Happy Friday!

Happy Friday, everyone! It’s Memorial Day weekend here in the States, and I am excited for the three-day weekend ahead. My schedule seems full already, with a cherry-picking excursion, a barbecue, and a volleyball match lined up, but nevertheless I plan to squeeze in some quality reading time, as well as get some much-needed rest. (I got sick last weekend; still recovering.)

Before I sign off for the weekend, I want to leave you guys with a couple of memorable videos that I came across this week.

♦ ♦ ♦

Neil Gaiman’s commencement speech to the class of 2012 at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia

Neil Gaiman’s speech is pure gold. It’s chock full of wisdom, and so inspiring and uplifting; I really think it’s a must-watch for every creative out there with an Internet connection.

Seriously. Watch, watch, watch.

♦ ♦ ♦

Trailer for Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of The Great Gatsby, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire, and Carey Mulligan.

I’ve purposefully kept myself at a distance from any sort of promotional material for the upcoming film adaptation of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Call me jaded, but I’m more or less convinced that this book is simply unadaptable. I’ve watched the Robert Redford version, as well as the Toby Stephens version, and neither really felt … right. But out of sheer curiosity I relented and watched the trailer, and … well, I’m very intrigued now, and I may just change my mind about the book being unadaptable. I like that classic Luhrmann is written all over the film. I think it fits the story, and it fits the restless, decadent spirit of the 1920s.

The movie is set to come out Christmas Day, which means there’s still half a year of waiting to sludge through. But on the bright side, that means there’s plenty of time to re-read the novel!

♦ ♦ ♦

Post-wise, I have something in the works for Haruki Murakami’s After Dark, as well as Alan Bradley’s A Red Herring Without Mustard, which I finally finished re-reading, so be on the look-out for those next week. In the meantime, have a wonderful weekend, and take a moment to remember the men and women of our armed forces, especially those who have died in service to our country.

Readers — What have you got planned for the weekend? What have you come across that has inspired or encouraged you this week? Is there a book that you are convinced is unadaptable?

Bicycling tips from the world of Flavia de Luce

So, this is a bit of a silly post, a (hopefully) fun post. Definitely not a Let’s sit down and discuss literary theory and see how long we can go before we broach the inevitable of Freudian interpretation sort of post. (Although I’m really itching to wash over this book series with a more analytical treatment. Future post, yeah?) But it’s a post that I’ve wanted to do ever since I came up with the idea a couple of weeks ago. And with May being National Bike Month – whooooo! – I figured, why not? I want to make it clear, though, that I don’t really know what my intention is for this entry. I’m certainly no bike guru, and I don’t want to sit you all down for a nice, stern, matron-with-spectacles lecture on how to be a respectable modern-day bicyclist. (I point you to the DMV and local bicycle coalitions for that sort of thing.) Nor am I claiming that Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce books should be treated as a manual for the noob bicyclist who wants to learn how to avoid the inconvenience of becoming splatter on someone’s front grill. I guess I just want to draw parallels between the fictional world in my hands and the real world I’m living in. And amuse the inner child in me who can’t help but tug at her mother’s pant legs and exclaim, “Mommy, look! Minnie Mouse and I are wearing the same dress!”

♦

BICYCLING TIPS FROM THE WORLD OF FLAVIA DE LUCE

 

Don’t be afraid of buying secondhand. And maintain thy bike!

Until I rescued her from rusty oblivion, my trusty old three-speed BSA Keep Fit had languished for years in a toolshed among broken flowerpots and wooden wheelbarrows. Like so many other things at Buckshaw, she had once belonged to Harriet, who had named her l’Hirondelle: “the swallow.” I had rechristened her Gladys.

Glady’s tires had been flat, her gears bone dry and crying out for oil, but with her own onboard tire pump and black leather tool bag behind her seat, she was entirely self-sufficient. With Dogger’s help, I soon had her in tiptop running order.

