Absalom Revisited

I tore through the last few pages of Absalom, not knowing where I left off, really, and have started it over again. I can take in more of the details now that I know the plot. For instance, Rosa is only 60 years old when she tells her story, and I know that 60 in the 1920s may not be too young, especially for anyone malnourished during a war, but I thought of her as much older the whole time, like, 90. It's a very difficult book to put down and pick up again. It's like pausing Gone With the Wind, and coming back to it a few days later. Huh?

My in-laws are in town for the weekend, and I spent over $200 dollars in booze at Trader Joes...but, hey, I was out of lots of things, like vodka, whiskey, and Grand Marnier. Keeping a well stocked bar is an investment, especially when you have lots of family around. My brother, who I just visisted, as noted in this blog, is here this weekend, so they may stop in for a cocktail tomorrow as well. He's my sweetheart brother. 100% trustworthy. I love him, and those kinds of people. Who doesn't?

Since he and his family are here, with the newest member of our family, we are going to take a family picture on Sat. Great. I gained four pounds on the trip and have a weird cold sore on my upper lip. And the family fashion palate is brown and khaki. Fabulous.

I missed Ryan Adams at the Wishire Theater tonight. You blink in this town, and every great act passes you by. Things will be better Monday.

A Light in August

I don't know if any of you other than Joe have read ALIA. I believe it to be the best beginning of any of his novels I have read thus far -- although that may not be true. The Sound and the Fury is pretty phenomonal, but I don't know if you can really compare Sound with his other works. Critics often hail it as his most important work, and I'm down with that. But if you are just talking plain old novel -- which ALIA

**wait. I've been listening to NPR this morning, and I just heard that China has an overpopulation of males -- something something due to ability to determine the sex with ultrasound. That doesn't sit right with me. Don't you have to be at least five months along to determine sex? Does that mean that after five months of pregnancy, women are aborting females? OK, maybe I'm out of the loop on this, and this may be nothing new -- but that makes me sad. It's like a grief for femininity. It hurts my heart.**

is, much like Sanctuary, then the beginning of ALIA is incredible. I almost don't feel like the standard make-up of story, rising action, climax, falling action, denoument, applies to Faulkner. Even in his most acceccible works, there is more of an inverse of this. I feel like it's a sinking action, a deepening, and then when you feel like you can't hold your breath any longer, he releases you, only to maybe actually, watch you drown before you get back to the surface. I feel like Faulkner plays upon my notions of conventional mystery -- some unthinkable twist, some suprise -- with most of the plot. There's villany, heartbreak, stereotypes are explored, but he always gives this explanation for the evil that occurs in his novels as simple intolerence. And when he does this, he makes you feel the fool for ascribing any romance to violence, or evil. The whole premise of ALIA is intolerence -- and he doesn't really hide this, but he really drives home how intolerence is the cause for most suffering, and even shows you how you have been able to bear the story due to your own intolerence. You read a story about a black man getting lynched. There are many stories with this action at the fore. But ALIA puts together all the reasons, all the possibilities that could lead up to a lynching, and the question of why this action is so ineviltable is never chalked up to chance -- but always blamed on ignorant intolerant white people, and the chaos that their blind hate creates. He deftly includes love, religion, spirituality, poverty, history, and ecomonics into the mix. There were moments in this book where I had to put the work down, and look out the window just bowled over by the great, great, writing.

Faulkner also does this thing. I will try to get some examples, but its like he writes a sentence, describing some scene, and he will insert a definition into the sentence, and this definition is totally unneccesary, the sentence doesn't need the definition, it's like a sage whispering into your ear -- this is what time means, this is what love means, this is what age means. It's almost like there is a second narrator, a lexicographer of sorts, who is telling you the meaning of life between commas.

I don't know what's next for me on the novel list this summer. I may try American Pastoral, oh! or finishing Moby Dick. Hope everyone's having a good time.

P.S. It's strange now not to post pictures.

Day 20 -- NM to CA

We made it home. We left pretty early -- Todd photographed how lovely I am in the morning, how excited I am to be up.

Here's me whittling away the time on the road, doing what I do best -- blabbing. I know, I'm not using hands-free. Hey, I was weaned on cell-phone driving. Sue me.

