insomnia haiku

The conversations you have with yourself about packing

It's funny -- not "haha" funny, more like "you belong in a funny farm" funny -- the conversations you have with yourself when you're trying to pack up your apartment, and decide which of your things you're not going to see for a while. For example:

 

Me: Could I live without my pasta pot?

Myself: Sure, maybe.

Me: OK, putting it in the box...

Myself: No. Hang on. Wait, I don't think I can...

Me: Are you insane?

Myself: I use it all the time!

Me: It's a pot and a strainer.

Myself: I love my pasta pot! It is awesome. And what if packing it makes me stop cooking pasta? Pasta is cheap and easy! I should be making more cheap and easy meals. Stop! DON'T PUT IT IN THE BOX.

Me: Sigh.

 

***

 

Me: I can live without the salad spinner, right? 

Myself: Sure. I mean I've used it twice in a year.

Me: Fine. That one's easy.

Myself: Wait.

Me: Oh Christ.

Myself: Well, I've used it twice in the past month -- once I remembered I owned a salad spinner. And it made me eat greens, so that was good. It made me feel virtuous. So... maybe don't pack it yet?

Me: You are a moron.

 

***

 

Me: Wow, I have too many books.

Myself: Yes, once I pack them all I will feel as though I've made progress.

Me: All these big, heavy hardcovers are going straight into boxes.

Myself: Oh, totally. But wait. Don't pack Infinite Jest.

Me: ARE YOU INSANE?

Myself: Well, I was just saying last week that maybe I would read it soon. Didn't you hear me? Last week?

Me: Yes, but it's like, 3,000 pages long, and 20 pounds.

Myself: But I might read it! Soon!

Me: You say that every year.

Myself: What if I pack it, and then I am sitting here with nothing to do because I already packed everything, and I think, now I finally want to start Infinite Jest, but oh no, I packed it, and now I am filled with regret? 

Me: So rather than pack it, you're seriously going to carry this behemoth around with you in your suitcase?

Myself: Maybe.

Me: Sigh.

Why I miss reading in bed

I know I'm not supposed to read in bed. When you have insomniac tendencies, they say not to do anything on your bed but sleep (well, and have sex -- though if sleep researchers had their way, no doubt they'd prefer you heed the advice of When Harry Met Sally and have sex on the cold, hard, Mexican ceramic tile of your kitchen floor). The reasoning is, your body needs to think of your bed as a place to sleep, and nothing more.

This means no watching TV in bed, no talking on the phone, no sprawling across the mattress on a lazy Sunday painting your toenails, or drawing, or reading the paper. And it means no taking a book to bed with you and reading until your eyelids droop and you put the book down and fall asleep.

With rare exceptions, I haven't read in bed for over a decade. Sleep is valuable to me, and if that means staying away from my bed until it's time to close my eyes, then I'll make that sacrifice.

But I miss reading in bed. I used to do it all the time when I was a kid, reading under the covers with a flashlight when it was past my bedtime ... which, come to think of it, was pretty much the only illicit thing I ever did. Once I got in trouble because my mom caught me reading in the bathroom late at night, and as punishment, she made me stay there and wouldn't let me go back to bed. Yes. I got in trouble for reading. I sat there in the bathroom, alone, humiliated and crying, and of course not going anywhere near the book that had caused me so much shame. Just think of how that all might have turned out. "I'm sorry! I promise I'll be good ... I promise ... I'll never read a book again!"

I was in love with books back then. Books were my friends, my comfort, my reward, my cotton candy. At the local library, they'd invite you to the ice cream party if you read 10 books over the summer, and you'd write down on a colored, folded piece of paper which books you'd read. By the end of the summer, I'd have at least five of those things stapled together. I accomplished that, of course, by reading nonstop during the day AND the night. I was pretty damn proud of myself for kicking the reading ass of every other kid in town (what a smug little nerdy bastard I was). They only let me have one serving of ice cream at the party, though. Totally unfair.

