07-25T06:05:41.815-04:00Stepping into the fray<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Not all at once now, but after a month-long reprieve from the machinery of the everyday, I've started to slip my toes back into the sun. Our minds don't allow for complete dislocation--it seems almost impossible to snap the rope that tethers you to the life you live each day, mostly mindless, limbs in motion. But if my mind is clogged, frenetic, and always at unrest, there is the driven escape of reading a book--it can do for me what longing and willpower cannot. In the past month, I have read and read and read and in the thrilling safety of other minds found yes, the expected escape, the quiet of being out of my own head, but also the gentle, even frail reappearance of will, of the grit needed to go on. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A Happy Birthday </span><br />
<pre style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.
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<pre style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">- Ted Kooser </pre>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW85TG1B6PKdEFPpHDjZvPT3qiTLMiG2GgocukLh0EE8D9ECqZTo1S7EFnkxts2xtCEzIBOzXK9PAyWLWr-xY25ZkZizCwvI6ebCngyRqyOE946OTfQmQulfg-j3rcOy6vCKIf9LR4JpLZ/s1600/fadinglight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW85TG1B6PKdEFPpHDjZvPT3qiTLMiG2GgocukLh0EE8D9ECqZTo1S7EFnkxts2xtCEzIBOzXK9PAyWLWr-xY25ZkZizCwvI6ebCngyRqyOE946OTfQmQulfg-j3rcOy6vCKIf9LR4JpLZ/s320/fadinglight.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fading Light" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/64738468@N00/3041717082/sizes/m/in/photostream/" target="_blank">mRio</a></td></tr>
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<pre style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></pre>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-46797510916065901232012-06-15T20:29:00.000-04:002012-09-12T22:20:40.708-04:00Simon Van Booy's "The Reappearance of Strawberries"<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
In "The Reappearance of Strawberries" a dying man inhales the scent of strawberries and thinks of a woman he loved. This--the inhalation of that ruddy sweet scent of strawberries set in a bowl by his bedside--is the pivot point for the entire story. Gently, haltingly, the man inhales and the story unfolds, the memory inextricably linked to this specific sensory detail.</div>
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This link between smell and memory, and perhaps more significantly, emotion, is a powerful storytelling device. Smells trigger memory and the emotions attached to that memory can come flooding back with just one breath. When we're standing in one point in time and suddenly, with just a slight change in the notes of the air we breathe, we're standing in another, the feelings we've experienced in the past becoming real again in our present, the rhythm of one story infringing--or perhaps complementing and enriching--the thread of another. </div>
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For me, there's a certain scent associated with October and the night before Hallowe'en. It's this sharp crisp air edged against this soft, yellowy light of late day. It feels like things are going to happen--and it can be late June or early Spring and it's always the same--I'll step outside and if I catch that edge, I'm eight years old again peeking out from behind curtains, lights turned off inside to sway trick-or-treaters, watching kids in cat ears and pumpkin outfits travel in multi-coloured clumps across the pavement. </div>
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When moments like that happen--when a story from the past collides with my present, I always wonder why and grapple with whether it's supposed to mean something. We can emerge singed from difficult relationships and weeks, maybe even months later when we think we're whole again, something--a song, the smell of wet pavement, the play of light against a thick leaf in the garden--will drive that story into our present, offering it up again as some sort of trick. </div>
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This collision of memory with the lives we wake up to each day is a purposeful method for telling a story. We can try to make meaning, or find it--the friction between our parallel lives is constantly urging us to consider and then reconsider where we are and what we've come to know. There is rarely that fulfilling release that comes in the form of epiphany or meaningful realization--nothing as easy or sweet as that and I've learned not to expect it. But I think it's something better, the real sense that something has to be lived and perhaps formed into narrative--even if just to ourselves, and in that offering up of a fragment of memory, we are being urged to simply live through it, let it be. Allow it to come, let it go, and see what can be made of it--if anything at all.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56so61E71W5DsOn66HXusJBoZwtLyzY52ZW2t8hq5k192-dzC0dTUVvr2M1NJYpjVK8-tktAqVPQBNct9Avl-hNUwZ6zCgT-tWVFnDv5St6iia0UZzDXNNVo9KbDDBjA6OjGp3spEitHI/s1600/lightandmemory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56so61E71W5DsOn66HXusJBoZwtLyzY52ZW2t8hq5k192-dzC0dTUVvr2M1NJYpjVK8-tktAqVPQBNct9Avl-hNUwZ6zCgT-tWVFnDv5St6iia0UZzDXNNVo9KbDDBjA6OjGp3spEitHI/s320/lightandmemory.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Light effect" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/spadgy/313255881/" target="_blank">John Ward</a></td></tr>
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Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-60674284556514807522012-05-21T20:47:00.000-04:002012-09-12T22:21:02.388-04:00Simon Van Booy on Writing Alone<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
In this clip, writer Simon Van Booy comments on writing alone:</div>
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Van Booy mentions his need to be in the presence of some movement outside of himself when writing if only to remind himself that he is not alone. This external movement can help Van Booy remove himself from the bubble of solitary existence that is a writer's life. This ripple of external movement is not simply an antidote for a writer's loneliness; it is a necessary lifting of the fog to breathe the freshness of life outside your own mind. Perhaps this inhalation of the outside isn't fresh or inspiring, (it can be) but in some way it invigorates. It clarifies the muddiness of spending hours, sometimes days in solitude.</div>
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This solitary existence, living inside the story, or within a single sentence is in every way necessary--to be sequestered from the movement and colour of life so whatever has gummed itself into a solid thud in your brain can be released by a clean, stimulation free environment--empty of even the gentlest of requests from family, of roommates, of the insistence of phones, of other voices, of other people breathing. The freedom of being alone makes the brain unfold, allows you to simply focus, the necessity of living removed for a few quiet hours. The power of solitary creation is only possible after a period of accumulation, time spent living, observing, being in the world. And in the same way, the hours spent alone begin to lose their effectiveness if a ripple of movement outside the self is not permitted. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Van Booy mentions a mirror--you write and when you look up, there's another person trying to write, just like you. The mirror is also a reflection of the writer in action--there you are doing what you should be doing, it's you taking your place in the world, living as a part of it. And in the same way, simply getting up and opening the door, staring at the blueness of the sky, the brightness of green against that blue--even this brief interlude, infraction, is enough to let yourself retreat back inside yourself, into the solitary business of getting things on the page.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbZrfzJzaSr5tktTJZtf4B4bUhPXIwjpAp5hYlC1yynB2xDPmocJh9Olc9ufThseLyVSLg-fL7-ey-uTEqyyNtk6n_43zC0yK8yjxBWv47U5uU6MKzU5j2W2X2jKVyj2qQZP_TNLIXdts/s1600/blueskyleaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbZrfzJzaSr5tktTJZtf4B4bUhPXIwjpAp5hYlC1yynB2xDPmocJh9Olc9ufThseLyVSLg-fL7-ey-uTEqyyNtk6n_43zC0yK8yjxBWv47U5uU6MKzU5j2W2X2jKVyj2qQZP_TNLIXdts/s320/blueskyleaves.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Leaves" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lhester5100/6193840137/" target="_blank">AuntNett</a></td></tr>
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<br />Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-46970484411178830472012-05-10T23:50:00.000-04:002012-05-10T23:55:14.484-04:00Nine Glorious Questions: Aga Maksimowska<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
<link href="file://localhost/Users/shoileekhan/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: purple;">Author Spotlight</span></span></h2>
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<h4>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: purple;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">An interview with author Aga Maksimowska. Her first novel, <i>Giant</i>, launches this month from Pedlar Press.</span></span></h4>
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<b>1. Tell us about your debut novel, <i>Giant. </i></b><br />
<br />
This
is a really long story, but the short of it is that this book has been my
education in writing stories and crafting a novel. It’s been a long haul: six
years from start to finish, a very irregular six years mind you. <br />
<br />
It started as
an exercise in a continuing education fiction workshop I took at the University
of Toronto. Helen Humphreys was the instructor. She was incredibly supportive
of the story I had to tell, of the voice I was trying to establish, and of the
world I was attempting to create, so I continued. She gave me the courage to
even think that I could one day pen a novel. A novel! It was originally a story
about the friendship between two young girls and the effects distance had on
it. <br />
<br />
I gathered momentum when I revisited the project in the Master of Creative
Writing program at the University of Guelph. I worked on it during a summer
mentorship with Camilla Gibb and decided that it would become my thesis. This
book has had many incarnations, several titles, and like every novel, a
gazillion edits. It was at its heaviest at nearly 300 pages and at its
skinniest at about 180. I’m really happy with what it is today and I have my
editor and publisher, Beth Follett, to thank for <i>Giant’</i><span style="font-style: normal;">s latest metamorphosis.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<b>2. You also write creative non-fiction. How does your
writing process change when you’re dealing with “factual” events? Do you
suddenly find yourself more vigilant, more indebted to the “truth”?</b><br />
<br />
I haven’t thought about it in terms of “truth” before, but I do
know it feels viscerally different writing non-fiction from fiction. Monica Ali
once wrote in an issue of <i>The Atlantic</i> magazine on this very topic. The
following line really resonated with me: “Non-fiction…is essential in
uncovering the lies. But it is fiction that reveals the truth.” I feel more
vulnerable writing non-fiction. There is more disclosure, and therefore fear of
being judged. And yes, I suppose I am more vigilant about facts when writing
non-fiction, and accuracy of course, but that’s the journalist in me. I feel
freer when I’m writing fiction. It’s more fun. You really get to lose yourself
in the world you’re creating. It’s all about the story and those characters and
what they need. [See Monica Ali's article, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_937272001" target="_blank">here</a>.]<br />
<br />
<b>3. What inspires you? Or, on the other hand, what bores
you?</b><br />
<br />
I
bore myself. I recently saw an editorial cartoon on Facebook depicting a stick
figure walking toward a giant pit. In the pit was the word INTERNET; on the
other side of the pit the words <i>Your life’s goals.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> That encapsulates how I feel when I bore myself. I
think, ‘What the hell are you doing with your nonsensical rotation of checking
Facebook, Gmail, Hotmail, work e-mail, <i>The Globe and Mail</i>, <i>The New York Times</i>,
<i>People</i> magazine, etc., several times a day? What on earth do you think you will
find there?!’ The Internet bores me, hinders me, infuriates me. Don’t get me wrong: I also love a lot about the Internet.
What I’m trying to illustrate is that I bore myself when I succumb to the
pitfalls of the Internet.</span><br />
<br />
Good
writing inspires me. I keep a notebook on my bedside so that I can jot down
lines of amazing writing that I come across when I’m reading. I jot things down
often, and then reflect on them, and wonder how I can become that good at
writing. <b><br /><br />4. What authors/works have been the most influential in
your own writing?</b><br />
<br />
Since I can be very literal, both in my
writing and in my temperament, Arundhati Roy, Helen Humphreys, James Baldwin
and Jhumpa Lahiri have been instrumental in teaching me how to inject poetry
into prose and how to create worlds in novels that leave an emotional imprint
on the reader. Jeffrey Eugenides, Jamaica Kincaid, Camilla Gibb, Lawrence Hill
and Heather O’Neill have influenced me in terms of first-person narrative
(which I find more difficult than third-person); their works have served as
examples of how to capture a unique voice for the narrator of my novel.<b><br /><br />5. Describe your favourite meal.</b><br />
<br />
I’m
going to expose myself here: Food is one of my greatest loves and a picky eater
I am not. I’ve had too many favourite meals to count. Ask my husband. He’d tell
you my morning steel cut oats with banana or blueberries and my cup of green
tea is my favourite meal. There is
nothing better than someone making a meal for me and sharing with me his or her
love of food. Some of my most memorable and most cherished meals have been: my
husband and my brother surprising me with a lunch of black bean burritos and
key lime tarts for my birthday; my grandmother’s blueberry turnovers every
single time she made them; sizzling garlic prawns in a little hole-in-the-wall
restaurant in Barrio Alto in Lisbon with my friend Aviva; mutton kebabs at
Karim’s in Old Delhi… I could spend this entire interview describing my
favourite meals.<b><br /><br />6. Tell us about a book that resonated with you as a
child/teen.</b><br />
<br />
The
first English-language novel I read was in grade 7. It was called <i>Copper
Sunrise</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> by an author named Bryan Buchan and
it blew me away. I couldn’t stop thinking about that book for years. I still
wrote poems and made art inspired by it in grade 12. The book was about the
Beothuk genocide on the East Coast of Canada. I was incredibly moved by the story
and the prose and outraged by the historical injustice. Predictably, this was
not the Canadian First Nations People narrative that I was exposed to in Poland
as a child. The Hollywood myth of Cowboys and Indians was my education. So
imagine how stunned I was when I read this book about the early days of
colonization. I must re-read it…<o:p></o:p></span> <b><br /><br />7. Can you offer three tips for writers seeking to
balance their writing life with the practical necessity of having a day
job?</b> <br />
<br />
a) Stop feeling badly about not writing every day. Set up a routine for yourself
and follow it. Maybe you write on Saturday and Sunday mornings before the rest
of the family wakes up? That’s just fine. Don’t let people tell you you’re not
a writer because you don’t write every day. You might not be a full-time
writer, but you’re a writer.<br />
<br />
b) Set up deadlines for yourself to get your
project done. Sometimes external motivators like contest or grant submission
deadlines help. Use those to your advantage.<br />
<br />
c) Kill two birds with one stone
whenever possible. I teach high-school English and whenever my kids write for
ten or fifteen minutes, I write too. (OK, maybe not every time they write
because sometimes I need to take attendance or reply to six emails, but often I
write with them.) <b><br /><br />8. What are you reading right now?</b><br />
<br />
I’m
reading <i>Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
by Jeanette Winterson (which I am loving and marveling at the odd similarities
between it and</span><i> Giant</i>), the May
issue of The Walrus magazine (my favourite Heather O’Neill has written a
brilliant non-fiction piece on growing up White Trash), and a whole bunch of
baby books on sleep, development, feeding, etc.
