Book Report: The Book of My Lives (76)

3. Aleksandar Hemon, The Book of My Lives (2014) (1/20/23)

Aleksandar Hemon (b. 1964) is best known for his fiction, apparently, but what he does with reality is remarkable. Born and raised in Sarajevo, he became a political refugee in Chicago at the outbreak of the war in Bosnia, at the age of 27. This book tells stories both of his (as he might say, misspent) youth and of his resettlement in his new home.

The book consists of loosely connected essays, which cover such topics as his grandmother's borscht, his hapless chess career, his Irish setter Mek, life during wartime (many of the people he mentions are parenthetically described as "now on trial in The Hague"), a disastrous birthday party, and on and on. But more deeply, these essays are about identity, about home, about the interior vs. the exterior. Hemon is a keen observer: the details he presents, and the language he uses, are amazing. 

His is a somewhat detached (he might say, Slavic) sensibility; emotion is spared in favor of rational depiction. Accounts of his growing-up in Bosnia are wryly presented. He is self-described as wayward, not really knowing where he's headed, but he's curious and adventurous. He gets into humorous scrapes as a result, but he always emerges unscathed and perhaps a bit wiser. 

That wisdom permeates the book. Here he is contrasting his left-behind home of Sarajevo with his newly found home of Chicago:

Where the urban landscapes of Sarajevo had been populated with familiar faces, with shared and shareable experiences, the Chicago I was trying to comprehend was dark with the matter of pursued anonymity.
     In Sarajevo, you possessed a personal infrastructure: your kafana [café], your barber, your butcher; the streets where people recognized you, the space that identified you; the landmarks of your life (the spot where you fell playing soccer and broke your arm, the corner where you waited to meet the first of the many loves of your life, the bench where you kissed her first). Because anonymity was well nigh impossible and privacy literally incomprehensible (there is no word for "privacy" in Bosnian), your fellow Sarajevans knew you as well as you knew them. The borders between interiority and exteriority were practically nonexistent. If you somehow vanished, your fellow citizens could have collectively reconstructed you from their collective memory and the gossip accrued over the years. Your sense of who you were, your deepest identity, was determined by your position in a human network, whose physical corollary was the architecture of the city. Chicago, on the other hand, was built not for people to come together but for them to be safely apart. Size, power, and the need for privacy seemed to be the dominant dimensions of its architecture. Vast as it is, Chicago ignored the distinctions between freedom and isolation, between independence and selfishness, between privacy and loneliness. In this city, I had no human network within which to place myself; my Sarajevo, the city that had existed inside me and was still there, was subject to siege and destruction. My displacement was metaphysical to the precisely same extent to which it was physical. But I couldn't live nowhere; I wanted from Chicago what I'd got from Sarajevo: a geography of the soul.

In time, as later chapters describe, he does begin to find that "geography of the soul" in Chicago, as he outlines in a piece called "Reasons Why I Do Not Wish to Leave Chicago: An Incomplete, Random List." Here is point #1 (of 20), for example:

Driving west at sunset in the summer: blinded by the sun, you cannot see the cars ahead; the ugly warehouses and body shops are blazing orange. When the sun sets, everything becomes deeper: the brick facades acquire a bluish hue; there are charcoal smudges of darkness on the horizon. The sky and the city look endless. West is everywhere you look.

The final chapter hits a different note, however, as he describes the illness and eventual death of his 10-month-old daughter, Isabel. It is heart-rending, but not in a sloppy sentimental way. What makes it compelling is his utter presence, even in the midst of confusion and helplessness, and his willingness to put his experience into words. "I had a hard time talking to well-wishing people," he writes,

and an even harder time listening to them. They were kind and supportive, and Teri and I endured their babbling without begrudging it, as they simply didn't know what else to say. . . . One of the most common platitudes we heard was that "words failed." But words were not failing Teri and me at all. It was not true that there was no way to describe our experience. Teri and I had plenty of language to talk to each other about the horror of what was happening, and talk we did. The words of Dr. Fangusaro and Dr. Lulla, always painfully pertinent, were not failing either. If there was a communication problem it was that there were too many words; they were far too heavy and too specific to be inflicted upon others. . . . If something was failing it was the functionality of routine, platitudinous language—the comforting clichés were now inapplicable and perfectly useless. We instinctively protected other people from the knowledge we possessed; we let them think that words failed, because we knew they didn't want to be familiar with the vocabulary we used daily. We were sure they didn't want to know what we did; we didn't want to know it either.