And then I got older, and I majored in English and worked in book publishing, and books became less of a fascination to me, and more like work. That's part of the reason I left book publishing -- I was tired of reading being my job, and I was tired of reading 90 percent trash to 10 percent treasure. I wanted to read for fun.

Then, of course, the Internet happened, and cable TV and DVRs happened, and I got distracted, and I never got back to reading books the way I used to when I was a kid. I come home from work, I don't want to think, I watch TV, I go to bed.

But like I said, I miss reading in bed. That used to be my time, when no one could make fun of me, and I didn't have to feel bad about being awkward or shy or having glasses and braces and few friends. It was just me and my book, and time and the world didn't matter. And while I'm still capable of feeling that way when I read -- and while I certainly can (and do) forgo TV for a few nights and curl up on the couch with a book  -- there's a part of me I think I lost when I stopped reading in bed.

Over the past few days, for whatever reason, I've had the urge to grab a book off the shelf and just do it -- take it to bed with you! Damn the consequences! Hug it to your chest! Feel young again! LIVE WILD!

But for tonight, anyway, I didn't. Who knows, though: Maybe tomorrow I'll decide that some things are even more important to me than sleep.

On meeting an icon and (not) getting goosebumps

I met R. L. Stine, the author of the Goosebumps series, at work today. He came into the office to discuss doing some collaborations with us.

I knew he he was, of course, but I didn't think meeting him was all that big a deal. For one thing, I used to work in publishing, so meeting an author isn't anything new for me. But for another, I've never read a Goosebumps book. To be honest, it never occurred to me.

But when I mentioned to people at the office that R. L. Stine was coming in, they flipped the eff out. They went all bug-eyed, their jaws fell to the floor, and they practically grabbed me as they said, "WHAT?!" These are people who are used to interviewing and photographing celebrities on a regular basis. Yet the notion of being in the presence R. L. Stine made them completely lose their cool.

One guy IMed me and begged to sit in on the meeting or even just drop by; I don't remember his response when I said yes, but I do remember it was in all caps. When Stine was in the office, we introduced a photographer to him in the hallway and she clutched at her chest so hard I thought she was having a heart attack. This woman, who is kind of a hipster chick normally, bid him goodbye by gasping, "It was SO NICE to meet you! I... I can't even believe it!" She was beaming. Beaming.

I was surprised and perplexed at this reaction -- you'd think I was meeting the Jonas Brothers and these were 12-year-old girls -- until someone pointed out that for people in their 20s, Goosebumps was their gospel. And that's true, I suppose; the first one was published in 1992, which is 18 years ago. Someone who's 27 now was 9 years old then, and would have read each one religiously as it came out. In 1992, I was already in college, more inclined to read a Stephen King novel than a children's horror story.

I tried thinking of a literary childhood icon whose presence would excite me in quite the same way, and all I could think of was Madeleine L'Engle. But that's not quite right, as she only wrote a few books, so I didn't follow her work slavishly from year to year. Lois Duncan? I liked her books, but I didn't give much thought to the author. Judy Blume? Maybe, but after Forever I never thought of her in the same way again. Laura Ingalls Wilder? Dead.

So I don't think there is anyone, really. I guess I had no childhood icons. I can't decide if that makes me sad or not.

Oh, and for the record, R. L. Stine is super nice, gracious, funny and charming. Maybe I'll even read one of his books now. Is it too late for him to be my childhood icon?

These are the books I'm contemplating taking on vacation

Can't take 'em all, of course. Suggestions welcome. (That one on the bottom right is Frank Bruni's new memoir Born Round.)