<br />
<br />
<b>9. Describe your writing space and why it works for you.</b><br />
<br />
The
Robarts Library at the University of Toronto is my favourite writing space when
I have a project on the go. The mainfloor reading room, which is clad in ugly
brown and red ‘70s décor is where I go. There is nothing beautiful or inspiring
to look at so you don’t get distracted and as a result you get down to work. I
used to have an office, but now it’s the baby’s room. It’s way more functional
and productive as the baby’s room. [See Deconstructed City's spooky analysis of Robarts Library <a href="http://deconstructedcity.blogspot.ca/2011/01/why-i-am-terrified-of-robarts-library.html" target="_blank">here</a>.]<br />
<ol start="9" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"></ol>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-46879361949845594312012-05-02T22:37:00.000-04:002012-05-02T22:38:49.541-04:00Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story"<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOuNnGwXeWEctUW8bRz8cFRW9c2c-7aW74SfVQG5z5QZYX_liTulwDMUgnsOuN3SsvQJWt_gMpECmUddOuM17YBuVWH2KYMcZArOIIiN0B-imdd1-9cIrdSOlcmOGR8T6Lb-wUJgcEJW7/s1600/FrogPrince.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOuNnGwXeWEctUW8bRz8cFRW9c2c-7aW74SfVQG5z5QZYX_liTulwDMUgnsOuN3SsvQJWt_gMpECmUddOuM17YBuVWH2KYMcZArOIIiN0B-imdd1-9cIrdSOlcmOGR8T6Lb-wUJgcEJW7/s320/FrogPrince.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"NOT my prince charming" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/31064702@N05/3946489994/" target="_blank">Dawn Huczek</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story," an incredibly handsome narrator relates an unusual experiment where he pursues a relationship with a woman--Sarah Cole--simply because she is incredibly ugly. It's an engrossing read that uses a thoroughly self-conscious first person narration that doubles back upon itself, checking, clarifying and re-imagining what the reader has come to accept as fact. This kind of incessant rumination and re-imagining of things known is fitting for a story that author Russell Banks says was inspired by an urge to re-tell the "The Frog Prince" story from a male perspective.<br />
<br />
He says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
John Gardner advised retelling the old stories, probably the best of all the advice he gave, and he gave plenty. That was for me the genesis of the story, a sort of formal 'what if...?' I simply plugged into the story the details of the world I happened to live in at the time, and of course reversed the gender dynamic of the story, and wrote it to see not what my story meant, but what the old 'original' story meant. It's how we come to know ourselves finally--by figuring out what our old stories really mean.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=557798277234728263#1" name="top1"><sup>1</sup></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=557798277234728263#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""></a> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<div id="ftn1">
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</blockquote>
This of course lends itself quite nicely to a writing exercise--retelling old stories by changing one integral element and depositing elements of the world you know into the world of the story you think you know. By employing the methods that Banks mentions--using details of the world you live in to help you explore the framework of a story that has already been told, and in this case, the retelling of a story that is hinged on magic as a plot device, you create a fable-like quality in stories that have mainly realist foundations. This is accomplished in "Sarah Cole" with an ending that conflates the two worlds, magical transformation made real and believable, the revelation at the end not 'magical' in the typical way, but surprising and cathartic. <br />
<br />
<hr width="80%" />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=557798277234728263" name="1"><b>1 </b></a>Rooke, C., and Rooke, L. (1997). Conversation with Russell Banks. In C. Rooke and L. Rooke (Eds.), <i>The Writer's Path: An Introduction to Short Fiction </i>(pp. 892-895). Toronto, ON: International Thompson Publishing.</span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-671693583806837642012-04-24T19:57:00.000-04:002012-04-24T19:57:44.816-04:00Notes on Writing: Keep it Simple<h4 style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
From the chapter "Simplicity" in William Zinsser's (2001) <i>On Writing Well</i>:</h4>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"...the secret of good writing is to strip every sentence to its cleanest components. Every word that serves no function, every long word that could be a short word, every adverb that carries the same meaning that's already in the verb, every passive construction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what--these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken the strength of a sentence" (p. 8).</div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
And so...</div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"How can the rest of us achieve such enviable freedom from clutter? The answer is to clear our heads of clutter. Clear thinking becomes clear writing; one can't exist without the other. It's impossible for a muddy thinker to write good English. He may get away with it for a paragraph or two, but soon the reader will be lost, and there's no sin so grave, for the reader will not easily be lured back" (p. 9).</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv51TeMOMjGzY6z1HjonNnvGrA03J2ShCVqcjINtifodpbSdX5I58suAfKzY_e4FI4VGNzAbx_S2vbLU9K1ydzT9nBKh5oo6OhE0E75iiCPMtGByuoy5OkTzqmsJg269uxuRa0YVVMYXd5/s1600/calmwaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv51TeMOMjGzY6z1HjonNnvGrA03J2ShCVqcjINtifodpbSdX5I58suAfKzY_e4FI4VGNzAbx_S2vbLU9K1ydzT9nBKh5oo6OhE0E75iiCPMtGByuoy5OkTzqmsJg269uxuRa0YVVMYXd5/s320/calmwaters.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Calm Waters" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/papalars/4946444575/" target="_blank">Andrew E. Larsen</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-36771512915912430222012-04-18T02:57:00.008-04:002012-04-18T04:27:29.243-04:00The Lizzie Bennet Diaries<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Hank Green of the incredibly smart Youtube duo, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/vlogbrothers">vlogbrothers</a>, announced his newest project this week: "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/LizzieBennet">The Lizzie Bennet Diaries</a>." Described as a "vlog-based adaptation of Pride and Prejudice," Green explains he started the project out of a desire to create something new and unique for the world of new media.<br /><br />This involved taking an existing work--in this case, a work of literature--and adapting it to be suitable for online video. He chose </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Pride and Prejudice</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > because its dialogue heavy content and strong character arcs make it ideal for the immediacy and vibrancy that online media offers its audience. Further, these elements also make it possible to place less importance on elaborate sets, costumes, or scenery, and focus more on the development of character and the creation of modern dialogue that evokes the witty, quick cadence that Austen mastered.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >In this very modern adaptation, Lizzie is a Mass Communications student vlogging about her family as a personal exercise and experiment. She's teamed up with her best friend Charlotte Liu, a film student, and together they create weekly videos where Lizzie gives very animated renditions of her current family drama. Short, snappy, and punctuated with a slight sardonic edge, Lizzie's three-minute "slice of life" vlogs have the quick witted friendly vibe of those infamous super-fast chats from the Gilmore Girls, but also the immediacy and depth required of both the subject matter and the medium. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >The creators have opted to cut the two youngest sisters, Kitty and Mary, from the cast choosing instead to feature the more pivotal sisters, Jane and Lydia. Poor Kitty and Mary were probably deemed unnecessary to the development of the story, but having this adaptation fit the "norms" of the modern day nuclear family probably also played a role. While large families of five children (or more!) may have been commonplace in the Regency period, they are less common now (though not non-existent!). </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Cutting Kitty is easy enough (no one likes the whiny, petulant child in the family), but I'm afraid cutting Mary may have robbed the adaptation of some rich material. I would have loved to see a modern version of an overly moral, straight-laced teen set alongside the "slutty" Lydia. The modern Mary could have also served as a means of a refreshing new reading--maybe her moral inclinations surface in incessant preaching about the global economy and the unfair distribution of wealth--the kind of moralist who will, with the purest of intentions, point out that the chocolate bar you're eating is made from cocoa beans that were </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >not</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > produced under fair-trade conditions. Mary just has so much potential.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >In any case, the second episode gives us our first glimpse of Jane and oh, she's perfect. Jane appears to be a fashion intern serving countless cups of coffee and claiming that it's "the price of the industry."</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > Ah, sweet, unassuming Jane.</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > The casting for this production has thus far, been spotless. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />I'm curious to see how the series handles the rest of the cast--will Bingley (Bing Lee) and Darcy ever appear on camera? If so, how will </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >that</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > happen? Lizzie is after all, vlogging from her bedroom. I'm also really trying to figure out what the modern day equivalent of shamefully running away with a man, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >unmarried</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >, will be. Nothing is really sacred anymore, so it will be interesting to see what the writers use as the Lydia-induced plot point that threatens</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > ruin </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >for the Bennets. Lastly, I'm especially looking forward to the dark, wretched moments where Lizzie can grieve into the camera. Confessionals are nothing new in the vlog world, but a Lizzie Bennet moment of truth is something to really savour.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >While eight episodes have already been filmed, there are three episodes currently available for viewing on the LizzieBennet channel on YouTube. Creation of episodes beyond these original eight are dependent on the success of the series--a large audience makes ad revenue possible and funding available. So go on, watch!</span><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KisuGP2lcPs" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-33962314911893862252012-04-13T11:55:00.005-04:002012-04-13T14:18:43.908-04:00Dear Diary #1: Constructive Criticism<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >An entry from my diary circa 1997 expresses the well known trauma of receiving criticism on a piece of writing we believe has been misunderstood. We were told to write descriptive paragraphs for our Grade 7 Language class and my teacher had some suggestions that did not go over well:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >Saturday, January 11th, 1997</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >Diary,</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >Something terrible happened to me when I went to school the other day. You see, I had to write a descriptive paragraph about anything for a school assignment. I wrote about rain. I love rain. I wrote a verse where it goes like this -- </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >the rain peletted<br />down to the bold<br />concrete and it washed<br />over me, it enchanted me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >I admit it certainly isn't my best, but my teacher put question marks where I wrote "bold concrete" and "enchanted me," and she corrected my spelling for pelleted. She changed it to pelted. I understand she did it for my own good, but concrete </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >is</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" > bold! People walk, tramp, and jump on it, ride, run and skid across it, and it still remains. So wouldn't the concrete be brave, bold, then? I know it is.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >I was really angry when she put a question mark next to enchanted me. Has she ever felt the rain? Has she ever </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >really </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >felt it? Has she heard it whisper secrets to her, laugh and sing to her? No. No, she hasn't. Everyone tries to escape the rain. They run from it. They hurry and shut their doors on it. But don't they know the rain is there to cheer them up? To sing and to laugh with them? To share secrets and tell stories to them? Do they know? NO! That is why the rain enchants me. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >That</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" > is why.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:courier new;" >Why did she change peletted to pelted? I like peletted. Peletted is like -- rushing, hurrying, zooming, rapidly! Pelted is like sharp, hard, unforgiving. Doesn't she understand? I guess not. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" ></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Diagnosis: an acute case of hypersensitivity and resistance to criticism. But <span style="font-style: italic;">also</span> a very firm sense of creative vision and JUSTICE.<br /><br /><br /></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-6312531814637633262012-04-04T17:02:00.013-04:002012-04-04T21:01:02.903-04:00Book Abuse: The Trauma of Dog-eared pages<span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">I'm currently reading <em>The Toss of a Lemon </em>by Padma Vishwanathan, a big, fat book with many pages. It belongs to The Duchess who is generous to a fault with lending items from her personal library--<em>too</em> generous because some of her books/dvds have been sadly classified as Missing In Action in a <em>forever</em>, full stop, plan the funeral kind of way. I tell her book kidnappers need to be banned from her library, but she persists, her eyes glaring <em>it's for the greater good </em>as she<em> </em>shucks books at gluttonous readers left and right. Guests leave her house cheeks rosy, guts paunchy, dragging bags of books behind them.