Here's the car -- we made it many thousands of miles, and I should probably end this here, before I start sounding like Willie Nelson. I loved this trip! I loved the south the best. I want to go back soon. Our next vacation is in December, Cancun -- I don't imagine it will be as interesting, but it will be fun. Thanks for the ride, America.

Day 19 -- OK to NM

Back in Albuquerque. It is beautiful desert night. Stunning. I got about four hours sleep from last night to now, and I'm worked. I'm excited to get home, and tomorrow we may just power home. I'm excited to get home to Southern California summer. I want to get started on a juice fast, start surfing, read all my books...etc. So these stops on the way home will probably be a little boring.

We did stop at the Caddilac Ranch in Amarillo. We found a 1960 Series 62 Blade Top in the mix, just like we had when we were dating and first married. I wrote on the Series 62 -- but they look like they get spray painted all the time. There were a lot of Marine Corps symbols on them.

Day 18 -- TN to OK

Back in Oklahoma. This morning, in Memphis, we stopped to get brunch at the Arcade, a famous ol' diner that has been in several feature films, including the compelling 21 Grams. It was just okay, if you ask me. No Ajax, that's for sure. My ham sandwich was not the freshest hog I've tasted, and the pear slices were a little thick. The sandwich, which had brie as well, didn't need to be that warm, either. Well. What can you do. As we spilt out of there we saw the celebrity pics on the counter, and I saw a pic with Jack White. Oh, if I'd a been there that day. I mighta cried. Writing postcards.

We made one last stop in Memphis -- Sun Records. Now, I wasn't too excited about Graceland, since it seems very amusement park-ish, and trust me, I like my Disneyland, but nothing about Graceland was very moving, I can't really tell you why not. Maybe because it seemed like an example of success, an effigy to having made it big -- a trophy, if you will. But. When we went to Sun records, I got nervous and jittery. Imagine! I saw the pictures of Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee and Johnny Cash and Rufus and Howlin' Wolf...and gosh. I just about lost it several times. You imagine teenage Elvis, unsure, stuttering, cute as a button, all ma'ams, constantly trying to get a break there, maybe a little broke. He was real then, a real artist, his eagerness pliable, malable, palpable. You imagine Cash and Lee the same way, although you feel a little superior to Lee, 'cause he seems like kind of a annoying punk, but you wipe that thought away anhow and remember that redheaded piano god of rock and roll and you dont care, you don't care about any of their shag carpet sins, because they recorded music that will probably always be played, and your children will know it, and theirs, probably, and this is art that didn't occur hundreds of years ago in a chapel in Rome, but right here, amidst the freakish nature of post-WWII America and post-Depression America and pre-Nixon America and pre-Vietnam America, there was this art recorded and it blew everyone over like a supernatural wind, like a switch that had been in everyone's soul, suddenly buzzing with heat and intenisty. And all of it, the fame the house, the cars, the jewlry, the clothes, it took the music away from him, the music, the music, the music. When you hear That's Alright, when you hear it, you change. You hear some trio singing There'll Be Peace in the Valley, and and it's quaint -- but you hear Alright -- and you change. Like you change when you see Michaelangelo's Moses. Charelton Heston was totally acceptable -- but then you see M's Moses and you change. I know, it's outrageous! Comparing invaluable Reniassance art to Elvis. What is the difference? Is it that many more people can agree that Moses is sacred than can consent to rock and roll being spiritual? I tend to think so. What else did Elvis sing? Gospel. And as was so gingerly brought to our attention in Ray!, what is rock and roll but secular Gospel? But you have to believe that it's spiritual. That's what I like about Tori Amos -- she has always admitted that music is a means to a spiritual experience. And it's not so much that one admits it, or, kind of like the Beatles, actually writes music about it, but has the awareness...I mean, when Elvis sings Gospel, it's...grand, it really is, but when he's just kid, and you hear him sing and play, and you see early Elvis playing and dancing -- its pure. He strove for spirituality for the rest of his life. But he had it. He had a channel.

So Sun Records was a great stop. I'm so grateful Todd pushed it.