— pg. 72-73 (The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie)

Going the secondhand or vintage route may take more time and money than buying a glossy new thing fresh out of the factory. Depending on the condition of the bike, you may need a new coat of paint, new gears, new brakes, new tires, and/or a new seat; not to mention, time to research the different makes and models (pros & cons, that sort of thing), as well as time to hunt down good deals on Craigslist and other similar venues. But as Flavia demonstrates throughout the series, going secondhand is definitely NOT settling for second-rate. Flavia is very fond of Gladys, and Gladys has proven herself many times over to be a very sturdy and reliable bike.

Also, this is a good reminder to always keep your bike in good shape. Wipe it down, oil the gears, check tire pressure from time to time, that sort of thing. If you have a leather saddle, it’s a good idea to occasionally treat it with a suitable conditioning cream. Please don’t doom your bike to a slow and rusty death in the family tool shed. I will cry if you do.

 

Be visible, especially in the rain.

“When cycling in the rain,” Dogger had told me, “being visible is more important than keeping dry.”

“You mean that I can always dry out, but I can’t be brought back to life when I’m impaled on the horns of a Daimler,” I said partly joking.

“Precisely,” Dogger had said with a perfect tiny smile, and gone back to waxing Father’s boots.

— pg. 262 (A Red Herring Without Mustard)

While it would be ideal to be visible AND dry, when pressed to choose between the two always opt for visibility. However, this doesn’t mean you have to run to the nearest outfitter and go crazy on neons! (Although you certainly can if you want to.) Bright colors will do just as well, in my opinion. In this scene, Flavia dons a yellow raincoat, and that gives her ample visibility on the country roads around Bishop’s Lacey.

 

Give your bike a good name. 

In the kitchen garden, I grabbed my faithful old BSA Keep-Fit from the greenhouse. The bicycle had once belonged to Harriet, who had called her l’Hirondelle, “the Swallow”: a word that reminded me so much of being force-fed cod-liver oil with a gag-inducing spoon that I had renamed her “Gladys.” Who, for goodness’ sake, wants to ride a bicycle with a name that sounds like a sickroom nurse?

And Gladys was much more down-to-earth than l’Hirondelle: an adventurous female with Dunlop tires, three speeds, and a forgiving nature. She never complained and she never tired, and neither, when I was in her company, did I.

— pg. 102 (A Red Herring Without Mustard)

I think this goes without saying, but … bikes need good names too! For those who have trouble coming up with names — I know I fall into that camp sometimes — try names of people you admire, or fictional characters that you like. If that fails, you can always tweak a stranger’s random comment.

 

Always remember to lock up!

I strolled casually over to the bicycle stand. Ten seconds more and I’d be on my way. And then, as if someone had thrown a pail of ice water into my face, I froze in shock: Gladys was gone! I almost screamed it aloud.

There rested all the official bicycles with their officious little lamps and government-issued carriers — but Gladys was gone!

[...]

Fear filled me and then anger. How could I have been so stupid as to leave Gladys unlocked in a strange place?

— pg. 167 (The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie)

Flavia has a habit of leaving Gladys unlocked wherever she goes, and I always wince whenever she does because to me it’s utterly unthinkable to leave one’s bike unprotected and utterly vulnerable to thieves like that. But Flavia does live in a small country town, where everyone knows everyone, and no bike thief would be able to go very far before their stolen good was identified by someone on the street, and their person dragged unmercifully by the ears to the constabulary or to the rightful owner for a good old-fashioned tongue-lashing. And in that sort of environment, I suppose it’s really not necessary to lock one’s bike.

But Flavia does get a good scare once, in the scene above. Luckily for her, Gladys wasn’t stolen at all: a well-meaning police officer had stowed her into the truck of his car, and later offered her a ride home on account of the rain. But nevertheless, it’s a good reminder to lock up one’s bike, regardless of how “safe” you feel your city to be. A u-lock is a basic must; pair it with a cable for double protection. Or even better, store your bike indoors if possible.