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;"><br />My shelves house an entire section of books that belong to The Duchess. This is okay, she tells me, because my books have also taken up residence on her shelves. She likes it that way; we have interchangeable book collections, transient volumes that are at home wherever they happen to reside -- the "what's mine is yours" ideal.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQm5jRegppBeqbRKGSq3H5YzkPCXbiGouSlcO2OMjAdZ3pRRXcT34eowgDvpQeHix0mMYlmYDnCH65HTZ4-FkrGpYJ3EGI38aI45YIMFlpiuKHeVNSFDLmxCvAeNFJwNGZi0z4ecrqjgW/s1600/Wornbook.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727707849706151378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQm5jRegppBeqbRKGSq3H5YzkPCXbiGouSlcO2OMjAdZ3pRRXcT34eowgDvpQeHix0mMYlmYDnCH65HTZ4-FkrGpYJ3EGI38aI45YIMFlpiuKHeVNSFDLmxCvAeNFJwNGZi0z4ecrqjgW/s320/Wornbook.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">This would be fine except for the fact that I treat what's "mine" very badly. I'm a book wrecker. I like my books to <em>feel </em>like they've been read. My books are like shoes; I break them in. This means I deliberately crack spines before I've even started reading. I like to warm them up before I sink in. I love that satisfying, creaky paper-moan--it's like I'm cracking book knuckles and it feels so good. I read through paperbacks, covers folded back--and even try to fold back hardcovers so I can snuggle down deep. If it's a good book, I'll roll it up like a newspaper and feel it warm into the curve of my hands. I flip through the pages with my thumb and mess 'em up until the sharp-cut edge of paper is worn and feathered. Through the course of one reading, the book and I become one.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">If I'm reviewing a book, I massacre it with notes in the end pages and margins, my scrawling, unreadable handwriting jamming through the text, oblivious and self-important. If I'm snacking while reading, no napkins are needed. Peanutbutter smears, smashed up bits of chocolate, and flowery drops of juice texturize my book pages, every flip of a page a glimpse into the delights of my appetite.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">Book jackets never make it through an entire read. They are annoying and disruptive. I slide them off and they tumble to my bedroom floor, crushed beneath the roll of my desk chair, kicked under piles of unwashed laundry never to be seen again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 260px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727709571437756066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTttobC10ZUCAeOAkpHEMfXZrv7P59M0gPYmPzwthTjkfzKcIp8NPfNljD3nfiP6uH9TVK2zZsPnKR7CWK30MdNgXixT42wtS2EJzGvg019nCd2yVvMbFaWEx0ykEVSQ4ClrscdlnavB19/s320/cleanbooks.jpg" /></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;"><br />But, as I recently learned through a series of panicked texts between The Duchess and I, the most deplorable act of book wreckage I practice is the brutish habit of dog-earing pages. She likes her pages straight and clean, no obnoxious, unruly dents.<br /><br />My room is littered with forlorn bookmarks all gifted to me by well-meaning friends who don't understand how unnatural and disruptive it is for me to have to slide a strip of paper in and out of my pages every time I read. I will start with good intentions, all civilized and proper, a lovely embellished bookmark tucked into my book and carefully set aside while I daintily flip pages...but then the bookmark is lost in the folds of my duvet, or has fallen under the bed, or is crushed beneath me, or is trampled by spiders and I simply cannot be bothered to worry about where it went and what I'll do without it. </span><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 212px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727710799732178370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVh5jX-8EFZD55cyX_PyIYQybrOLN6RhzG1F5zKk56pT4FHF2I2HtimJL2M5WRHXrIUuRyZk6v8n2cqURJPfRgbgpjcjXJI-XZBxxA9hcrUv0UGBmi878OKqOzGsq2s3gJDfXrZtPFgf_/s320/bookmark+book.jpg" /></span><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">I'm an aggressive dog-earer. I will fold pages right in half if there's a passage I want to come back to later. I'm not discriminating either--I will fold both top and bottom corners and will even commit double folds on those rare, but special occasions.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">But when The Duchess informed me that this was <em>the one and only</em> <em>thing*</em> she could not endure her books to suffer, I realized I had to reform--at least when I was reading one of her books, which is in fact, a lot of the time. So I found a bookmark. It was adorned with pressed flowers. It had a crimson tassel.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#333333;"><em>The Toss of a Lemon</em> is a very big, very fat book. I am enjoying it. The bookmark is still there. But I am in pain. I feel as if I've been put in restraints. Sometimes I can't breathe properly. I will admit that I do feel a bit more refined. I think I even sit up a little straighter when I read with my bookmark. I am suddenly respectable, me and my pressed flower bookmark settling down for an evening read. </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">BUT TAKE HEED: I am doing everything I can to stop myself from ripping this book in half. The content is fine, but this energy, this excess energy, it is driving me mad.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;color:#333333;">Are you a book wrecker? Or, do you like your pages smart and clean?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">* I don't think The Duchess would appreciate food decay smashed between the pages of her book either, but because she was particularly insistent on her hatred of folded pages, I focussed my energy there. No juice stains to report.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color:#333333;"><strong>Photo Credits:</strong> Worn book titled "Salim's visitor book" by </span></span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jaymis/2274383893/"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">Jaymis Loveday</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">, clean books titled "Books" by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shutterhacks/4474421855/"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">shutterhacks</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">, book with bookmark titled "A Storm of Swords" by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/flossyflotsam/5691141369/"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">flossyflotsam</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#333333;">.</span></div></div>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-50627275017699311372012-04-03T18:53:00.006-04:002012-04-04T03:09:32.636-04:00Too Embarrassed to Read<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >A recent post on </span><a title="Mark Athitakis’ American Fiction Notes" href="http://americanfiction.wordpress.com/2011/09/14/cults/" rel="home"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >Mark Athitakis’ American Fiction Notes</span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:arial;"> touched on the inner anxiety of reading below our "reading status." Athitakis dwells on what it means to read "middlebrow" fiction and the weight the word carries for readers who are painfully self-aware: </span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >"To be middlebrow is to suffer from status anxiety. To be middlebrow is to read/watch/listen to things that you think qualify as high art but really aren’t, because you don’t have the intellectual chops for high art. To be middlebrow is to fail—and worse, fail for trying too hard." </span><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >This awareness of middlebrow culture--the mere fact that it exists and that we recognize it--points to an internalized anxiety of where we think we should <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">belong</span> along the spectrum of culture. By extension, the theory of status anxiety can be applied to any genre or classification of literature and its implications are the same: readers are ruthlessly self conscious and use their reading selections as a method of self-analysis. What we choose to read is seen as a reflection of our tastes, our intelligence, our ability to differentiate good writing from bad, quality reading material from excess matter. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >This self-analysis has as much to do with how we perceive what others think about us as it does with the active process we are constantly undertaking of molding our tastes and selections to fit the image we have of ourselves--or at least the ideal version of ourselves we aim to embody. If we, as Athitakis mentions, avoid a particular writer or genre because of the implicit shame associated with reading it, we are tailoring our reading lists to coincide with a set of internal reading values--the sense that there are some things we should read and other things we shouldn't. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >Reading values are honed by a variety of factors--experience, education, exposure to reading material as a young child--all creating a subconscious method of ranking what we read, differentiating between what is "good" and what is "brain candy"--enjoyable, but "bad" for us and somehow diminishing. However, a value system is not synonymous with taste. They're in a symbiotic relationship, one influencing the other, a constant tug and pull that dictates what we pick up off the shelves. You can be a critical, selective reader (in many circles this is known as being a book snob) but still have a penchant for commercial thrillers that may not have the literary meat that you usually prefer.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >But, it's the shame that interests me. We care deeply about what others think of us. This is because we are keenly aware of how quickly, easily, and smugly we judge others. If we think less of someone who openly reads Danielle Steele on the train because they are happily absorbed and entertained by what we see as exploitative, sexually charged fantasies, we have made an assessment of their taste, their place in society. We reduce (or lift) people to the book they hold in their hands. One informs the other. And so, we view the books we choose to read as modes of insight into our intelligence, creativity, and taste. Our books are who we are. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >But more interestingly, the choice to read salacious romance novels for example, is perceived as a fault of the reader--they read romance novels because they don't know better. They think they're "readers" but they're victims of bad taste, suffering from a lack of proper literary know-how. They're pawns in the game of popular, cotton candy publishing. They aren't <span style="font-style: italic;">real </span>readers. But if you're reading Ondaatje, you've got depth. Your judgements of others are internalized practices that guide standards you hold for yourself. You don't read romances because they don't hold anything of value for you. You value something else. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >And of course, the natural progression of this argument--if I were more objective--would be to re-analyze what we view as trash and whether it has merit or anything of value to offer. It probably does. However, I think it's perfectly fine to subscribe to a set of standards. Everything doesn't have to be okay. No one is required to justify Danielle Steele, unless they see value in doing so. Confronting status anxiety is not about discovering a new love for every possible kind of writing. It's not about validating bad writing. Standards are a good thing--they keep the bar consistently raised. Critical readers must be aware; they must have standards. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >Confronting the shame we feel when reading a book is about confronting the desire to uphold an image. An image we've created for ourselves, but also the image we know others have created for us. We become prisoners of this "ideal reader", the reader we value in our minds and believe we should aspire to be. But it's also not as easy and saccharine as claiming we should break free of these moulds and pride ourselves on whatever our innate desires guide us towards. Reading is not about self-esteem.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >Admitting an insatiable desire for pulp fiction, salacious romances, or Dan Brown isn't the downfall of literature. You can enjoy "rubbishy twaddle", even find value in it, without sacrificing your standards for good, quality literature. You can even create a sound theoretical argument that aims to recognize the literary value of such work. You can decide that some if it in fact, is good literature. But, you don't have to. You can read it even while acknowledging that it might be bad writing, that it really should never have been published, that it's terrible, terrible stuff--and accept that you like it. It falls somewhere on your personal reading spectrum and you like it because you like it--and that's okay. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >But more than anything, understanding status anxiety is about valuing our shame and seeking to understand the driving force behind it. Our shame, or more often, our utter distaste of a certain kind of book can make us consider our standards and the personal principles we apply to reading. We can shape ourselves as readers by first understanding what we implicitly want to avoid. It doesn't have to mean change; in fact, perhaps it shouldn't. It can simply be an acute awareness of where we stand and why--a better understanding of who we are as readers and where we want to go.<br /></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-62158956053269511852011-09-14T19:26:00.000-04:002011-09-19T17:25:01.695-04:00Tell Me a Story: Leah Jane Esau's WATERFRONT: THE BLESSING<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Waterfront: The Blessing </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">directed by</span> <a href="http://www.lesnouvellestheatre.com/#%21__amanda-lockitch">Amanda Lockitch</a> <span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">and written by</span> <a href="http://www.lesnouvellestheatre.com/#%21__leah-jane-esau">Leah Jane Esau</a> <span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">was like that first bite of dry toast after a long illness--uncomplicated in the best way possible, it was a mouthful of something solid and satisfying: plain, good storytelling.<br /><br />Part of the SummerWorks Theatre Festival in Toronto, </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Waterfront </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">is a production of </span><a href="http://www.lesnouvellestheatre.com/#%21">Les Nouvelles Theatre</a>, <span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">a grassroots theatre company founded by Esau and comprised of a group of talented artists in various fields (set and costume design, dramaturgy, lighting, and of course, acting). Written by Esau under the dramaturgy of Brian Drader at the National Theatre School of Canada and further developed in conjunction with Lockitch in early 2011, the play earned the opportunity to run at SummerWorks--a juried festival that features the glitterati of Canada's theatre world.