stormantic

I don’t think I’ve ever read a book quite like Tom Spanbauer’s The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon. Or perhaps everything I’ve read before has led me to this book. It’s hard to say. What I’m sure of is that I want to read it all over again. Which is strange since I tend to read a book and then hungrily devour the next book in my “to read” pile. It’s also kind of funny since I picked this book up twice, read the first page and then put it back down again.

Everyone I know who has seen the copy in my possession has raved about how great it is, but they never gave me any specifics as to why they loved it. My copy was a present from a very good friend who had the great fortune to stay at the author’s home. My friend brought me back a signed copy and lauded the book’s virtues. So, when I needed a book to take with me on the plane to a Radical Faerie Gathering I snatched it up, hoping that this time I would get past the first page. I hoped that I would find some spiritual resonance with the novel once I left the mundane world for faeriedom. I don’t always need a book to pluck my spirit strings, but it’s great when they do.

Well, thanks to the conversational antics of a delightfully silly fey named Hysterica, I didn’t get any reading done on the plane to the Gathering. And no, I didn’t have a chance to read while I was camping in the woods and manifesting Beltane intentions either (No surprise there). And no, I won’t be spilling the dirt on Rad Feys and what they are and what they do and what the heck is a gathering because, 1.) that would be a whole post in and of itself and 2.) some things are best left unexplained and 3.) I don’t speak for they Faes as we have no leaders and 4.) I don’t want to right now anyway.

On the plane ride back to San Francisco (Which I almost missed due to some very important doll shopping at an antique mall which seemed like a good idea at the time) I was seated between a married couple (We’ll call them Nancy and Greg, since that is their names). I asked them why I was seated in between them and Nancy told me that she enjoys the window seat and her husband liked the aisle seat. So, I got the middle. Nancy was very friendly and we chatted about all sorts of things. Her husband was quick to put his headphones on once he realized how very very queer our conversation was going to be. And, bless her heart, poor Nancy became so inundated with my chatter that she had to stare helplessly at the passing clouds until I realized that she probably needed some alone time.

I grabbed my book and started in on that oh so familiar first page. I read it and turned the page. I kept going. I didn’t stop until the effect of drinking three cans of water made me jump across Greg to go to the restroom (That’s what you get for sitting in the aisle seat, buddy). I was hooked on The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon.

I didn’t get to finish the book on that flight and I didn’t get to read it later that night after my friend Rio and I arrived in Oakland. Both of us came down with bad colds and I ended up sleeping a lot. I’m still suffering from some major sinus pressure so I hope this review will make some sense when I’m better. If not, I hope the tangential digressions are at least fun for you, dear reader.

Last night, I was so sick of being sick and really sick of sleeping and I picked the book up again. I read it all the way through with only minimal stops to the restroom. I was driven to finish the narrative so engaged I was with the characters, situations, settings and themes. Every chapter cracked my brain and heart and spirit open in ways I didn’t and couldn’t have expected. This book is real, folks. It’s the hero’s journey a la Joseph Campbell, it’s tragedy and comedy, it’s heartwarming and heartbreaking, and it’s its own thing.

I think the reason I wasn’t able to get into it before was due to the intense power of the narrator’s voice, the unfamiliar language that immediately washed over me, and the back and forth timeline of events. You have to pay attention when you step into this world. You cannot remain a passive reader. Spanbauer tells a great story but he’s doing more than that. He’s creating something completely new in regards to how we consider story, myth and that elusive beast we call history. Most importantly, he’s weaving a spell.

What’s this spell about? Well, I’m not going to spoil the plot. I’m certainly not going to reiterate the book jacket blurbs for you. You know how to look that stuff up on Amazon. I will tell you that the magic of this book revolves around how we tell ourselves stories, how we create our lives and and what it means to be your self, regardless of who you think you are and where you think you might be from. It’s about family. It’s about truth. It’s about forgiveness, trust, and love. It’s about healing and much, much more.

Do yourself a favor and check out Tom Spanbauer’s The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon. I guarantee you’ll learn a few new things about yourself, your loved ones and the world you live in.