We then took off for Oklahoma City and never looked back, except to get a sandwich at an odd roadside winery in Arkasas. We bought Todd's mom some Arkansas Muscat. Can't wait to taste it.

By the way -- the other night at a hotel I saw a good part of The Misfits. We need to talk about this movie. Absolutely mesmerizing.

Day 17 -- TN & MS

Today was Legend Day. (gong sounds)

It started late, because I had insomnia last night. We managed to make it to Ole Miss by noon, from Memphis, about an hour and half drive. We found Rowan Oak down a long gravel street, waiting patiently, silent in the imposing humidity. We have been ultra-fortunate to have gone this entire trip and only been rained on once, while driving. The weather was warm, humid, and when we pulled up on the Rowan Oak driveway, we opened the door to the unmistakeable sounds of the south -- insane bug sounds, sounds that sound intimidating and wild, sounds that make you check every itch for a massive alien bug that sounds like a giant toad.

We walked up the path to the Greek Revival style house, with a tree lined entrance, glancing curiously at the ruins of an antebellum circular maze garden, one that Faulkner never restored, and it is reported that he liked the Gothic look of it, overgrown and in ruins, so it remains untouched.

I spent a minute checking out the info in the foyer.

Inside the house is pretty well decorated, not overdone. I loved his writing room, with its door to the outside, and its little bed, and it's storyboards on the wall. I could see the kids in The Sound and the Fury coming in to kitchen, I could see Temple running through the brush, I could almost hear wagon wheels creaking, but to be honest, I felt more in tune with As I Lay Dying when I was in IN.

I loved seeing the grounds. (I just might be trying to steal a rock in this pic. I settled for an acorn) It is a very peaceful place. I would love to build a house like that, have land. To be in his house is strange, but okay. I felt rather odd -- I would never have known of him, had I not one day, in a little book store accross from where I cut hair in San Clemente, the book store that kept me sane, I would be sitting in my chair waiting for a client, reading War and Peace, and be asked, so what are you reading? War and Peace. Oh, just War and Peace. I was scanning the New Literature section when I saw this book, As I Lay Dying. Sheesh. I just figured it was short, and I liked things that were macbre -- so I went with it. The wife of the husband and wife team that owned the store, of which the husband was a huge Hemingway fan, looked at the book and said -- oh, I've been meaning to read this. I had no concept of college then, I actually was just beginning to think I might get my diploma. Being at Rowan Oak was fascinating for me in that way -- I find myself in a state of constant bewilderment at where I am, why I am there, how I made it there. And it's the same for everyone. I thought of Joe, growing up in the south, going to school at Miss, reading Faulkner, maybe knowing that he was destined for teaching all his life, maybe not. It's amazing how teaching connects your life with others, how a love of writing, and literature, makes up a subculture that, at least for me, connects me with others like a heart string that extends through my soul and catches on others, sometimes whether they like it or not. Kind of like the characters in Faulkner's books -- they had few choices, really. And although the ones that were great, the ones that you loved, Darl, Quentin, were doomed, were outcasts and endured madness...you loved them, and it's that love...that love...well. It's too much, really. Seeing the concrete -- the beds, the floorboards, the railing, the bricks, fired on the property since the 1840s, seeing these things that can be quantified and measured and remind that we live, we eat, we sleep, we walk through houses and stub our toes, we drink, some of us smoke, but ultimately, as his writing on the wall attests, we live in our minds. We live in a place of soul.

And speaking of soul, we went to the Oxford square, which originally burnt to the ground during the War Between the States, and ate at Ajax Diner. Dear Lord. I had the meatloaf, with cheese grits and sweet potato casserole. It wasn't just good, or really good. It was rediculous. The meatloaf was a bit moist, but it was full of garlic and crazy flavor, and had a mashed potato, or maybe it was roasted garlic, center, and the edges were crispy and to insanely delicious. The cheese grits were good. I had never had grits before, and the cheese used was really salty and sharp, so the creamyness of the grits was complimented perfectly. But nothing compared to the perfect sweet potato casserole. Sweet with brown sugar and dotted with melted marshmallows, studded with pralines, I was in heaven. Washed down with sweet tea, it might have been the best lunch ever. Here's Todd's catfish plate.