</span><br /><br /><iframe height="410" src="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/2057336210/waterfront-the-blessing-summerworks-2011-toronto-0/widget/video.html" frameborder="0" width="480"></iframe><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Trailer by Leah Jane Esau</span><br /><br /></div><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The story presses at the pulse of family relationships--the messy, bristling undertones of repressed feelings between fathers and sons, and particularly between brothers. When his father dies, Jeremy arrives from the bustling gleam of Toronto to join his brother Ed in their childhood home, a waterfront property up north, to sort through their father's belongings. Ed's penchant for telling stories and Jeremy's resistance to his brother's hyperbolic ruminations unravels a lifetime of memories; truth becomes duplicitous and stories gain new, sometimes unwanted meaning.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIADYHzh7sVhiUuEhvVmGfAVUohtNZVuCWizbYA5i83cjleYbFCMoQXfhPFBsNTady6opCSy1S1m7LwhIT6u5ITQJPUkpBS6CBVnhvQHC4etYk7XWx3MRxceUxx9O-UMVoi98Iat99-Ord/s1600/317435_706323555996_122506082_37282915_5068382_n.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653909941265049570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIADYHzh7sVhiUuEhvVmGfAVUohtNZVuCWizbYA5i83cjleYbFCMoQXfhPFBsNTady6opCSy1S1m7LwhIT6u5ITQJPUkpBS6CBVnhvQHC4etYk7XWx3MRxceUxx9O-UMVoi98Iat99-Ord/s320/317435_706323555996_122506082_37282915_5068382_n.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">William MacDonald as Ed in <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Waterfront: The Blessing </span>(Photo Credit: Leah Jane Esau)</span><br /></div><br /><a href="http://www.lesnouvellestheatre.com/#%21__design">The set</a>, <span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">designed by</span> <a href="http://www.lesnouvellestheatre.com/#%21__nancy-perrin">Nancy Perrin</a>, <span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">has a lush quality, the gift of gentle depth. It achieves the physical sense of a home that's been lived in--dusty, cluttered, and worn through--while evoking the psychological sense of a home that has settled in upon itself, sinking under the weight of a lifetime of disappointment. Very easily, the set could have turned into a visit to the thrift store, vintage furniture crammed haphazardly onto a stage--but this set harmonizes with every other element in the play--absorbing the movements of the characters while reflecting their psychological states. The lighting (by Aaron Kelly) melds all these elements together, signaling emotional shifts and shifting the story from one reveal to the next.</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The movement towards these reveals is expertly dramatized--the story layering one truth upon another, unearthing the complexity and dual nature of truth, but also connecting with the audience at a basic human level. The push and pull between Ed and Jeremy (brilliantly played by <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0531966/">William MacDonald</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1123781/">Robert Fulton</a>) mirrors the issues rumbling beneath the surface of most family relationships--the struggle to be understood, to be noticed, to be valued by the people we're supposed to love the most. And so, as the tension builds and leads from one revelation to another, the desire to experience emotional release is shared by the audience and that essential connection between stage and spectator is achieved. </span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Waterfront: The Blessing</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"> is a testament to the power and value of story, but also the deeper, more insidious nature of truth, and our perceptions of it. This relationship, the way story and truth go hand in hand, questions truth as that pristine, unrivaled beacon of clarity that we depend on as a foundational guide. It scratches at the pliable nature of truth and questions the value we place on that comfortable but stark vision of the world as black and white, right and wrong. </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Waterfront </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">does what art should: It makes us take a second glance at what we know and how we live.</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Learn more about Les Nouvelles Theatre and the production of </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Waterfront : The Blessing</span> </span><a href="http://www.lesnouvellestheatre.com/#%21">here.</a>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-27438172202216357952011-08-13T21:53:00.000-04:002011-08-15T02:24:44.929-04:00Ramadan Reflection: Seeing the Glory in the Struggle<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGXnH4jfMj9Pejc_F-A0KwN1wRsU_uj1JtVLxmS2JaMekX-NaH0-mYMSYWu014aULkOwytK5QWB00tvH85SqYG2D2azhZKJmp35lPLIjX8aQmyoNlhfVUeII7E4nKz1x3Q7K0wwLI_FoSa/s1600/Thelightbreaksuponher.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGXnH4jfMj9Pejc_F-A0KwN1wRsU_uj1JtVLxmS2JaMekX-NaH0-mYMSYWu014aULkOwytK5QWB00tvH85SqYG2D2azhZKJmp35lPLIjX8aQmyoNlhfVUeII7E4nKz1x3Q7K0wwLI_FoSa/s320/Thelightbreaksuponher.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640964421156992978" border="0" /></a>"Light Breaks Over Her" by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/robbn1/3829336203/">Robb North</a>
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<br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >As Ramadan shifted deeper into the summer months and began its steady approach, I noticed a familiar dread, this curdling of pent up fear, inside me. Friends and family expressed how much they loved Ramadan, how much they missed it, and how glad they were of its return--but I was finding it difficult to feel the same. Their rejoicing, public exaltation, this unbridled happiness--it was almost suffocating. It wasn't that I didn't want to hear it, it was that I just couldn't measure up.
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<br />There is this universal ache among humans, regardless of spiritual beliefs, to want to begin anew. After a period of time, whether it be a spiritual cleanse, a physical one, or a combination of both, we want to shed our old skins and start fresh, a clean slate. We hope that we can be better and we are determined to try. I could certainly relate to the Muslims around me who, with the approach of Ramadan, clearly recognized the opportunity to devote themselves to being better people. I know the kind of spiritual high that feeds this momentum, this immense, almost giddy gratitude that inspires you to do better and therefore, be better. It's this insatiable desire to strengthen and fortify a personal relationship with God--and in Ramadan, something inexplicable happens to make you want to do it.
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<br />So why wasn't I feeling it? Why was this dread, like the smirk of a shadowy friend during tough times, always present at the start of every Ramadan? Yes, there was the obvious fear of long summer hours with no food or drink--how tiring, how hot, how looong it would be. But this fear went beyond the physical hardships I knew I would face--it was deeper and more troubling:
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<br />I didn't want to fail.
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<br />I didn't want to come up short and be a big disappointment--to God, to myself. I couldn't face the guilt of knowing that yet again, I failed to accomplish my goals. That again, I wasn't as disciplined, as focused, as incredible as I thought I could be. Because in my mind, I could be so awesome. I could be kind; I could be generous; I could hold my tongue; I could give the benefit of the doubt; I could be patient with my parents; I could be understanding of my friends; I could learn more about my faith; I could get more answers; I could stand longer in prayer, in devotion, in solitude; I could be so much more than I was--it all seemed so very possible.
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<br />In reality, I fumbled and fumbled often. I lost my patience; I said more than I should; I grew tired and went to sleep instead of standing in prayer; I wasted time; I read far less than I thought I would; I grew angry too quickly; I harboured ill feelings towards others; I held grudges from long ago; I was petty and petulant, irritiable and unpleasant--I was everything I didn't want to be.
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<br />I fumbled. I failed.
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<br />How easy it would be if these good qualities, this aspirational state of being came naturally, if it took no effort. How much more accomplished would I feel if I could just <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> the things I wanted to do without falling short so often, with such dedicated self-destruction?
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<br />But the thing is, I didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">try</span> to be bad. Most of the time, I wanted to do better--I tried to be better. Sometimes I came up empty. Other times, I flourished. And really, it's as simple as that: there was no perfection; there was struggle.
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<br />Arabic is not my native language. I can read it phonetically, but aside from a set of basic words that have become second nature, I do not understand what I am reading. To understand and truly benefit from the Qur'an, I read it with an English translation knowing that no translation is perfect, that no translation can fully capture the nuances of the Arabic language, that some words in Arabic simply do not exist in English, or that they require full pages of explanations to provide context and understanding. Still, I gain so much from knowing what I'm reading. It takes me twice as long to read a page, but still, I benefit.
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<br />But sometimes, I just want to read. I want it to come easy. I want to fly through the words in this Holy Book, this guiding force in my life and I want everything to zip and zap through my brain in pristine clarity. Until I am lingual in Arabic, it won't happen. I know this. But still, sometimes I simply recite. I feel the words on my tongue, I try to perfect the pronunciation of a particular letter and soon, the words stream out of me in a regulated rhythm and there is belief, there is faith, there is something that presses itself on my heart and I connect.
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<br />It is a blessing. It moves me. I am not suddenly perfect. I have not emerged sinless and purified, but this struggle with language--the give and take it requires for me to truly benefit from everything it offers--it mimics the state of struggle that is my life.
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<br />Struggle is a state of normal and it's a good place to be. Yes, my Ramadan would be easier, less scary, more bright and hopeful, if all the good I wanted to do came easily. But it would be pointless. Yoda is wrong. It's not "Do or do not, there is no try"--the juice is <span style="font-style: italic;">in </span>the try. Or maybe he's right--and the trying <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>the doing. As we struggle--we set goals, we try, we fail--and bit by very little bit, we move onwards.
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<br />Fear of failure, guilt as a result of failing--these stifle our ability to grow and flourish. I wasn't afraid of Ramadan--I was afraid of what I would not accomplish. This tremendous opportunity to be sincerely repentant, to be gloriously good--and what could I do but be imperfect?
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<br />Our success lies in the understanding that struggling is not inferiority, nor is it an excuse to give up. It's difficult and laborious; it leaves you feeling unsettled, sometimes empty. But keep striving, keep going. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >Imperfection and struggle are not badges of failure--they are battle scars that serve as testament to the soiled, rumpled glory that is our everyday life. There is beauty there. There is joy. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >
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<br /></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-16396798579215541152011-08-08T20:06:00.000-04:002011-08-09T12:13:28.642-04:00How to Make a Dress Guard/Skirt Guard/Coat Guard for your Bicycle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjTEK99MwXDQ6q6z1WW-GOTXl2z-XTOnC0RmW_cmLxTLu-gQTHpP2D-_bnbO99xwT6COsfTAqjDJev1xHJU-6TDOOBVq-mNbcl_LIfqH2b7u1vQyARZGf_6KvFEj3VLLib0xusVauwbMe/s1600/P1070255.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjTEK99MwXDQ6q6z1WW-GOTXl2z-XTOnC0RmW_cmLxTLu-gQTHpP2D-_bnbO99xwT6COsfTAqjDJev1xHJU-6TDOOBVq-mNbcl_LIfqH2b7u1vQyARZGf_6KvFEj3VLLib0xusVauwbMe/s320/P1070255.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638853406413801570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">If you want to outfit your bike with a skirt guard (or for the guys, a coat guard), there are increasingly more options for North American riders.
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<br />These options include <a href="http://lovelybike.blogspot.com/2009/05/netted-dressguards.html">metal netted guards</a> or bright and <a href="http://lovelybike.blogspot.com/2011/01/woven-dress-guards-for-drilled-fenders.html">colourful woven/crocheted dress guards</a> that you can purchase online, or DIY projects that range in level of difficulty.
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<br />I chose the DIY route for a few reasons:
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<br />1. I couldn't figure out whether the metal guards sold online would fit my bike, or how I would attach them to my bike (there was minimal info available on these mostly European websites).
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<br />2. The bright and lovely crocheted guards require you to drill holes in your fenders to attach them (wasn't willing to do any drilling) while others come with clips that you can snap onto your fenders, but require a certain amount of space between your fenders and your tires to fit properly (didn't have enough space allowance to use this option).
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<br />I ended up consulting a tutorial on <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.instructables.com/id/Quick-%26-Easy-Bicycle-Skirt-Guards/">Instructables</a> (the link seems to no longer be working) and made adjustments to fit my needs.