 

Don’t be afraid to explore!

I think there must be a kind of courage that comes from not being able to make up your mind.

Whether it was this or whether it was Gladys’s willfullness I can’t be sure, but there we were, suddenly swerving off the main road and into the Gully.

— pg. 273 (A Red Herring Without Mustard)

Certainly, there is wisdom in avoiding unfamiliar places — what if you end up in a bad part of town, or somewhere where road conditions are dangerous? — but that doesn’t mean you can’t be safe AND adventurous. One of the joys of bike-riding is being able to wander at will and happening upon tucked-away gems, like a cafe that serves up a mean espresso, or a hidden park filled with sunlight and beautiful flora. But be smart about it. Research your environs beforehand; know which streets are the most bike-friendly. And go! See where your bike takes you.

 

Have fun!

Gladys’s tires hummed their loud song of contentment as we sped along the tarmac.

“Summer is icumen in,” I warbled to the world. “Lhude sing cuccu!”

A Jersey cow looked up from her grazing, and I stood on the pedals and gave her a shaky curtsy in passing.

— pg. 113 (The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag)

Bicycling has a bunch of benefits: it’s good exercise; it gets you out of the house and breathing fresh air; it’s an excellent alternative to driving, especially for short trips. But best of all, it’s just plain fun. So go out there and enjoy!

Some ideas that I’ve come across and have found tantalizing or interesting:

♦ Sign up for a tweed run! For Bay Areans, there is the San Francisco Tweed Run that happens twice a year.

♦ Call up friends and go for a ride together!

♦ Deck out your bike with pretty things! I spotted one young lady complementing her ride with a bouquet of flowers.

♦ Switch things up a bit! Ditch your spandex and fluorescent safety vests, and dress up in bright colors.

♦

Addendum

♦ I don’t think Flavia wears helmets … but you definitely should! Helmets are an absolute must, regardless of where you’re biking, or how unlikely you think the chances are of getting into an accident, or how experienced you are as a bicyclist. Accidents do happen, and truly, truly, it’s better to be safe than sorry! If you don’t like traditional bike helmets, there are plenty of alternative shapes & sizes out on market for you to choose from. Gala Darling mentions a few in her article on cycle chic. Nutcase Helmets is also a good place to look; they have some awesome designs in their collection! And just for kicks, because this is really too epic to not share: go supervillain. (Warning: some swearing, ahoy. Also, thanks to Anne for the head’s up!)

♦ Your local bicycle coalition is an excellent place to start for information on bicycling etiquette and bike safety. For those in the SF Bay Area, you can check out the SF Bicycle Coalition, the East Bay Bicycle Coalition, and the official SF Bay Area Bike to Work Day website. Their online resources are super helpful!

♦

Readers — What books have you been really into lately? Do you bike?

Just Write: Fatigue

Written Thursday, 3/8/12.

—

Fatigue is a strong word, and perhaps too strong for me to use, but I do feel more than just tired so I’ll go ahead and say it – I feel fatigued this morning. Last night’s sleep was surprisingly consistent – no wake-ups, like other nights – and yet it left me feeling incredibly drained, like I hadn’t slept at all. I remember having a dream – I was very invested in it, emotionally and mentally, as if I was watching an action movie. Except that I was in the movie, so to speak. I only remember glimpses now: the restaurant kitchen, the wooden chopping block, me compromising its cleanliness by slicing up something unorthodox upon it. A bolt of fabric, I think? Or was it something more substantial, like a shoe? There was a whole lot of tension, a whole lot of suspense. Time was running out. A mission had to be completed. And something else – something that seemed related, and yet flowing in a different story stream – but I can’t remember it now. And then I woke up, alarmed and dazed, shocked awake by the dutiful ringing of my wake-up call, polite yet insistent in the still morning air. My body ached. There were knots in my back, and my legs felt stiff. And yet my quilt and duvet were incredibly neat. I don’t think I stirred a muscle in my sleep. And yet I felt like I had run all night. What had I been doing last night?