I could go on quoting. I love Hemon's language and his insights, his sensibility and his eye for detail. It is astonishing that he did not begin writing in English until he was about thirty, launching his English-language career with "The Sorge Spy Ring," which was published in his debut collection, The Question of Bruno (2000).

I will be seeking out his fiction.

Alberto Ríos, poet (75)

I had hoped to post a book report today, and I perhaps still could—I'm close to done—but I think I'll save it for tomorrow, and instead offer a poem that I listened to, with discussion by Pádraig Ó Tuama, as I made dinner this evening. I mentioned Pádraig's podcast, Poetry Unbound, last month while I, likewise, constructed a stew. He makes a wonderful cooking companion. His delivery is so pleasant to listen to, and his discussion of poems insightful. 

I believe Alberto Ríos was an instructor in my Antioch University MFA program back in 2005–6, though I'm not positive. But I can't think why else I would know his name and face.

In any case, I very much enjoyed listening to this beautiful poem as I prepared "Greek chicken stew with cauliflower and olives" this evening. I will certainly be reading more of him. (If you'd like to hear Pádraig's commentary, you can find it here.)

December Morning in the Desert

The morning is clouded and the birds are hunched,
More cold than hungry, more numb than loud,

This crisp, Arizona shore, where desert meets
The coming edge of the winter world.

It is a cold news in stark announcement,
The myriad stars making bright the black,

As if the sky itself had been snowed upon.
But the stars—all those stars,

Where does the sure noise of their hard work go?
These plugs sparking the motor of an otherwise quiet sky,

Their flickering work everywhere in a white vastness:
We should hear the stars as a great roar

Gathered from the moving of their billion parts, this great
Hot rod skid of the Milky Way across the asphalt night,

The assembled, moving glints and far-floating embers
Risen from the hearth-fires of so many other worlds.

Where does the noise of it all go
If not into the ears, then hearts of the birds all around us,

Their hearts beating so fast and their equally fast
Wings and high songs,

And the bees, too, with their lumbering hum,
And the wasps and moths, the bats, and the dragonflies—

None of them sure if any of this is going to work,
This universe—we humans oblivious,

Drinking coffee, not quite awake, calm and moving
Into the slippers of our Monday mornings,

Shivering because, we think,
It’s a little cold out there.

Photo dominos (74)

I used to be active on the photo website Flickr—until I was wooed to the dark side (which would be Facebook). Nowadays, I visit Flickr mainly for photo games. 

One suite of games that I enjoyed back in the day was in a Flickr group called Photo Dominoes. These "dominos" involved just what you might think: posting a photo, and then inviting people to free-associate, one photo after another, for 50 photos, the idea being, if possible, to "close the domino" by posting a #50 that somehow refers back to #1. 

That group has been more or less moribund for months, and in the case of some threads, years (ten in the case of the "Neverending Domino" ☜, which was revived just yesterday). Not long ago I sort of appropriated one of the various dominos—"Special Domino #12: No Rules"—for myself, which meant I got to free-associate using my own photos (the beauty of no rules!). Or at least, I thought that domino was all mine. But then one of the group administrators started popping in every so often with a submission of his own. And lately, some of the other, more rule-bound threads have been reactivated by yet another admin. So all of a sudden, I have several dominoes to think about. Delicious!

Here, for example, are a few recent photos in the No Rules domino, posted alternately by myself and a Brazilian player named ~murilo~:

 

And, skipping a couple of intermediary steps featuring black-and-white grids based on that black door frame, we have arrived here, where the game awaits the next move:

It's fun, and it allows me to sift through my 11,550 photos on the site and relive old times. I keep suggesting to myself that Flickr is actually a very valuable archive and I should still be using it. I do have photos from my last several trips—Madagascar, the Galapagos, Portugal and France, Israel, Italy—yet to sort through (somehow, many of my Antarctica photos managed to make their way into Flickr). One of these days maybe I'll remember and do something about that.

But for now, the site remains good for silly photo games. 

Dorian Michael, guitarist (73)

(Sorry, I did not exercise good storytelling skills here: the actual subject of this post comes to the fore about halfway down. Skip past the landscape scenery and you'll get to Dorian.)