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<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The tutorial and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NIpGrgPa7s">other DIY projects</a> I've seen make use of tulle--that frothy net-like material used for weddings and ballerinas--but, I wanted something a little more sturdy, easy to clean, but just as affordable. Window screening was my answer! </span>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF6fIDDHMJ2EOyRq4-S9npBRU5YuJxzje2ziXOL86U_tPokqZCo8TapgTBJ5FbJEoW8jwPMOQBkrDZvxVRfbK-5kjnrOawhlpsjZHrm0UpvIYcquwRSh0_VWeU-GwGO3myeG-ZujF-yDl/s1600/P1070176.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF6fIDDHMJ2EOyRq4-S9npBRU5YuJxzje2ziXOL86U_tPokqZCo8TapgTBJ5FbJEoW8jwPMOQBkrDZvxVRfbK-5kjnrOawhlpsjZHrm0UpvIYcquwRSh0_VWeU-GwGO3myeG-ZujF-yDl/s320/P1070176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638822793625034018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Materials: Some old newspaper, black window screening (get a roll at your hardware store, or if you have old screens, you can use those! If you buy a roll, you'll spend from $8 to $13, but will have enough to last you several replacements should the need arise), cable ties, tape, scissors, and a marker.</span>
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<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 1: Template and Positioning</span>
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<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ya7a3jc6WCgM4gZ5hq-Yf6K_7_zCaNsTrhOBhXUVwG7fD3leDuw9ZUQOaW9c3kRdoCDS6zswtoaBkiGRTJxlVGTHEE8SUT7YZihMc-un4b0CI9Jyqtnv93764Bi103IdCm3mDEhkQdXO/s1600/P1070173.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ya7a3jc6WCgM4gZ5hq-Yf6K_7_zCaNsTrhOBhXUVwG7fD3leDuw9ZUQOaW9c3kRdoCDS6zswtoaBkiGRTJxlVGTHEE8SUT7YZihMc-un4b0CI9Jyqtnv93764Bi103IdCm3mDEhkQdXO/s320/P1070173.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638822802059127906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br /></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Using the newspaper, make a rough template of the guard, cutting and taping as necessary until you get your desired shape/coverage. </span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Decide where you want to attach your guard. This will depend on how much coverage you want, but also on where your bike will allow you to attach cable ties. I've used the bars from my rear rack, the seat stays, and the chain stays as my main attachment sites.</span></li></ul><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">This part is like a dress rehearsal. M</span><span style="font-family:arial;">ark where you want to put your cable ties right onto your newspaper template. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Use cable ties to visually represent where you will attach your ties and how far apart you want them to be. Make sure that your cable ties don't interfere with any brake lines, or shifting cables. At this point, I reverse-looped my cable ties (slid them through the way you're NOT supposed to) so they didn't lock and I could slide them out easily to readjust as needed.</span></li></ul><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Do a visual check. Make sure your template isn't interfering with any of the moving parts of your bike. Now you're ready to cut out the real thing!</span></li></ul>
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<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Step 2: Cut!</span>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzy6gCt0obuPfMlQ8xtILrPl5sfZTnWMe5UpWnhhqtsDjLpEXPYillof8hFCcYWUPKAxpp9zlmwUg9qdhYZxZpuCwsO3I3pEsT0Rcf9jUrUIB2mE2kJbW3uk2gBSCw41m0_BUcQ9D1nvpn/s1600/P1070177.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzy6gCt0obuPfMlQ8xtILrPl5sfZTnWMe5UpWnhhqtsDjLpEXPYillof8hFCcYWUPKAxpp9zlmwUg9qdhYZxZpuCwsO3I3pEsT0Rcf9jUrUIB2mE2kJbW3uk2gBSCw41m0_BUcQ9D1nvpn/s320/P1070177.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638822780491205778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br /></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Roll out some window screen and tape your template onto its surface. I chose black screening because its actually less visible than the traditional silver screens and I thought it would look better with my bike.</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Now, cut. Leave about an inch of extra screening around the template (even a bit more is better). I cut my template to fit my bike exactly, and if you do the same, then you should cut out your screening leaving this extra bit around the edge. You can always trim excess later, but having that extra bit allows for more freedom when positioning the guard onto the bike and is necessary to correctly attach your cable ties.</span></li></ul>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODi-QiZcUgkxahewQzW5a90kFsLoMUC__e7G0nrTwKTCvbrbrBBnBPanXwYYP6kTGhrVGEKclHznk-PX8ZckYyFWPb_QzAQyDOAdcuC4U1asEiw5DRz0AQYhNily1atXUhyphenhyphenHAvxm2Hk-l/s1600/P1070178.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODi-QiZcUgkxahewQzW5a90kFsLoMUC__e7G0nrTwKTCvbrbrBBnBPanXwYYP6kTGhrVGEKclHznk-PX8ZckYyFWPb_QzAQyDOAdcuC4U1asEiw5DRz0AQYhNily1atXUhyphenhyphenHAvxm2Hk-l/s320/P1070178.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638821392899632642" border="0" /></a>
<br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">For the guard on the other side of the wheel, I just flipped the template over, taped it down, and cut. (Note: clear tape does a bad job of sticking. I'd try sewing needles, or masking tape next time). </span></li></ul>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsk0X-uB8n-FkFXJFg3c_K5ZpM93qCSmYPk1-PREEs5DF333W5rBk1lzFtr24TOHEuU7yPZI-1jDX3OmoY_-biOapuWVy-_z6x_eGpPbaCqNVnCjgIv75jLm9JW49zIZbR-UmoNoa4pY15/s1600/P1070180.JPG">
<br /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 3: Fit</span>
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<br /></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">This is probably the most finicky part of the process--it helps to have someone else hold the screening as you poke your cable ties through, but no fear! It can be done alone, as I sadly learned.</span></li></ul><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Place your guard on the bike so everything is positioned as correctly as possible. I placed my guard <span style="font-weight: bold;">over</span> everything (I did not weave it under the seat stays and bars). Select where you want to attach your first cable tie. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I started in the middle (with my seat stay), thinking it would be easier to position. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I highly recommend starting on one side (either the chain stay, or the bar from the rear rack) and working your way over to the other side.</span></span></li></ul>
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Step 4: Attach</span>
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<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1vgpUZe1mJnYqhm-5cQtLpwcGqMa0JQw5-5y1NVTfIFYUoikAM4-_zHwugk_TJ-tf7imIlYw0-dgi2zJQAgmYwbNu-Jjtb1APnDO3iJRGYAuJ6COODyWhNJIssLjwwZvfQOWQiNke2Iu/s1600/P1070209.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1vgpUZe1mJnYqhm-5cQtLpwcGqMa0JQw5-5y1NVTfIFYUoikAM4-_zHwugk_TJ-tf7imIlYw0-dgi2zJQAgmYwbNu-Jjtb1APnDO3iJRGYAuJ6COODyWhNJIssLjwwZvfQOWQiNke2Iu/s320/P1070209.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638821380787532002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br /></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Start attaching your screening from one end and work your way to the other. In the picture above, you can see that I have folded the edge of the screening over the bar (that's why we left that extra bit!) and have poked my cable ties through the fold and pulled it snug to hold everything in place. </span></li></ul><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsk0X-uB8n-FkFXJFg3c_K5ZpM93qCSmYPk1-PREEs5DF333W5rBk1lzFtr24TOHEuU7yPZI-1jDX3OmoY_-biOapuWVy-_z6x_eGpPbaCqNVnCjgIv75jLm9JW49zIZbR-UmoNoa4pY15/s1600/P1070180.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsk0X-uB8n-FkFXJFg3c_K5ZpM93qCSmYPk1-PREEs5DF333W5rBk1lzFtr24TOHEuU7yPZI-1jDX3OmoY_-biOapuWVy-_z6x_eGpPbaCqNVnCjgIv75jLm9JW49zIZbR-UmoNoa4pY15/s320/P1070180.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638817893080884418" border="0" /></a>
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<br /></span><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">When working on the middle (for me, it was the seat stay), </span><span style="font-family:arial;">you'll poke your cable tie through and then </span><span style="font-family:arial;">you'll reach through the spokes </span><span style="font-family:arial;">(it's a tight squeeze--get someone with small hands to help you) </span><span style="font-family:arial;">to pull the end of the cable tie around the stay. Then, poke it back through the screen.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> One advantage with starting in the middle is that you have more space to maneuver your hand without the screen in your way...ah, well.
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<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-family:arial;">In the picture, I have just left the ends of the cable ties hanging (haven't looped them through to lock) so I can reposition if necessary. The screen is more likely to move if you do it this way, but if you tie (lock) at least one of the cable ties, there will be less movement of the screen and you can leave the rest of the ties undone until you're absolutely ready to lock 'em in place.</span></li></ul>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZl57yHI89aWb9DwUzj51A9qD5yQ3vVhLpbIgKUaCOmcoBHxiG3FjshIpwvkNVwbu_0OtkU1A5Q4ZHxx821dE2qfUrW3ttOJnK4UFqBmhQ0c1M22vklGnbEzwj3r91qYLJiOBmqNYxXJX/s1600/P1070182.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZl57yHI89aWb9DwUzj51A9qD5yQ3vVhLpbIgKUaCOmcoBHxiG3FjshIpwvkNVwbu_0OtkU1A5Q4ZHxx821dE2qfUrW3ttOJnK4UFqBmhQ0c1M22vklGnbEzwj3r91qYLJiOBmqNYxXJX/s320/P1070182.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638817883921454530" border="0" /></a>
<br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">I fold the other edge over the chain stay and loop the cable ties through the fold and make sure there is enough slack to allow me to pull the cable ties in the middle (over my seat stay) snug, before I pull the ties on the chain stay snug. </span></li></ul>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJczEb-Ixu_O0kP4c4zBgTg463c_mNtxlPAZXsWKUUq6KMJ7OmotVtt8xmJHAa4dQnY4Srz0RuMWEyCMEA-ZKkQdkHgrKJeVuFaiHkNXsjeQQkWIRu5kQ-Ove0DbfUsR4p4WTVuU3PCc2H/s1600/P1070183.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJczEb-Ixu_O0kP4c4zBgTg463c_mNtxlPAZXsWKUUq6KMJ7OmotVtt8xmJHAa4dQnY4Srz0RuMWEyCMEA-ZKkQdkHgrKJeVuFaiHkNXsjeQQkWIRu5kQ-Ove0DbfUsR4p4WTVuU3PCc2H/s320/P1070183.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638817875372569810" border="0" /></a>
<br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">As I pull each cable tie snug and lock it into place, I make sure I avoid any cables.</span></li></ul>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkPWr1LN186ciMHcp1x5NVILvcbebXVZGDgp9fZAjbLZ6bHyMPzhPYIWQTvQkwOEBpWZKCsGK8dmTexW2zejnlnCVqPAp7Ln0dgd2mRhrjuWlFm8oGjqvZNJGFfdxWigcxqcaMd42bdVe/s1600/P1070185.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkPWr1LN186ciMHcp1x5NVILvcbebXVZGDgp9fZAjbLZ6bHyMPzhPYIWQTvQkwOEBpWZKCsGK8dmTexW2zejnlnCVqPAp7Ln0dgd2mRhrjuWlFm8oGjqvZNJGFfdxWigcxqcaMd42bdVe/s320/P1070185.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638817865110235602" border="0" /></a>
<br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">Or, if I have to go over cables or brake lines, I make sure my tie isn't super tight. It's not hanging loose, but it isn't squeezing the white cables either. </span></li></ul>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihN0Z3tMA5CD5RiW2-J3VhXSOFi5SUvvZYVCLUydqApTImw37bGUFJWe7tOxRqy5KU_IQNxM3dxyGyYop9gHmJYJYKy4kX2kU-lb6y-A7HBGJoCfBAUxSaxwENBsBREj8LiB43tRRBn31q/s1600/P1070211.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihN0Z3tMA5CD5RiW2-J3VhXSOFi5SUvvZYVCLUydqApTImw37bGUFJWe7tOxRqy5KU_IQNxM3dxyGyYop9gHmJYJYKy4kX2kU-lb6y-A7HBGJoCfBAUxSaxwENBsBREj8LiB43tRRBn31q/s320/P1070211.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638821371487286482" border="0" /></a>
<br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">I chop off any excess screening from the edges.</span></li></ul><span style="font-family:arial;">
<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBOceBEQGTflKnw5ylwJr8mkEkdfIRTriUoKI6F7XTwMq2DFw0Yj_jwjRO7s6CCbU-Vora4SrdzTkBvVzxHmw98Vlgn0RBVgnbrVNdk3xnUgMm-VKPDbkm9_0NktyZUfdf2rP2eM6PLLi/s1600/P1070214.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBOceBEQGTflKnw5ylwJr8mkEkdfIRTriUoKI6F7XTwMq2DFw0Yj_jwjRO7s6CCbU-Vora4SrdzTkBvVzxHmw98Vlgn0RBVgnbrVNdk3xnUgMm-VKPDbkm9_0NktyZUfdf2rP2eM6PLLi/s320/P1070214.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638821361737550242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Voila! This is what it looks like almost complete (I haven't chopped off the excess length on my cable ties yet.)</span>
<br />
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I've done a few test rides and it's been superb so far, although I'm still trying to figure out a way to attach the curved part of the screen to the fender so it doesn't hang out as much. I may try hot glue, but have avoided it thus far because (1) I can't find my glue gun and (2) I'm going for a method that isn't permanent and won't mess up the paint job on my bike.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkPWr1LN186ciMHcp1x5NVILvcbebXVZGDgp9fZAjbLZ6bHyMPzhPYIWQTvQkwOEBpWZKCsGK8dmTexW2zejnlnCVqPAp7Ln0dgd2mRhrjuWlFm8oGjqvZNJGFfdxWigcxqcaMd42bdVe/s1600/P1070185.JPG">
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<br /></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-22460317945267362322011-08-08T01:57:00.001-04:002011-08-09T16:17:52.018-04:00Biking in Long Skirts is Entirely Possible<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>338</o:Words> <o:characters>1928</o:Characters> <o:lines>16</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2367</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Arial; panose-1:0 2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family:Arial;">When I tell people that I've recently begun cycling and hope for it to become an important part of my lifestyle, I'm often asked how I plan to ride a bike wearing the long skirts/dresses/abayas/jilbabs that are a permanent part of my everyday wardrobe.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jqujCiagdjNEqmIVSWSH3YpRw6JiGnx9PCxuJ3EGrMOeCK_GybzPHwPjfyp81E9JCewPgJh9xYCvSs-wSjA-nM08mc48Od9yY7J-ASStVphhC4cgSgXJcLtPG86soVM_xoMzA3I3Q5wn/s1600/dutch-skirt-guard.jpg">
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<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK1O5Ok31j9NpJh1JefHQxarmCKvpnIx5KK6sSiU2USnrXHCxb-KOn4Iwt9_amJ0p_C1IIluB_zziy5LzQQQvktILWMft2n822PKoxgAZs_4F3SbRp9I2n0zgBIeICo964si2MY3Y34jO/s1600/skirtbike.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVK1O5Ok31j9NpJh1JefHQxarmCKvpnIx5KK6sSiU2USnrXHCxb-KOn4Iwt9_amJ0p_C1IIluB_zziy5LzQQQvktILWMft2n822PKoxgAZs_4F3SbRp9I2n0zgBIeICo964si2MY3Y34jO/s320/skirtbike.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638883648183530402" border="0" /></a></span></p><div style="text-align: center;">She's totally rocking it. So can I.