“Zero-sum games, such as chess, are games in which one only gains what an opponent loses. When players are also consuming the non-renewable pieces they are winning–i.e., land and oil–then the game can be very short indeed.” –Jason Louv, “Generation Hex”

In his introduction to “Generation Hex,” Jason Louv writes, ” Magic–the exaltation of the creative impulse–is an excellent framework for reorienting people towards creating solutions instead of fetishizing problems” (10). Sounds pretty good, right? As far as definitions of magic go, this one is right on without being problematic. This book is a collection of essays on magic by some amazing writers who give the reader an immediate insight into their personal magical consciousnesses. It is fascinating reading whether you are familiar with Aleister Crowley or Starhawk or neither. It reads fast, friendly and furiously. I’ve been tearing through the chapters so fast, that I had to put the book down to assimilate some of the information before I crammed more in my noggin. Another good quote:

“People often can’t see far enough beyond their own skins to conceptualize change without it being terminal–if one is to die, then the world must end as well; if one is to be judged, then so must the world; if one is to be enlightened, then certainly all must follow the same route” (13).

And so far, I’ve only quoted the introduction, so you know the individual essays are chock-full of good stuff, too. There’s a lot of talk about sigils which inspired me to make my own as I read, based on various things I want to manifest. Then yesterday I went to Golden Gate Park, specifically the AIDS Memorial Grove, known affectionately by me and my friends as the Dead Grove. I went there to scatter tarot cards among the nooks and crannies of the park; to tie ribbons from past years’ May Poles in the branches of the trees; to write my wishes and dreams on paper and hide them in the dirt or in holes in the trees. I ended up finding a wonderful trance space to work in and got to feed a friendly squirrel pecans (a very Snow White moment). I definitely found a spiritual release in all of my madcap ministrations. I enjoyed casting invisibility spells on myself to be left alone by the populace (and it worked too, the only beings who came into my circle were two 4 year old girls who quickly ran back to their parents after singing me songs of an unintelligible nature–at least to me, they sounded pretty though).

Anyway, I’m digressing in a major way, but that’s the kind of permission this book has given me. In addition to some new authors to seek out, I have multiple new ways to think about magic and how I choose to incorporate the invisible world in my visible world. Consider this quote by Scott Treleaven:

“Every gesture, no matter how personal is permission for others” (51).

And this quote:

“One never reaches home…But where paths cross that have affinity for each other…the whole world looks like home for a time.” –Frau Eva, in Herman Hesse’s “Demien”

So the things we do–every one of them–opens a door for someone else. I think that’s true. We empower each other. We mirror one another and find meaning in expression, expression manifested by a sense of play with each other. The creative impulse in you is mirrored in me. And while we’re crossing paths, we feel grounded, having found a home within each other. We are home for each other for a time. Perhaps, most importantly, we have become home for ourselves as well.

There’s so much to talk about after reading only half of this book. I’m savoring the rest as slowly as I can, but it’s really speaking to me. Books are the signposts of life, after all. I firmly believe you get the information from the universe that you need when you need it and the books I’ve been reading have been so helpful in informing my experience right now. So, discussions about mimetics, Simon Dwyer, ‘zines, Derek Jarman, Jean Genet, sigils and Machendraneth will have to wait as I devour the rest of “Generation Hex.” Of course, you are free to do your own research and we can compare and contrast together! More on Jason Louv’s incredible sojourn into modern magical practices when I finish reading it! IPSOS ABRAHADABRA IPSOS!

“Dare I come into touch? For this is further than death. I have dared to let them lay hands on me and put me to death. But dare I come into this tender touch of life? Oh this is harder–”

–D. H. Lawrence “The Man Who Died”

I just finished reading D. H. Lawrence’s “The Man Who Died” tonight. It is comprised of two parts. I read part one last night and part two this evening. It’s a short piece, but rich in theme and description. The plot would seem simplistic if I spelled it out for you, because the book deals with the inner and outer worlds of one’s life. It deals with the age old cycle of death, rebirth and life, but it pays special attention to the areas where they overlap, converge, mingle.

To tell you about the main character would be a bit of a spoiler as well, as it is someone known the world over, but rendered so human by Lawrence’s words as to be almost unrecognizable. The world itself is a character and the story is told on many levels. You can choose to see the story as straight forward or you can let yourself get swept away in metaphor.

“The Man Who Died” is a gorgeous tale, told masterfully. I’m haunted by its poetry. Like the title character, it has given me new appreciation for life.