Nothing. Except sleeping, and dreaming of course. And yet I do wonder. If I was in a story, I bet a secret agency got a hold of me, and I entered into a deal with them, contracting my physical body out while my inner self slept. By day, I would be normal, and mundane. By night, whilst I slept, another person would inhabit my limbs and trunk and face. And whatever crazy adventures & secret missions she would have, I would not know about. Although sometimes, trace memories can remain – the transfer process is not altogether glitch-free – but thankfully they can be explained away with dreams. No real adventures, Jen. Just silly dreams. Perhaps you shouldn’t have drunk that cup of tea last night.

—

Today, I am joining Heather and others in a weekly endeavor to Just Write. 

Just Write: Poetry [Part 2]

Written Thursday, 3/8/12.

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[ part 2 ]

The groceries sit, neglected, on the chair. And I know I really should put them into the fridge, especially the sausages. But not now, I think. I’ll tend to you later, so don’t worry, but not now. For now, it is me and poetry.

In the forgotten GAP bag on the bottom-most shelf of my little library, I unearthed just moments earlier some mementos from my college days. Sheet music, still pressed, between the aging faces of a manila folder. The quiet joy, the deep-seeded glee, that erupts as I fondly stroke the notes of Chopin’s Etude which, I remember, gave me nightmares in high school, the dots and staffs so ferocious and demanding. Oh, and there we are, I breathe, as I open the pages for “My Father’s Favorite.” I thought I had lost this, I say to myself, humming the transporting melody, fingers pantomiming dance steps over imaginary piano keys.

There is also the reader I had purchased for my Elvish class. And important paperwork from past rentals, preserved in fuchsia plastic. And the Spongebob Squarepants folder that I forgot that I owned. But most prominently, there is the large and duo-tone book – the anthology from American Poetry class. A year ago, I may not have cared. But now, I am glad Maj made me take it back from the trash can when we were cleaning out our things all those years ago. I flip through the pages and smile as I brush fingers through penciled comments, and arrows indicating certain poems which to me now seem like strangers but were at one point acquaintances. I read T. S. Eliot aloud on a whim, and surprise myself by how emboldened my voice sounds, rising louder and louder with every stanza in the quiet apartment, impassioned, as if the feelings of the words are the feelings of my heart.

I flip towards the end, and am pleased to find a small selection of Billy Collins. One poem in particular seizes my attention, and I am giddy all over again – not because of the poem itself, but because I just realized that I had in fact been introduced to Collins much earlier than I remember.

I remember now – Professor Hass, bespectacled and pleasant, standing there at the front of the auditorium, a child-like grin on his face as he cracks open his copy of the anthology, and reads aloud from a poem of particular fondness.

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and – somehow – the wine.

It is called “Litany.” And I remember at the time deciding that I don’t terribly like the poem because it doesn’t make sense. But now, almost four years later, I’m reading it aloud for myself, and the memory of American Poetry, of Professor Hass, of Helen and I, of iced caramel macchiatos on sunwarmed lawns, of coming to terms with the end of my undergraduate career – all of it comes flooding back, here at the rebirth of my love for poetry, and I decide that I like the poem. I still don’t understand it, but that – somehow – doesn’t matter anymore.

—

Today, I am joining Heather and others in a weekly endeavor to Just Write. 

Just Write: Poetry [Part 1]

Written Thursday, 3/8/12.