<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Image source: www.bicycleapparel.com</span></div><p class="MsoNormal">
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<br />Before I bought my bicycle, this was a major concern for me. I knew I didn't want to shift my entire wardrobe to fit into a cycling lifestyle, especially if I wanted to use my bike for more than recreation. I wanted to maintain the way I dressed while I made this slow lifestyle transition and I knew that for it to be successful, it had to be something I could keep up in the long run--and I'd only be able to keep it up if I didn't have to worry about what I was wearing every time I wanted to hop on my bike and go.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NyLNXDFppAmp75PVA0NPegF8L_3vPnKgiBSchZO0ZcjavWpBvOvowOp6kcCuZk2_55Y5eC3FFFCH5dGM9l_iagPUAi9Ymwv6-H9eIXntHX_ffsZmrdncZ8WCObaGYMQUHmUL0fEmubmm/s1600/skirtbike"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NyLNXDFppAmp75PVA0NPegF8L_3vPnKgiBSchZO0ZcjavWpBvOvowOp6kcCuZk2_55Y5eC3FFFCH5dGM9l_iagPUAi9Ymwv6-H9eIXntHX_ffsZmrdncZ8WCObaGYMQUHmUL0fEmubmm/s320/skirtbike" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638884773403800626" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:78%;">Image source: www.bidorbuy.co.za</span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I'm hardly the first person to think this way. There is a positive trend towards utility cycling that involves riders being able to commute to work without having to hike up their pant legs, or cycle in their "bike clothes" and then have to change into their work clothes upon arrival at work. Bikes conducive to utility cycling feature such wonders as fenders, mudflaps, chain guards (sometimes full chain cases) and dressguards/coat guards. These features prevent your clothes from getting dirty and from long coattails and skirts from getting caught in the spokes of your rear wheel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jqujCiagdjNEqmIVSWSH3YpRw6JiGnx9PCxuJ3EGrMOeCK_GybzPHwPjfyp81E9JCewPgJh9xYCvSs-wSjA-nM08mc48Od9yY7J-ASStVphhC4cgSgXJcLtPG86soVM_xoMzA3I3Q5wn/s1600/dutch-skirt-guard.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jqujCiagdjNEqmIVSWSH3YpRw6JiGnx9PCxuJ3EGrMOeCK_GybzPHwPjfyp81E9JCewPgJh9xYCvSs-wSjA-nM08mc48Od9yY7J-ASStVphhC4cgSgXJcLtPG86soVM_xoMzA3I3Q5wn/s320/dutch-skirt-guard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638884769864846994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Image source: </span></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">www.citygirlrides.blogspot.com</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">
<br />Dutch bicycles are paragons in this respect. These features are less common on North American bicycles though many manufacturers and bike shops have quickly caught on and are regularly importing Dutch bicycles (or designing their own) for North American riders, making them widely available for people who want to ride their bikes for transportation and not simply for recreation.
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<br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">As I explained in <a href="http://thebookremedy.blogspot.com/2011/05/vintage-dream-come-true-olivia-3-speed.html">this post</a>, a Dutch bike is a hefty investment and as a novice cyclist, purchasing a vintage bicycle made in the 70s and upgrading it as needed was a more reasonable choice for me. One necessary element my bicycle was missing was a dress guard. Although they look very pretty on bikes, my desire for one was purely out of necessity (the looks were just a nice bonus!). Lovely Bicycle did a fantastic outline of their purpose and function in <a href="http://lovelybike.blogspot.com/2010/08/dressguards-and-chaincase-do-you-need.html">this post</a>. I tried finding ready-made dress guards that I could purchase and snap onto my bike, but this proved too difficult. There are a few DIY tutorials on how to do this yourself, so I thought I'd give it a shot.
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<br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">See <a href="http://thebookremedy.blogspot.com/2011/08/how-to-make-dress-guardskirt-guardcoat.html">this post </a>to see how it turned out!
<br /></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-84842749623512026492011-08-05T19:47:00.000-04:002011-08-06T02:35:00.535-04:00Over to the Dark Side: E-reader convert?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQtn8domhyphenhyphenwgtix_6GJ7f7OeYDPHyNHoSmK7pqonJPg_77eCfiWaf_hAQxSKCOoaKBozm0YhM0zw7el7JBsVf8luBzbBnmBPWTSvyEKa2F2doQkP5YZ63zN4TpGs8T6bTrNLIllooMFiU/s1600/Kobo_eReader_Touch.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQtn8domhyphenhyphenwgtix_6GJ7f7OeYDPHyNHoSmK7pqonJPg_77eCfiWaf_hAQxSKCOoaKBozm0YhM0zw7el7JBsVf8luBzbBnmBPWTSvyEKa2F2doQkP5YZ63zN4TpGs8T6bTrNLIllooMFiU/s320/Kobo_eReader_Touch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637523380706102402" border="0" /></a> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Well, I've done it. After a whirlwind week of research, I purchased an e-reader. Believe me, I never thought this would happen. I love the tactile experience of reading an actual book: the dust-musky smell of well worn pages, the soft pencil strokes of age-old marginalia, the scrape of page against page, the crack of a brand new spine--I could go on forever; nothing can replace it.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >My decision to get an e-reader was a quick, easy one. There wasn't any of the expected hemming and hawing over whether or not it was a good idea. I was actually surprised it wasn't more dramatic.<br /><br />After all, I've never been a proponent of <a href="http://www2.macleans.ca/tag/bookless-library/">bookless libraries</a>, have never bought into the idea that the print medium is a dying culture that will soon be replaced by the snappy pixels of an electronic world, and I've always been very resistant to this overexcited desire to giddily embrace a world where real, solid books don't exist.<br /><br />But while all this is true, I tried not to view the electronic world of books as a direct threat to the world of real books that I love.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >With the e-reader I just thought, why not? It's an alternative p</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYf2wGoWShKO0FE5qxhWgUlfvGG3UxgnkLgsQduCWEVJDLiuQ9IVxTD3QZecyAScuqqzQ-uheJ2aut6Q5n-bIt-djeYDnA9_qFdWDNfkzAO7cR8tq87mk3F95N1k26u8aaIXtiwgUQ8acQ/s1600/electronicbook.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYf2wGoWShKO0FE5qxhWgUlfvGG3UxgnkLgsQduCWEVJDLiuQ9IVxTD3QZecyAScuqqzQ-uheJ2aut6Q5n-bIt-djeYDnA9_qFdWDNfkzAO7cR8tq87mk3F95N1k26u8aaIXtiwgUQ8acQ/s320/electronicbook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637619889691373074" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >l</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >atform that makes thousands of books easily accessible. I can borrow e-books from the library, </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >access a bunch of free e-books (many of which are lovely classics) from booksellers, and if I want t</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >o, purchase an e-book for a bit cheaper than I would an actual copy. There was just somethi</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >ng about having a device that would let me press a button and magically have a book appear that was exciting. Poof! There it is.<br /><br />What's more, I didn't want to ignore something that had become an important part of the reading, writing, and publishing world where I function as an active citizen. There are many reasons why this electronic strand of the book world has become mainstream. I </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >don't think it's just a fancy trend; it's become an integral part of the system, a venue for accessibility and</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > the dissemination of reading material to anyone, anywhere.<br /><br /></span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >But then why, as I stood at my local bookstore toying with my e-reader, did I start to feel a little guilty?<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><span style="font-family:arial;">Because honestly, as much as it is exciting, there is also </span><span style="font-family:arial;">something disturbing about the possibility of having books appear and disappear with the click of a button. Where do pixels go when they die? There's the sense that unless a book is a <span style="font-style: italic;">book</span>--something solid that I can hold in my hands--it can be easily eliminated. Poof! It's gone. As if it never existed. A physical object denotes a sense of reality, a presence that cannot be denied. But, words in electronic form appear and disappear, are edited and re-edited, cut and pasted, rearranged to be anything. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">The possibilities are only limited by our imaginations and how far we are willing to go.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-UiOjIb8YJVOPnLqJSQm1DikKmncEJaJ2LTzL3TwvzKP0aWtjIP7127bvgFFlBZ4pcknFR89651HSWONN7rLCw6l5zO_tgTsRWykdKF1BUC4ZGvO_Ddc0L-41EVpm5evtYE6QBa5NDs4/s1600/wornbooks.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh-UiOjIb8YJVOPnLqJSQm1DikKmncEJaJ2LTzL3TwvzKP0aWtjIP7127bvgFFlBZ4pcknFR89651HSWONN7rLCw6l5zO_tgTsRWykdKF1BUC4ZGvO_Ddc0L-41EVpm5evtYE6QBa5NDs4/s320/wornbooks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637615690349813138" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I know that with certain works, I'm more likely to purchase the actual book instead of the e-version simply because I want to actually <span style="font-style: italic;">have </span>it. So far, I don't feel that any of the books I've started to read on my e-reader are <span style="font-style: italic;">mine.</span> I'm enjoying the stories I've immersed myself in, but like with any electronic document on my computer, these are still words on a screen. There's a safe distance between me and the book and I haven't yet made a perso</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >nal connection with the book as an object. There are no folded pages, rumpled covers, or hurried notes along the margins. It's all so scrupulously clean. With no cracked spines, how do I leave my mark behind? If I can't pass a book on to a friend, or thumb through the pages of an old favourite, how do I analyze my relationship with the book? Do we have a relationship at all?<br /><br />We do; albeit, it's a slightly different one. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I think of e-readers, e-books, and all this electronic book paraphernalia as a supplement and not a replacement. It is simply another way to access the world of books, an exciting new dimension that contributes to book culture and can elevate the way we interact with books. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiX7Xg8ffXmJQeqy8ezIVB98jvhvoJeHqO3rc8Bxch_kvQwOARXtR06R4xzrlDEVG7HRgICq37aX1-XzmOzSBQCUEAU2M79sh5IM2T_zi85RrDeDmnHzKMRcboIZrga1dXDUl6QE9fUVg/s1600/electronicbook2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiX7Xg8ffXmJQeqy8ezIVB98jvhvoJeHqO3rc8Bxch_kvQwOARXtR06R4xzrlDEVG7HRgICq37aX1-XzmOzSBQCUEAU2M79sh5IM2T_zi85RrDeDmnHzKMRcboIZrga1dXDUl6QE9fUVg/s320/electronicbook2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637619119106435026" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>And that's key--the interaction. I purchased my e-reader to discover a new way of connecting with books. What perhaps, does an e-reader offer that a real book doesn't? Do my reading statistics--knowing how fast or how often I read, what time of day I'm more inclined to read, or how many books I've finished--make for a valuable reading experience? Do reading awards--an electronic badge for starting an e-library, for finishing a book, for electronically highlighting a passage--do these make a difference? What happens when I only have the words and not the pages, the cardboard, and the glue? How does my relationship with books, these beloved objects, change?<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >In the end, it's the words that matter. While the physicality of a book will provide a sensuous experience, it's the words that I'm drinking in. I'm far from replacing one with the other. I'm vying for a healthy marriage between the two. Whether I get the same level of pleasure with an e-book as I do with a real one is yet to be seen and though at times I'm doubtful, I'm willing to give it a good chance.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Images: Kobo e-reader from <a href="http://review.techworld.com/personal-tech/3282583/kobo-ereader-touch-edition-preview/">TechWorld</a>; Kindle e-reader images are both from <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/igboo/with/3879913438/">Larry Page</a>; old volumes of well worn books from <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/extendedepiphany/2923823585/">extended epiphany</a>. </span><br /><br /></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-21755639369646316272011-07-28T03:36:00.000-04:002011-08-05T05:58:23.622-04:00Judging By the Cover: Chris Cleave's LITTLE BEE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-JrRwuQnnZGv_n4ab8_7hZjfKAR0v4iAKUoAm-CzC40HzslARv5N-saobcKnMgayg_RlOc-KelnPtApwZH__i3WwQHsDAgrein_K3EcRwicFRO4U5VyU7iNjKm2K0MY-gsBtxX0n8RKo/s1600/bee_paperback.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-JrRwuQnnZGv_n4ab8_7hZjfKAR0v4iAKUoAm-CzC40HzslARv5N-saobcKnMgayg_RlOc-KelnPtApwZH__i3WwQHsDAgrein_K3EcRwicFRO4U5VyU7iNjKm2K0MY-gsBtxX0n8RKo/s320/bee_paperback.