It's wizard weekend

The first time I picked up a Harry Potter book, it was years after the fervor had started; I'd resisted the entire thing because, frankly, I wasn't about to get worked up over a series of children's books. I was an English major! I worked at a prestigious publishing firm! I read lee-ter-a-toor! But I was at the airport, and I needed something uncomplicated to read on my cross-country flight, so I figured, what the heck. I didn't have to tell anyone I was doing it. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone turned out to be the perfect flight material -- it was easy to read, entertaining, and (most importantly) took me almost exactly five hours to read. I started the book after the plane took off, and finished just before we landed. It was as if my entire Harry Potter experience only existed within the universe of the plane ride, and that was just fine with me.

Same thing happened the next time I flew cross-country; the second Harry Potter book, which was exactly the same length, filled the flying time perfectly. Buying the third one, which was a little longer, proved slightly more difficult -- I couldn't confine it only to the plane -- but I was still dealing with paperbacks, and I was still several books behind, so I could act like it wasn't a big deal. Which it wasn't. And for some reason I managed to get the next two books in hardcover for free. Obviously I had to read them ... I already owned them. It'd be a waste not to read them, right?

Which brings me to this weekend. For once, I'm caught up with the books when the new book comes out. And it's the last one, of course. And while I'm far from being some kind of Potterhead -- I remain baffled by the entire craze, honestly -- I'm interested enough that I don't want to find out how the series ends by accident. It'd be like missing the last episode of Lost. So today, I sucked it up, walked into my local book store, and bought the damn thing. I felt furtive, a little embarrassed, like I was buying drugs. There were people behind me in line. I could sense the chill of their judgment... though it was probably just the air conditioning.

Well, this is what I'll be reading now, and I'll admit I'm looking forward to it. Yup, snobbery be damned, I've succumbed. But at least I'm not these people, spotted on the F train at one in the morning on Saturday -- one hour after the books went on sale:

His ghost will haunt the ATMs

I just found out (if the website is accurate) that my office is directly above—well, twelve floors and directly above—Henry James's last residence in the United States. And now it's a Bank of America. Mr. James would be very proud.

Update: Click on the comments, below, for a Henry James quote that you need to start dropping in casual conversation. "Aw, look at the cute cat! You know, as Henry James said. . . ."

Saving the world in a yellow submarine

Ringo Starr is being upgraded from superstar to superhero. I would make some crack about how they're lowering the standards for that sort of thing, but hey, he's RINGO STARR. So Paul McCartney got knighted? Screw you, buddy, I've got secret powers!

Wake up, Champ!

Up until a few years ago, I didn't cry at movies. More to the point, I couldn't. This failure ate away at me, making me feel as though I were innately cold-hearted and incapable of love. Or something. I would test myself as time went on: Whichever movie my friends would say made them "cry buckets," I would watch, waiting for the flow of tears that never came. Terms of Endearment? Nope. Beaches? No way. Steel Magnolias? Not close.

But the one film that my friends consistently cited as the greatest sobfest of all time was The Champ, the 1979 movie about a washed-up boxer and his son starring then-Ricky Schroder, Jon Voight, and Faye Dunaway. (Side note: At my office holiday party on Saturday, I was chagrined to discover that more than half the people I'd queried had never heard of the film. To some extent this was an age thing, in that people over thirty were more likely to know it. Regardless, I would get precisely two responses: "[blank look]" and "The Champ! Ricky Schroder! So sad!" Also, side side note: At the end of my survey, we concluded that all men cry at Old Yeller.) Owing to the miracles of television, I'd watched the climactic last scene at least once, but I'd never seen the whole movie. When I did see that last scene, I had to admit that it was . . . pretty sad, and I sort of wanted to cry, but I remained dry-eyed.