Today we ventured out of our county—which it feels like we haven't really done in years (Santa Cruz and Santa Clara counties don't count, never mind Portugal, France, Ecuador, Canada, and Madagascar . . .)—to visit some friends we literally haven't seen in years, since well before the pandemic, Dorian and Michelle. They very recently moved from Atascadero to Morro Bay on the coast, and before the recent rains we set a date for a visit, because without a date it might not happen. Happily, the skies cleared in the nick of time. So this morning, off we set on the two-and-a-half-hour drive.

The Salinas Valley was so beautiful, wreathed in mists, occasionally with a thick fog enshrouding us, then opening up to sunshine and vibrant green hillsides or acres of undulating vineyards. Some fields are still underwater, and the Salinas River is high—but no longer looking to leap its banks. I sorely wanted to stop and take photos, but we had Morro Bay to get to. The photo here, by Vern Fisher, sort of begins to suggest what we drove through.

At our destination, the four of us immediately went out for an excellent breakfast at Frankie & Lola's Front Street Cafe. I had fried green tomato eggs Benedict, with grits and a Creole hollandaise—super yummy. Then we walked over to the Rock and checked out the beach, which the other day had vanished, Dorian said, under huge breakers. Today it was more or less back to normal. (This is an aerial view looking back down the beach toward the Rock.)

And then we returned to their house, where we continued catching up. Eventually, somehow—perhaps because of the dozen-plus guitars that are scattered around the place—Dorian started regaling us with stories of individual guitar purchases. He is a very amusing storyteller. And that led to a brief demo, in his garage (it's where the correct amp was), of a couple of said guitars. Here he is playing a Gibson he was especially pleased to have acquired:

As he put it, touch it soft, and it sings; touch it hard, and it growls. 

Dorian, if it isn't obvious, is a professional musician. He teaches. He plays gigs locally in Atascadero, Pismo Beach, Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, either solo or with one of several groups, doing finger-style acoustic or electric jazz, rock 'n' roll, or, his favorite, blues. He tours occasionally, solo acoustic, as well.

Here are a few videos. I know him especially from his solo finger-style guitar; here are "The Way We Dance" and "Sycamore Creek" (the title tracks on two of his three solo CDs):

Sometimes he sings (which he tends to apologize for, but he has fun); here he is with "Walking the Dog":

Here he is playing his National guitar and "What You Get for Your Trouble":

Here he is with his blues band the Cinders and "Reconsider Baby":

If only we lived closer, we'd go hear Dorian often when he's playing his local venues. We do have a half dozen of his albums, and I do listen to them often and know them well.

I've known Dorian for well over forty years: I met him at a gig at a club on Pico and Sepulveda in LA. It is always a great delight to get together with him and hear his stories and irascible opinions, and experience his Armenian fierceheartedness. We promised that we won't leave getting together for years next time.

Nature journaling (72)

Today I'm lifting a page directly out of my somewhat-daily journal, so that I can spend my time focusing less on what I have to say (because I already said it, this morning in my journal!) and more on finding some examples of the art of nature journaling to intersperse. It's a fascinating artistic subgenre, full of information, surprises, and beauty.

The sketchbook of Melinda Nakagawa, who has a
blog where she covers natural journaling

Here's what I wrote (modestly edited):

I follow a FB group called “The Nature Journal Club.” Man oh man, such beautiful, detailed work, some of it. Today, one Gargi Chugh posted 28 images from a recent trip through New Zealand. They’re definitely more “journal” than finished art, but my mind still boggles at the work that goes into such things. Me, I wander around with a camera, snap a few shots, and ultimately forget to do anything with them and they fade into oblivion. What a gift these journals are to the creator: taking the time to really look, to appreciate the detail, to find out a little bit about what they’re looking at. I wonder how much time Gargi spent each day, and whether she did it on-site or at the end of the day, a sort of recap (from photos maybe?). 

Gargi suggested this spread if one were going
to look at just one of the 28 she posted

Me, when I’m traveling, I do enjoy spending the evening finding the best photos of the day, posting them somewhere (FB, though I really should post them on Flickr…), writing some captions, and also writing in my journal (i.e., 15ing). But that leaves the day to simply be open to whatever I encounter—with the occasional glance through the viewfinder. Still, I find it can be useful to ration my attention: photos in the morning, no camera in the afternoon. Especially if I’m in one place for a few days. Plenty of time to go back for “that picture” if I happen to spot something interesting in the afternoon—and wouldn’t I want to anyway, if it’s interesting enough? And yes, sometimes my 15 will be sketchy (like some of Gargi's)—just some quick, snapshot images, without context. And often those please me the most, taking me back to a particular moment.