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637247170819730978" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >The cover of Chris Cleave's novel <span style="font-style: italic;">Little <span style="font-style: italic;">Bee</span></span> is an excellent example of successful, targeted book marketing. I picked this book up at the airport a few months ago, on my way home from an incredible, but very exhausting trip in California. I was pretty sure I would zone out and watch an in-flight movie--in fact, I was looking forward to letting my brain slow down and melt into a media-engorged puddle.<br /><br />I wasn't in the mood to read. Responsible budgeting dictated that I did <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>have enough funds to support another book purchase.<br /><br />But there it was. Bright and coyly insistent, this tangerine cover and its whimsical silhouette smiled me a welcome <span style="font-style: italic;">hello!</span> </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >It was magnetic--I couldn't help but pick it up.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >The contrast of the silhouette, its curling strands of hair whirling against a citrus background is striking; the loose, calligraphic font carries a whimsical note, but has a melancholic quality that evokes some of the unsettling thematic elements of the novel. The superimposed negative (white) silhouette on the eye is charming but strangely abrupt. It's a Laura Secord white chocolate sweetly creating a void, a deadening of the human gaze.<br /><br />The two silhouettes are at play, but the interplay is tension wrought and uncomfortably stirring; it's a play on the typical cameo pin that features an aristocratic head--a lovely Englishwoman with a long sloping neck, hair piled in wispy curls. Here, the dominating cameo is of a little Nigerian girl, her upturned chin evoking a steady, unrelenting focus, a restrained elegance and confidence that gives her weight and purpose. What's more, this cover image/design carries the weight of the story itself: a Nigerian refugee girl lands in the UK with nothing and collides with a white, British woman who seems to have everything. They share a life-threatening secret that binds them together in ways they did not imagine.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpciePv3r3HlOV5Sm2drjYOdMFFpTrC7-XACRGaw2xzukXWy26BnIzFbR-w-XMPItY1YhVIPNmzHa4nwthj5ieVc6-9CvIWOqUNjlLwH7qbF4Go2U1RlSZF04Gr9aIFPcBoC0sb7H-UJl/s1600/cameo-thumb.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpciePv3r3HlOV5Sm2drjYOdMFFpTrC7-XACRGaw2xzukXWy26BnIzFbR-w-XMPItY1YhVIPNmzHa4nwthj5ieVc6-9CvIWOqUNjlLwH7qbF4Go2U1RlSZF04Gr9aIFPcBoC0sb7H-UJl/s320/cameo-thumb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637302335584350450" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><br />Astutely, the cover image connects with the first line of the book, invoking the cameo of the Queen on British currency: "Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming." Like a scientist observing his human experiment, the book marketer knows what we do when we're testing out a book, when we're weighing whether or not we should actually purchase it. We flip it over, read the back, then if our interest is piqued, we read the first page. Everything connects.<br /><br />The back cover of my US paperback version of the book features one of the strangest, infuriating, and ultimately successful book summaries I've come across. The back cover acts as a pitch to the reader, expressing in 250 words or less, why you should throw down your money, and then invest your time to read this book.<br /><br />I wouldn't even call what appears on the back cover of <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Bee</span> a summary--it's marketing kitsch and I'll admit rather begrudgingly that it works:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" >"We don't want to tell you <span style="font-weight: bold;">what happens</span> in this book. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" >It is a truly <span style="font-weight: bold;">Special Story</span> and we don't want to spoil it. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nevertheless</span>, you need to know enough to buy it, so we will just say this: </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" ></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" >This is a story of two women. Their lives collide one fateful day, and one of them has to make a terrible choice, the kind of choice we hope you never have to face. Two years later, they meet again--and the story starts there...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" ></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);font-family:arial;" >Once you have read it, you'll want to tell your friends about it. When you do, please don't tell them what happens. The magic is in how the story unfolds."</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><br />Okay, seriously, I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span>. You don't have to say it. It's overkill. It's cheesy. It plays like a melodramatic voice-over prying at our dormant human emotions. It's so blatant in its attempt to get you interested, that it can be off putting. It's purposely vague, hideously peppered with cliches, yet it appeals to this basic desire in all of us to feel something, anything. In fact, it promises to deliver exactly what we want: <span style="font-style: italic;">a guaranteed good read.</span><br /><br />This back cover gives me little to no information on what the story is about--all I know is that there's two women (<span style="font-style: italic;">two women!!!</span> Automatic tension!), there's some sort of terrible choice (what could it possibly <span style="font-style: italic;">be???</span>), and that when these two women meet, an amazing story unfolds. So amazing, that the book cover is written in second person--it speaks <span style="font-style: italic;">directly to me. </span>It orders me <span style="font-style: italic;">not to reveal</span> what happens in the book to my friends. The book is so amazing that I'll want to run out and tell everyone everything about it, plot details and all--but I <span style="font-style: italic;">shouldn't.</span> Why? Because it's just <span style="font-style: italic;">too amazing</span>. It would be like forcing your friend to watch the final Harry Potter movie when they haven't read/watched any of the previous books/movies.* <span style="font-style: italic;">Don't ruin it. We're in this together.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Chris Cleave's own description of his book is far better than the one they slapped on the back of the paperback, but would it have been as effective?<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/yPI54Kl0NIg" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe><br /><br />His narration is compelling, informative, more in tune with the themes in the book; I actually know what to expect. I'm interested and willing.<br /><br />But I also consider the reach of this book--it's a #1 New York Times Bestseller--and I think part of what contributes to that success is the buzz that surrounds the book (the part of us that nudges, 'bestseller? it must be good!') and the way in which people are invited to read it. Tell someone you read a book about refugees and immigration issues and you're not going to garner interest across a wide demographic spectrum. People who already have a specific interest in the topic might ask you for more, but the reach is very limited.<br /><br />It's not that people don't care about immigration issues and refugees, it's that their interest has to be accessed through a platform they understand. If you tell someone you read a book about two women who are bound together by a terrible choice, you're appealing to a curiosity that exists across boundaries and borders. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >People are connected by the same hopes, fears, and desires, regardless of what demographic they fit into. Appeal to those seemingly generic themes and you make powerful connections that sell a lot of books. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><br />And just like that, I've got another book in my suitcase.<br /><br />Look for my reflection on <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Bee</span> in the coming weeks. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Cover design: Jill Putorti</span></span><br /><br />Image sources: <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Bee </span>cover from <a href="http://www.chriscleave.com/little-bee/">Chris Cleave's website</a>; cameo from <a href="http://timpsonwiki.wikispaces.com/Rest">Timpsonwiki</a>.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:78%;" >* I only read the first HP book....and then, of my own volition, went with a friend to watch the very last installment of the films.</span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-20337248658337295362011-07-19T02:25:00.000-04:002011-07-26T04:49:45.997-04:00MS Bike Tour: Enjoy the Ride<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >A few days ago I bolted out the door and went on a relatively spontaneous 10 km ride. I was high on hope and hadn't yet combined my image of a leisurely bike ride to the reality of pedaling a very heavy machine up and down hilly streets.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I was comfortable with signing up for the MS Bike-a-Thon for two reasons: (1) they advertise their event as family friendly and (2) they welcome participants on "bikes of all kinds." Family friendly is important because this implies that you don't have to be a pro athlete to participate. If there aren't any bike restrictions, I feel confident knowing that I won't feel madly out of place and horrendously unprepared on my vintage Elan amidst a set of professional riders on road bikes. I can hope that there'll be someone on a unicycle or better yet, an adult tricycle! Maybe my vision of an eclectic group of misfits riding along in brightly coloured costumes with feathers in their caps isn't accurate (how awesome would that be?!!), but still, there's the sense that even with professional riders zooming through trails, I'll be okay put-putting along on Olivia.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NPPcfdf0bac" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >But to ride 30 km I've got to prepare so I thought I'd test out a route from my house to Erindale Park using a trail through the woods and a bike lane along Collegeway that leads right into UofT Mississauga and then onwards into the park. It's roughly a 10 km round trip and very scenic, so an early morning ride before the world woke up sounded so lovely.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #1:</span> As I wobble my way onto the steep and narrow entry into the ravine I envision myself losing control and wiping out: the entry is a little rough around the edges and drops off onto very uneven ground while going into a steep decline. Maybe a helmet was a good idea. And knee pads. Olivia's front wheel rides a little "squirrelly"; it's a little unpredictable and wobbles off track easily. I've gotten used to the feel but getting back on her after a lapse in riding always throws me off course--I think it's a matter of experience and with more riding won't be such an ordeal.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #2:</span> As I coast down the path and over the little wooden bridge that arcs over a brook, I slowly settle into my crisp morning ride. I take a new path that forks off to the left knowing it exits onto Erin Mills Parkway and will let me enter the trail along Burnhamthorpe Rd. Very quickly I'm gaining speed without pedaling, swerving along sharp curves. I'm going so fast that the trees look threatening and my panic rises--what if my brakes go out? What if I lose control? Why am I going so fast? Why is this path so curvy? I'm going to smack into a tree--here it comes! Except I pump my brakes and everything's fine.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #3:</span> When I finally exit the trail, I discover another dilemma. There are giant signs telling me to dismount my bike and walk it across the crosswalk. Not a big deal. I'm not </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >so</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > cool that I can't walk my bike. I don't care. Sure, nobody likes the safety freak who walks their bike across the road. They hold up turning vehicles like any other pedestrian; drivers point and laugh at them; children on rugged mountain bikes zip past in three seconds, but it's okay. That's what the sign says. Safety first. So I wait for the light to change and I walk my bike to the other side where the bike lane begins. As I hop onto my bike and push off, I realize that if there were cars waiting to turn right, I'd be blocking them trying to get on my bike and into the bike lane. If I had ridden across the crosswalk, I could easily weave into the lane with little disruption. The rules are killing me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #4:</span> I make it to the next light reveling in the glory that is a dedicated bike lane when I reach the next set of lights. I need to turn left to continue down my route, but I'm not yet comfortable taking the left lane and turning like a vehicle. So I cross the intersection still in bike lane position, but have to stop awkwardly on the other side so I can wait for the light to change and cross over again. If there were cars, where would I stop? Should I dismount and cross like a pedestrian and then mount again to get into the bike lane? This feels like too much starting and stopping and not enough riding. I'm annoyed and stressed. I can't turn left like a vehicle yet because what if I'm too slow? What if the car behind me honks? What if they give me the finger?