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[ Part 1 ]

I want to tell you about Ginsberg, and Thoreau, and Dickinson (whose name I always misspell), and Billy Collins most of all – how I came to love poetry again. But I first must tell you about how it all started. It all started on Tuesday the sixth. Jane posted on Billy Collins, and I was blindsided with the hunger to read his poetry. Billy Collins – the poet whose words I fell in love with over YouTube, the poet whom my friend introduced me to. It’s been a while since I last “read his work,” as they say. And I am surprised that, ten minutes later, I have three of his anthologies open on three separate tabs, me giddily reading along, skipping from tab to tab like the frenetic leaping of children on a summer lawn. I cannot quench the desire to laugh – the mad and uncontrollable bubbling of unadulterated glee – and so I laugh in silence, into my scarf, my chest shaking. Once, I giggled so hard that I was terrified my boss and co-worker would hear. But no sound came forth, and I was glad.

During lunch, I strode, no nonsense, into North Beach. What a different place, I reflect, passing by the Scientology church. How it’s changed, I think, seeing empty storefronts. (There used to be a barber here. He smiled to me once, friendly-like, as he swung out tunes from his saxophone. Or was it his trumpet?) But maybe they’ll be back, I console myself, as these things sometimes do. There’s the Zoetrope. And the plaque bearing Francis Ford Coppola’s name – along with someone else’s but I’ve shamefully forgotten who. There’s the Condor – whatever that is – and an old woman. And two men who walk by, their coats and glasses glowing with the warmth of another time. I think about Ginsberg and the Beats – Beatniks, I hear you correct; I know – and how I can hardly believe that I am here, in 2012, walking in the shadow of the crazy ‘50s.

There’s a hush like the quiet of a cathedral as I step into the bookstore. City Lights – it’s been a while. But I am delighted to be back. Awkwardly, I smile hello to the cashier, and step around him as he helps a lost customer. I don’t need his help. I know exactly what I want. Up the stairs I go, the wood creaking like a ship, and I arrive, now slightly embarrassed because I see that I’m not alone up here. Two readers, reclining in chairs, look up at me. One woman smiles, but I barely return the greeting. No photographs today, I think as I lay my finger on Horoscopes for the Dead. But I decide again, and choose The Art of Drowning instead. And I return below with it in tow, hoping, wishing, for a quiet moment where I can whip out my point & shoot, and click. But there aren’t. The store is busy today, and I find people everywhere I turn. Just shoot anyway, I reason, it’s a famous place, after all. The guys must get it all the time from tourists. But I cannot muster the courage to do so. Maybe it’s the inner Frenchie in me – the woman who wants to be cool – or my pride, who thinks it a grave offense that I do anything tacky.

I pay for the book, and leave. But not without snapping a rather desperate, a rather pitiful photograph with my black-shod feet next to some quote by Ferlinghetti that, I later realized, doesn’t really make sense. Oh well, I breathe, walking back to work, to grey cubicle, to the heavily stained carpet. I have Billy Collins in my bag, and maybe there’ll be a next time, when I won’t be so shy – when I will actually stand with feet firmly planted, a smile on my face as I look up, aim, and shoot.

—

I missed this week’s “installment” for Just Write, but I thought to post this all the same. I’ll be on time next week, I promise.

Project 366 // Week of Feb. 26

This past week was a bit of a challenge. Definitely felt the ehhhhhh, don’t want to take a photo today I’ve been expecting since Week 1. But I’m grateful that I haven’t skipped a day. Hopefully, this determination and persistence will continue in the weeks and months to come. 

1. The tulips are blooming! // 2. Meals are always best when shared. // 3. Got a new journal today. :D // 4. Nothing like stealing borrowing your housemate’s J. Crew catalogue to round off the evening. // 5. Drawing a picture for the birthday girl. // 6. Happy Birsday Headdow ♡ // 7. X marks the spot.

Project 366: Week of Feb. 19

1. Bed time fairytales. // 2. Took the advice of @linusbike and went for a spin. // 3. Just Write: My (Father’s) Belt. // 4. Never thought I’d see the day when I would eat pizza with fork & knife. A first time for everything, eh? // 5. Cherry trees are blooming. ♡ // 6. Poor, neglected longboard. :( // 7. Fresh produce, @bicyclecoffeeco, tulips, and Belgian waffles at the farmer’s market today.