” The princess, asleep for so many years, awakes to the taste of the prince’s lips, a slightly sour taste; she stares up into a face visored in shadow.” ~Edmund White, “A Boy’s Own Story”

One of my favorite books is Edmund White’s “The Beautiful Room is Empty.” I found it in a small North Carolina library quite by accident when I was an adolescent. It was the first book I had found that dealt with being a young man and being gay (that wasn’t some scary psychology textbook decrying homosexuality with mental instability). I remember reading that entire book in the library for fear of my mother finding it if I took it home. I was hungry for some kind of reflection of my existence. I needed to know that someone else had gone through what I was going through. That book (and Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” were pivotal in my development of accepting myself.

So, when a friend of mine offered me their copy of “A Boy’s Own Story,” I was definitely interested. The cover proclaims that it is “the best American narrative of sexual awakening since Catcher in the Rye.” I didn’t let that stop me from reading (I don’t have happy memories of that book from AP English). It took me longer to read than I thought it would. One reason is because the book is very much a memoir type of telling. The adult is recounting his story as a boy and many of the stories are embellished with how the adult feels about them “now.” I liked this aspect of the book because it gives the reader some sense of the gravity that these moments have and it shows what the narrator feels he has learned. Another reason it took me longer than usual to read this book is that the adult narrator loves his big words. Now, I like to think I have a pretty good vocabulary, but White had me reaching for my Webster’s so often that I think I must have read this book twice (I kept forgetting the context of the word after I looked it up and then I had to reread the passage). Do you know the meaning of calyx, carbolic, and mendicancy?

What’s truly amazing about this book is how deftly White draws portraits of every character. The stoic father, the mercurial mother, the bratty sister and the aloof boys could easily become stereotypes. Not in this book. White gives the reader nuanced descriptions, psychological insights through dialogue and action. No one is simply a monster even if they do hurtful things. Conversely, no one is a saint either, regardless of their naivete.

The story never goes where you think it is going. The whats and wheres aren’t as important as how it all makes the narrator feel, how it informs his choices. White knows how to create a convincing setting that contributes to the actions of the characters. I was there with the boy in the houses of his mother and father. I was witness in the boy’s dormitory, the parks and churches. I felt as if I understood his inner workings of his heart and mind.

Check out this haunting tidbit:

“I hypothesized a lover who’d take me away. He’d climg the fir tree outside my window, step into my room and gather me into his arms. What he said or looked like remained indistinct, just a cherishing wraith enveloping me, whose face glowed more and more brightly. His delay in coming went on so long that soon I’d passed from anticipation to nostalgia. One night I sat at my window and stared at the moon, toasting it with a champagne glass filled with grape juice. I knew the moon’s cold, immense light was falling on him as well, far away and just as lonely in a distant room. I expected him to be able to divine my existence and my need, to intuit that in this darkened room in this country house a fourteen-year-old was waiting for him.

“Sometimes now when I pass dozing suburban houses I wonder behind which window a boy waits for me” (39).

Simply put, this is a compelling book. Highly cerebral, intensely engaging and heartfelt in its intimacy. I think I need to reread “The Beautiful Room is Empty” again. Definitely better than “Catcher in the Rye.”

I bought a used copy of Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code” (sans cover jacket) at Ed McKay’s in Greensboro, North Carolina about 3 or 4 years ago and I just got around to reading it. It was kind of cool reading it under my photographic copy of Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man which I had recently moved so it hangs under my mirror. It was like having my own Exhibit A in a courtroom case when they referenced it in the book. Unfortunately, that’s the only thrill I got out of reading this book and I made that up on my own. The mind numbingly predictable plot (Oh, the servant is a traitor! Didn’t see that coming!) and rather bland characters (Langdon almost forgot why he was doing what he was doing–quick! retell the goal again!) made me wish for the days when mysteries were fun, like say, when I used to read Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. “The Da Vinci Code” makes those stories deep by comparison. At least I gave a damn about Nancy and her tomboy friend George and the ever fainting Bess. I forced myself to turn the pages (Curse my need for closure!).

Will Langdon solve the puzzle before he gets off the plane/car? Will he solve the new puzzle before he is caught by the clergy/police? Will he solve the puzzle before the reader? Oh wait, it’s all so simply laid out that anyone could see what’s coming next. Wait, everything you knew was wrong, again (Which you knew)! Oh, and the church and the sect that doesn’t agree with the Church wasn’t bad after all! The “Modern” Church doesn’t kill people! **Sigh** I don’t understand how this was a bestseller. Oh well, maybe Dog Eared Books will give me some trade credit and I can get another Ursula K. LeGuin book of short stories.