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Anyways. I'm finally in the bike lane on Collegeway and riding along the route I've dreamt of taking for months. It's through a quiet part of the city, few cars, lots of trees--and wow, I'm totally zipping down this road! This is easy!!! I'm hardly pedaling! So fast! So free! Wind whipping in my face! Sun twirling in the trees! This is what it's all about!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #5:</span> And then it hits me. I'm going downhill. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >That's </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >why it's easy. You're not some athlete with the magical ability to bike at high speeds with little training and not an ounce of sweat. You idiot. You're going </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >downhill</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >, which means your 5 km route back home will be </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >uphill the entire way. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Sure, 5 km is not a whole lot. Especially on a bike. But let's not forget who we're talking about here. We're talking about me. The girl who, without fail, got hit in the face with a basketball/soccer ball/volleyball every single gym class in middle school.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #6:</span> When I reach UTM, I find the trail that leads into the park and decide to walk my bike. It's unpaved, mostly gravel, and a lot of uneven ground. My wheels are pretty skinny and I'm pretty sure I'd wipe out the first time I hit the brakes. No need to be adventurous and go "off road" </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >yet. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >All in good time. On the way down, I meet a frog:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BrSlhhEWOnRxax4plX7B2uvZf-Kdf0ZeWhYOfbbx5b-AKqqk779RcMGAnSf13W3Vp5G39rvxjJdjs_K5AO2Hs3S7vKTb22VFVR8N2cjQvda6MSiZdX1YeEcGz0LAtSNYg_OmgzDvwEQM/s1600/P1070246.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BrSlhhEWOnRxax4plX7B2uvZf-Kdf0ZeWhYOfbbx5b-AKqqk779RcMGAnSf13W3Vp5G39rvxjJdjs_K5AO2Hs3S7vKTb22VFVR8N2cjQvda6MSiZdX1YeEcGz0LAtSNYg_OmgzDvwEQM/s320/P1070246.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633573268489531410" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >The park is shrouded in rising mist, the earthy scent of wet grass is in the air, and there's the damp of dew soaking into my shoes. The morning is glowy, the silence and emptiness thrilling. I love it here. My tree stands waiting--'how long you've left me to host the haphazard picnics of common folk' she whispers:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5gyEK2xBaDLHHPVUCADyVbvSUfA1Xmy8nnh8A0msOAQuMpUoyd0F_lZrM-8JYphFqa2xPERda1tgDC5HDPTPNuuNe-49qlFC-LO-cGvPI0uQCBx8kbiSXwzPxn1pSU-0joX1QcMaJ7al/s1600/P1070249.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5gyEK2xBaDLHHPVUCADyVbvSUfA1Xmy8nnh8A0msOAQuMpUoyd0F_lZrM-8JYphFqa2xPERda1tgDC5HDPTPNuuNe-49qlFC-LO-cGvPI0uQCBx8kbiSXwzPxn1pSU-0joX1QcMaJ7al/s320/P1070249.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633574191504492434" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Olivia enjoys the view from the bridge over the Credit River:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2XE-BlZpJgZEYG97L-dionkiVLpnNpwdEEogZwNGMOthnuJrV0mqUGd7H3B2F4vp_F2YDmL7GqibFB5esc5VwDjuYzrfbvRrIEnH-nmAZOk0tc9XCprUogtfeCM-cC144O2agWwjiHsi/s1600/P1070255.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2XE-BlZpJgZEYG97L-dionkiVLpnNpwdEEogZwNGMOthnuJrV0mqUGd7H3B2F4vp_F2YDmL7GqibFB5esc5VwDjuYzrfbvRrIEnH-nmAZOk0tc9XCprUogtfeCM-cC144O2agWwjiHsi/s320/P1070255.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633574889783456930" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >'How pretty,' she yawns.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVm_A05tPWcUaQ_upnwq_la8N7bAvVxcQ1IF-hOLPAZ3hzmbECZwqbbYs2mbwPv-n6cinT_e2eTkhJPTbifT7g-8d1T5ia4GSHydBmo8skWxaEOE0KRuUARvcenlYaVhMz7_BPPtqmA-e/s1600/P1070254.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVm_A05tPWcUaQ_upnwq_la8N7bAvVxcQ1IF-hOLPAZ3hzmbECZwqbbYs2mbwPv-n6cinT_e2eTkhJPTbifT7g-8d1T5ia4GSHydBmo8skWxaEOE0KRuUARvcenlYaVhMz7_BPPtqmA-e/s320/P1070254.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633576263913856738" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #7:</span> After a nice walk through the park, my sleepless night starts to kick in and I want to get back home. I bike towards Dundas, the speeding cars scaring me onto the sidewalk. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Look. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I know I'm not supposed to bike on the sidewalk. It's unsafe. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I know. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I almost fell off a bridge. Well, one wrong move and I would've gone over--poof! And I </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >did</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > almost wipe out: there was wet grass caught in my brakes and I wobbled. But here's the thing. I think that if you're going to bike on the road, you better know what you're doing. You better know the rules. You better know how to signal. You better have confidence. And until I've got 3/3 I'm not veering onto a road unless it's got a dedicated bike lane. Especially not Dundas. I'm also keenly aware that confidence is built through trial and error, but I'd like more trials and less errors before I endanger my life, cause an accident, or really piss someone off. I also don't want someone to give me the finger. I'd be so hurt.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Worry #8:</span> I make it back to Collegeway and my beloved bike lane to start the arduous climb homeward. And holy moly, I am </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >dying. </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I know this is because I'm unfit and haven't exercised in a while, but I'm also keenly aware that my bike is heavy. Really heavy. That's part of the charm of a vintage bike, remember? This seems so much harder than it should be. I only have three speeds and I'm determined to believe that </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >this is fine</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >. I WILL BE OKAY. I pedal at approximately .25 km/hour and know everyone is laughing at me. The birds in the trees, the old women in their condos, the cars passing me at lightning speed, everyone. But, I'm determined. I will make it home without stopping. </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I can do this.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Whatever, man. I have to pull over and stop because my legs are jelly and I think I might die. So there I am, standing on the side of the road, chugging water like I just ran a marathon, except I didn't. I'm such a disappointment. By the time I reach Erin Mills and Burnhamthorpe, I have to walk my bike up the sidewalk because I can't pedal any longer. The bike feels like a dead weight and until I reach the bike path that zooms down a hill and into the woods, I'm not getting back on my bike.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Once I reach the path, I zip and zap through the woods and think if I keep doing this, if I keep worrying about every rule I could potentially break or every person who could point me out and say 'there's that girl who doesn't know what she's doing' or if I make myself bike 5 km uphill before I'm ready, if I don't pause and </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >just enjoy the ride </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >I'm going to hate this, and I'm going to fail.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >So here's to letting the wind whistle through a mind empty of worries and what-ifs--we're going to make it Olivia, you just wait and see.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >To support me and my team in the MS Bike Tour, please visit </span><a style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://mssoc.convio.net/site/TR/BikeTour/General?px=1399990&pg=personal&fr_id=1054">my personal donation page</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-family:arial;" >.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >Any donation is appreciated!</span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557798277234728263.post-55722442079802771032011-07-15T23:38:00.000-04:002011-07-19T02:24:07.029-04:00Out of the Cave and into the Light<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" >It's 6 AM on a Friday and I haven't slept yet. I've spent the night marking assignments and as the glow through my curtains grows ever brighter, I start to prep myself to turn in. I have an evening class tonight and no other commitments, so I can sink into sleep guilt free and oblivious.<br /><br />Except the guilt is always tugging my stomach into knots; I know my schedule is haphazard and unproductive and there isn't a day that goes by where I don't wonder why I can't just pull myself together.<br /><br />Night: the isolation and silence it brings is a simultaneous source of solace and desperate anxiety. I've functioned on the theory that my creativity peaks at 3 AM when the first bird of the morn starts trilling from the pine tree outside my window. After hours of sitting alone in my room staring at a largely blank word document, that first sweet warble careening through the thick silence of a suffocating night sets off a panic button in my brain. <span style="font-style: italic;">What have you done? What have you accomplished? Another wasted night? Do something. Do something! </span>And then out of plain desperation I'm suddenly focused and everything is razor sharp; all the mind wandering of the night suddenly connects into an electrified purging of productivity. I like what I see appearing on the screen before me and in a while go to bed on a bit of a foggy high. I'm not useless. I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> do things.<br /><br />But this hasn't happened in a long time. More often than not, I go to bed with a dead weight in my chest because I know I've wasted yet another night. Call it avoidance, my inability to focus, jitters, fear, lack of discipline, the last curve in a downward spiral--whatever it is, it leaves me with the bitter, bitter taste of waste--and without fail, the sense that I'm a little bit hopeless.<br /><br />But still, as I doze off I always think, tomorrow, <span style="font-style: italic;">tomorrow</span> things will be different.<br /><br />So it's 6 AM on a Friday and yet again, I haven't stuck to my hopeful schedule and have dug myself into a world of marking hell. All I want to do is swivel the fan toward my face, slip under the covers, and just <span style="font-style: italic;">sleep.</span> Already I hear myself saying that tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I'll mark responsibly, happily even. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new day and I'll ride out in glory because <span style="font-style: italic;">tomorrow</span> doesn't have the stench of failure; tomorrow is bright and sweet.<br /><br />I click on the song "The Cave" in my playlist to help me exert the last bit of energy needed to pack up my papers and set everything I need by the door so that when I wake up, I'll need minimal brain power to get myself ready and out of the house. <a href="http://www.mumfordandsons.com/">It's a song by a band</a> a friend introduced to me a short time ago and I've played it a few times and enjoyed it, but as I stand there about to kick open my comforter, everything suddenly makes every bit of brilliant sense.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3KkUeRPjc-Y" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe><br /><br />The video for the song features band members riding around on motorbikes/vespas somewhere in India and the image--the bright heat, the bikes curving along dirt roads in a golden haze--it's visual freedom. It's suffocating in anger and bitterness, fault and blame--and then breaking free and screaming in/for hope. It sounds repulsively melodramatic, but feels achingly real and true.<br /><br />And I think, 'why not now? Why can't tomorrow be now?'<br /><br />Call it a sleepless high, but in moments I'm changing out of my pajamas into my everyday clothes and heaving my bike out the door. I need this resurgence to be physical, representative, but physical; I want the morning to hit my face and make me feel like I'm flying; I want to <span style="font-style: italic;">literally </span>ride out into glory. The glory of doing things, of beginning. Tomorrow can begin right now.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAA0NKubda9dslYpUtFi3BERH2gR5bjHC-op_Wtk_Hzpa-NvKqmY9v-ZbYIEvw7jy84LwteLwh5zlSUfeVyzg8vUbUdAQgKz742f5iJVXrXIU7AUVRRRqg6_7EdD21X7MvscxoaOvDZ8AB/s1600/P1070252.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAA0NKubda9dslYpUtFi3BERH2gR5bjHC-op_Wtk_Hzpa-NvKqmY9v-ZbYIEvw7jy84LwteLwh5zlSUfeVyzg8vUbUdAQgKz742f5iJVXrXIU7AUVRRRqg6_7EdD21X7MvscxoaOvDZ8AB/s320/P1070252.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630940018568312962" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>And so I slam the door shut, hop on my bike, and <span style="font-style: italic;">go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >Image: </span><span style="font-size:78%;">Taken on my Lumix on July 15th, 2011 at Erindale Park.</span><br /><br /></span>Shoilee Khanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476022629551488027noreply@blogger.com0