From the website Lily & Thistle, and a page titled
"How to Start a Nature Journal – A Beginner's Guide"

In any case, the reason I wanted to mention this is—again—pertinent to how I spend my time. I am reminded of Mary Oliver:

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, . . .
how to be idle and blessed.

And then she writes about it. I’m not especially good at being idle (unless I'm wasting time, which I'm very good at). I keep thinking it’s something I’d like to practice: attentive idleness, let's call it. Keeping a nature journal certainly isn’t “being idle.” And Mary Oliver isn’t being idle either: she’s writing a poem in her head, or actively filtering the experience she’s having with the intention of doing so. One absolutely is “in the moment” when one keeps a nature journal (I should think). The impatient gremlin on my shoulder yells, “What a stupid use of time!” He obviously doesn’t have much zen in him. In fact, he's got zero, which makes him unqualified to yell about it. Shut up, gremlin! 

John Muir Laws, from his article in Audubon,
"How Nature Journaling Can Make You a Better Birder"

Part of me would love to have the patience and eye and time (and perhaps talent, but that can be cultivated, no?—it "just" takes time, patience, and practice). But I’m more of a charger, or a flitter, like a honeybee moving from one flower to the next, sipping this nectar, then that, perhaps lingering with a flavor it finds especially appealing. (Do bees even taste what they sip?) However, boxing myself in like that—with that particular description of myself, I mean—does me no service. I love, for example, the exacting work of making a book, I enjoy losing myself in a jigsaw puzzle. You can’t charge through such activities (though you can flit with a jigsaw puzzle: yay, fit five pieces in! now on to something else!). 

From "Creating a Perpetual Nature Journal"

So what if I got out some colored pencils—I certainly have enough of them—and a sketchbook and took myself out to, say, the Frog Pond and gave myself the gift of an hour, just observing, and maybe sketching? The result might not be much to look at, but that hour would be very well spent, I'm sure.

Julia Bausenhardt, focusing on different sketching styles

A few years ago I read (and reported on) a beautiful book, part artist journal part natural history (which I guess makes it a nature journal?), called Little Things in a Big Country by Hannah Hinchman. I ran across her again just now in another blog about nature journaling by Kristin Link, in a post titled "Humans on the Landscape: Hannah Hinchman on Kinds of Nature Journals." It seems Hinchman has a few other books out, which I am now actively refraining from ordering forthwith. But I was delighted, with this short exploration, to remember her and the delight I got from Little Things. Just reading nature journals can be enough to slow you down and feel blessed to be surrounded by nature.

A page from Hannah Hinchman's journal

 

Jane Kim, artist (71)

Currently the Monterey Art Museum is featuring work by the scientific illustrator, artist, and muralist Jane Kim. Her show is called "Migrations," and the images I've seen advertising it focus on the monarch butterfly, which is a part-time resident here.

A mural at 455 Hyde in San Francisco.

But as I looked deeper, I realized that I had encountered Kim's work a number of years ago, for she is the artist who created the Cornell Lab of Ornithology "Wall of Birds" back in 2016. It's a tremendous feat, 70 feet wide by 40 feet tall, depicting 270 species, encompassing all 243 modern families of birds and 27 of their extinct ancestors. It took her two and a half years to complete. Here are some images from the wall. You can also explore it up close and from the comfort of your home via this interactive site. 

A parade of ghosts: the ancestors

And it's available as a book: 

Though next time I'm in Ithaca, NY, I'd love to pay a visit to the Lab and see this masterpiece in person.

W. S. Merwin, poet (70)

Rain Light

All day the stars watch from long ago
my mother said I am going now
when you are alone you will be all right
whether or not you know you will know
look at the old house in the dawn rain
all the flowers are forms of water
the sun reminds them through a white cloud
touches the patchwork spread on the hill
the washed colors of the afterlife
that lived there long before you were born
see how they wake without a question
even though the whole world is burning

 

                                —W. S. Merwin (2008)

 

And here is the poet reciting the poem:

 

 

I present this today simply because I admire Merwin and because it's still raining here. In other words, I googled W. S. Merwin + rain. This was one of three results. No deeper message or meaning. I couldn't even say why I settled on Merwin specifically; he just popped into my head. It's been a long day (not because of rain), and sometimes I just want a quick and easy post. Merwin offers a few remarks about the poem here, if you're interested.