In the last few years, I think I've managed to conquer the whole crying-at-movies thing, or at least I've tried. I'm not entirely sure what the difference is now. One day, while in a blue mood, I caught a repeat of Party of Five and was surprised to find myself unreservedly bawling (yeah, I know; but it was the one where Kirsten's parents take her away from Charlie because she's depressed, and dude, that was some traumatic shit). For a long time after that, my theory was that I could cry at TV and not movies, because I had to get to know the characters really well before I could truly empathize with them. This would explain why I cried copiously during LOTR: Return of the King, such as the scene in which Merry—or is it Pippin?—sings as the doomed warriors ride into battle. And the one at the end, when everyone bows down to the hobbits. Sob. And hell, everyone knows by now that I broke down in sobs while watching Kerry's (and Gore's, for that matter) concession speech. You just can't get to know someone as well in two hours as you can over the life of a series, or a trilogy, or a presidential campaign.

But I've managed to eke out the tears during other movies. It's encouraging. My first tear was shed at the end of Ragtime, where they shoot the guy; and of course there's that scene in The English Patient when Ralph Fiennes carries Kirsten Scott Thomas to the cave. Don't forget The Pianist—easy tears in that one. Maybe I'm less self-conscious than I used to be, or less judgmental about showing vulnerability. I have a specific memory of seeing my mother crying during The Winds of War, and we all poked fun of her, most likely because it made us uncomfortable to see our mother in such an emotional state. Or maybe my entire aversion was to manipulative tearjerkers where the heroic female character dies of cancer at the end (see: Beaches), and I finally stopped letting that aversion infect every other sad moment in a movie, ever. Who knows.

Which brings us back to The Champ. Friday night it was showing on HBO Family, and my roommate, being bored, decided to watch it. I, being equally bored, figured, what the hell. And so we watched. Revelations abounded. First of all, I had no idea it was a Franco Zeffirelli movie. You can sort of see his influence in scenes where, for example, Faye Dunaway (who plays Ricky Schroder's long-lost mother) cavorts in the water with her son and looks like she's about to make out with him. And Jon Voight looks nothing the way he looks today. Granted, this was over thirty years ago, but he's clearly some had work done. (He had lips back then, for one thing.)

But the biggest revelation of all: little Ricky Schroder acted the hell out of that movie. The kid was seven or eight years old when the movie was filmed, and he's adorable and natural, and you simply can't take your eyes off of him. He's required to cry at least five times throughout the course of the film, and it gets you every single time. I'll go so far as to say that this is one of the best child performances I've ever seen, possibly the best, and it's surprising that he wasn't nominated for an Academy Award. He deserved it more than what's-his-name in The Sixth Sense, that's for sure. Kudos to little Ricky. See this movie just because of him.

Oh, and the final scene? I cried. So perhaps I'm not a cold-hearted bitch after all. Or here's hoping.

Next up: Love Story. I remain skeptical.

Now you can finally write that masterpiece

Josh and Nicole recently informed me that November is National Novel Writing Month, at least according to the people at NaNoWriMo. (Nitpick: Shouldn't that be "National Novel-Writing Month"?) The process is simple: You sign up at the National Novel Writing Month website, and if you manage to complete a 50,000-word novel—start to finish—by November 30, you get a fancy certificate of completion. Well, they don't specify that it's fancy, but I'm taking the liberty of assuming that. Sadly, you won't be able to get away with writing the same word 50,000 times, as you have to send in a scrambled version of your novel to get your fancy certificate, and one word repeated over and over again doesn't scramble very well. (C'mon. I know you were thinking of it.)

So now's the time to haul out all your brilliant ideas based on that time you went to the Cape and fell in love with a longshoreman; spend twenty-nine days procrastinating by cleaning the mildew off your shower tiles and watching VH1 countdowns; and churn out 50,000 words in a twenty-four-hour jag fueled solely by perspiration, inspiration, panic, and Red Bull. See how easy it is to be a writer?

Now you can say you read it way back when

The good folks at Maisonneuve kindly agreed to publish my "Telemarketing for Change" essay, which some of you read when it was a wee blog post right here at Insomnia Haiku. So, thanks to those of you who encouraged me to publish it, and especially to Frank.

Oh, and mad congrats to the Sox. Wicked pissah.