We walked around the square, stopping in at the old department store, and then Books on the Square, where I got a Flannery O'Connor short story collection, and A Light In August. Poor Moby Dick.

We then left in the direction of Graceland. We got in for THE last tour of the house. It was great because it wasn't crowded at all. Bling! I really like Elvis, but most often I find him such a tragic figure. I learned that he didn't name it Graceland, but the previous owner did, and Elvis kept the name. I liked that. I like that he was 22 when he bought the house, and that he would entertain his friends. I feel uttertly sorry for him -- and wonder how people with so much charisma can exist at all.

I would have liked to play cards with him. Faulkner, too.

We saw Elvis' house, stables, shooting range, '68 Special jumpsuit ('68 special Elvis is my favorite Elvis), tacky furnishings -- man the 70s were sucky for some people, grave, and cars and planes. It was fun. I got these cool Elvis window clings -- very campy.

We left Graceland and headed back to the hotel, still stuffed from lunch, and a little tired from touring. We've been doing laundry and I cut Todd's hair all off, and we're getting ready to head west. We'll be in Little Rock tomorrow.

Day 16 -- KY to TN

We made it through Nashville, and are currently in Memphis. I had the most delicious dinner, at the Rondezvous downtown.
We walked Beale St., a little over the top, but we saw Johnny's star/note, and there were these building fronts that were propped up by steel -- pretty neat. Tomorrow, Rowan Oak! I'm so happy. It should be so interesting.

Beale St. wasn't hardly as nice/clean/organized as either the Grove or Main St.; it was more like Fremont St. with a little dirty south thrown in. There was a lot of drinking and cockroaches and jazz. We liked walking through, but without a real guide to tell us what was what, we didn't stay long. It felt like the kind of place where you brush past a guy wrong and he pulls out a switch blade. You may not get killed, but who needs the trouble? Also, Todd got asked like three times for money the second we walked into the cordoned off area, so he was a little miffed. Here's the view at night.

We were recommended Rondevous for dining, by the Courtyard Marriott we are staying at, and for a while we couldn't find it, but when we finally did it was down a back alley, and seemed pretty authentic. We were told it was an hour wait, so we figured it couldn't be awful, not with an hour wait. But I started getting nervous, because it seemed like the place was teeming with white people, and I was like, on the street, one second ago, we were in a refreshingly diverse crowd, and now the only black people I see work here, and I'm not sure why this bothers me, and it bothers me that it bothers me, and I'm hoping it's good, and after a couple of beers I'm wondering if it's racist for me to think that white people wouldn't know good BBQ, but I don't wonder this out loud, because the civil war replica memorbilia is too close for comfort. It was so good. Dry rub ribs, hot mustard slaw, creamy baked beans, and rolls that you just know were shortened with Crisco -- seriously, if the transfat thing goes through, this restaurant will have to go underground, and I will, I tell you, break the law. You can have the ribs FedExed to you. I kid you not.

One of the things I have noticed on the trip, and it prevails everywhere that we go, is that there is just no industry. Especially concerning train yards. I saw the abandoned freight buildings way back in Albuquerque, but EVERYWHERE we have been there are similar massive warehouses and buildings near tracks that look like rotting corpses of the twentieth century. I makes me wonder -- how can we be so short-sighted? Driving through America, you see the most beautiful countryside ever, the most impressive mountains, lakes, rivers, trees, deserts, cacti, wildlife, livestock, and you think, what have we done? What have we done with THIS? You look at the carved-out slate that sometimes lines the passes, and you think -- we build our buildings out of plaster and plastic, and we couldn't care less if it gets pulled down in five years, or ten years, and look, look at this rock. Been here for millions of years, and will take millions more to change shape. That is if we don't just blast it all to hell. And gas stations. I can't wait until the bagillion gas stations that prevail throughout this country are obsolete, like all the freight houses. Then maybe the roads will be useless, too. We'll have scarred this land so badly...for what? To create a ghost country? It is inevitable? I really want to believe in the greater good of people, but the greater greed seems to super-dominate all hope. Well, truth and beauty. I'll just keep repeating it.

*Book Notes*

Reading Moby Dick -- feels like I've read it before, there are so many classic themes. I can't wait to discuss it in class.