So, I’m reading Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist” right now and I had to post this quote:

“The camel driver understood what the boy was saying. He knew that any given thing on the face of the earth could reveal the history of all things. One could open a a book to any page, or look at a person’s hand; one could turn a card, or watch the flight of birds…whatever the thing observed, one could find a connection with his experience of the moment. Actually, it wasn’t that those things, in themselves, revealed anything at all; it was just that people, looking at what was occuring around them, could find a means of penetration to the Soul of the World” (106)

I love that. Whenever I do a tarot reading for someone and it really clicks with them and they stare at me in some kind of admiration or wonder, I tell them that the cards are just a reflection. We (people) are just reflections of each other. Now here’s a passage about this Soul of the World to give some context:

“The book that most interested the boy told the stories of the famous alchemist. They were men who had dedicated their entire lives to the purification of metals in their laboratories; they believed that, if a metal were heated for many years, it would free itself of all its individual properties, and what was left would be the Soul of the World. This Soul of the World allowed them to understand anything on the face of the earth, because it was the language with which all things communicated. They called that discovery the Master Work–it was part liquid and part solid” (84).

Now I’m off to read more. It’s definitely the kind of book you have to savor because every page has a truth or wisdom revealed within it. The story is surprisingly simple, yet elegant. It’s full of musings without being ponderous. It’s not hyerbole to say that this is one of the most important books I’ve read in a long time and I’m not even finished yet!

I just finished reading Naomi Wolf’s book, “The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father on How to Live, Love, and See.” I had never read anything by Wolf before, although I knew that she wrote the bestseller “The Beauty Myth” in 1991. “The Treehouse” was loaned to me by Kirsten Baldock, one of my Writer’s Old-Fashioned compadres. This book is part memoir and part how to guide. It’s for anyone trying to invoke change in their lives, but especially for writers.

In this book, Wolf recounts how her father, Leonard Wolf, was an inspiration for her. She gives the reader very personal glimpses into their relationship and family history. It’s a cozy book. You can almost feel the admiration that Wolf has for her father drip off the pages. For the first three chapters, I had a hard time with the narrative voice of the book. I didn’t yet feel connected to the sage-like figure that Wolf was building up her father to be. In chapter four, entitled “Speak in Your Own Voice,” I felt a narrative shift. All the cutesy descriptions of what Leonard wore and of Wolf’s children started to feel more grounded. All the threads about Wolf’s childhood, adult life and worries about her future started to weave together. By page 90, Wolf’s literary education really shines. Check out this passage:

“In Leonard’s youth, truth had not yet been deconstructed. Since the trend of poststructuralism entered the universities in the 1980s, young writers have been taught that it is naive and even politically suspect to believe in universal values or stories that can touch anyone’s heart; nothing, they are taught, is inherently true. Humanism has been demonized as “secular humanism” by the religious right–as if faith in art and people’s creative potential rules out faith in God–and it has been derided as passe and irrelevant by the Marxist and feminist academic left, who dismiss it as playing down difference of race, class, and gender in its commitment to a human point of view that can transcend all such divisions.”

Wow. As someone who really appreciates deconstruction and humanism, I found Wolf’s writing to be thought provoking. Can we find universal truth in literature? Is it enough to say, yes, truth is subjective, but some aspects of the human experience are universal? Can literature be “a bridge between human beings” or is it “a map of oppressive power relations” in today’s current academia? (91)

The chapter titles in “The Treehouse” come from the lessons that Wolf’s father taught in his classes (and are the lessons she asks him to teach her while working on her daughter’s treehouse). They are veritable gems of sagaciousness, simple and direct, but undeniably powerful nonetheless. Give “The Treehouse” a read and let me know what you think.

Also, while perusing the internet for Naomi Wolf, I found this interesting article entitled, “The Porn Myth.” Consider this quote, taken out of context from the two page article:

“For most of human history, erotic images have been reflections of, or celebrations of, or substitutes for, real naked women. For the first time in human history, the images’ power and allure have supplanted that of real naked women. Today, real naked women are just bad porn.”