Readers — What have you been up to this week? Any highlights that made it extra special?

Snippet: After Dark

Through the eyes of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair. In our broad sweep, the city looks like a single gigantic creature—or more like a single collective entity created by many intertwining organisms. Countless arteries stretch to the ends of its elusive body, circulating a continuous supply of fresh blood cells, sending out new data and collecting the old, sending out new consumables and collecting the old, sending out new contradictions and collecting the old. To the rhythm of its pulsing, all parts of the body flicker and flare up and squirm. Midnight is approaching, and while the peak of activity has passed, the basal metabolism that maintains life continues undiminished, producing the basso continuo of the city’s moan, a monotonous sound that neither rises nor falls but is pregnant with foreboding.
— After Dark, by Haruki Murakami

The district plays by its own rules at a time like this. The season is late autumn. No wind is blowing, but the air carries a chill. The date is just about to change.
— After Dark, by Haruki Murakami

Dear Mr. Murakami,

I think it’s really clever, how you portray the pulsing, urban metropolis of Tokyo as a giant organism. Countless arteries stretch to the ends of its elusive body, circulating a continuous supply of fresh blood cells, sending out new data and collecting the old, sending out new consumables and collecting the old, sending out new contradictions and collecting the old. How rhythmic, poetic, and beautifully metaphorical. I too think sometimes, when looking down upon a bustling city, that it seems more animal & alive than a staid cluster of sheet glass & cold steel. I’m pleased I’m not the only one who thinks that way.

I also like how you chose to explore the je ne sais quois that envelops a city when the sun goes down. Curious, isn’t it, how a city really does become a very different place at night? Sometimes, it seems like it becomes a completely different world, with different creatures playing by different rules. It becomes an enchanting, almost unreal place — a place that breathes of possibility and fantasy and escape underneath the blanket of stars and glittering lights. And yet it becomes an incredibly dangerous and sinister place, too — a place where people are preyed upon and beaten up; a place where, despite the crowds of people, one can feel utterly and incredibly alone, without a soul to call your friend. Pretty crazy, to say the least.

I still have a ways to go with this book, but I’m enjoying every step of my slow but steady journey. I like Kaoru and her spunky staff at the Alphaville. I’m terrified for Eri, of what the man in the TV screen will do to her. I’m equal parts curious and sympathetic towards Mari. I want to see what other sorts of people she will meet as the night wears on.

Your humble fan,

J.E.

Project 366 // Week of Feb. 12

Sorry, guys! A few days late with this installment of Project 366.

1. Burning the midnight oil. // 2. Evening nom noms. // 3. Hand-made val’s are the best. (Thank you, @soyeonjc2311!) // 4. I like man shoes and I cannot lie! // 5. An evening’s light reading. // 6. Cubicle buddy. // 7. My favorite Hepburn.

Readers — What have you been up to lately?

Just Write: My (Father’s) Belt

I’m threading my new “vintage” belt through the loops of my pants. It’s obviously several inches too long, but I’ve gotten over that little inconvenience. Nothing a little artistic tucking-in can’t fix, I think to myself. The belt is brand new, but it already has the worn, well-aged look of something far older. Something like the woven leather belt that my father used to wear every day. Even now, I still remember my younger self — half the size that I am now — staring up at my father as he threaded that belt. I liked that belt. It intrigued me. I always wondered how it worked since it didn’t have holes like other belts did. Even when my father showed me how it worked — by pressing the metal rod anywhere you liked, so long as it was right in the middle where the two arms of a V meet — I still didn’t get it. But how do you know you’re punching the metal rod through the right place? It perplexed me for days.

It’s kind of weird, owning a belt that looks just like my father’s. Granted, his is much thicker — and frankly, legitimately vintage — but the design and feel is the same. Funny, how fashion repeats itself like that.

—