Planet Harm

You walk in the sands, the landscape you know by heart, the windswept dunes granular as sugar and almost as white. The screeching seagulls declare, "Water is somewhere, but where?" People say, "The sky's the limit." What kind of limit is that? The sands, the horizon, they're the limit. One echoes the other. You have no GPS, no bearings. One direction is the same as any other.

Legend has it we are on the planet Harm, meaning that is what we are taught from the earliest age. We are told that our world is round, not flat. We are taught that Harm is spherical but not circular. We are taught that Harm is the name of our planet.

Who came up with that, and when?

Who can say?

As a citizen, a resident, of planet Harm, your pain is nothing special, nor is your grief. All of us are in harm's way. It's our birthright. If everyone is in harm's way, who has a right to complain? Sure, differences of degree and scale exist. But they don't stand out. Harm is in the air, in our history, in our vocabulary, our line of sight. 

When someone (Anonymous, for our purposes and safety) entertained the idea of escaping the circle of pain, it made no sense. What circle? We see no markings, no signposts. How could there be a circle of harm when harm is all we know? How can we imagine an atmosphere other than our own?

No passports, no tickets, no travel vouchers.  

But no one has ever expressed a desire to leave. Nobody has ever voiced a need to flee. And to where would we go? What would we find there?

We perform our daily chores: melting the sand into glass, sculpting the glass into art, selling the art to the Harmageddonite who bids the highest.

The sharp bristly-minty tang of a dark pine forest. The shock of the chlorine choir of the salty sea, its ripples blinding you. The roar of a river halting you. A blanket of emerald meadow lulling you to sleep.

We hear rumors, murmurs. We dream, or fantasize. Our poets sang sagas.

Talk of escape, revolution, refuge. The elders memorized the chants and passed them on to our children's children.

We hear the secret and dangerous whispers about "charms." The unwritten subversive scriptures etched into our blood.

Charms: the coded hints of talismans, trinkets, fetishes, amulets, totems, periapts, tokens, incantations, chants, litanies, phylacteries, scapulas, beads.

The inscription on the desert rock quotes Empedocles: “God is a circle whose center is everywhere, and its circumference nowhere. ”

The priestesses debate whether this promises hope or despair.

The Yellow Tiger Inn

It was tourist season. We blended in. Sure, the crowds were pandemic-thin, but visitors stood out: Hawaiian shirts, ballcaps, sundresses, shorts, Birkenstocks, poodles, Audis, Teslas, gray, more gray, and tides of pale-skinned ex-urbanites. Folks on the large wrap-around verenda: knives gently sawing salmon or steak, forks overturned Euro-style, chilled Chablis, tea, coffee, tiramisu, chatter, clatter, laughter. We were just some anonymous passers-by.

I had never seen so many rooms before. Correct that. I had, in skyscrapered Vegas-style mega-hotels. Pictures of them. Here it was a surprise. Four stories high and a full block deep. Hundreds of rooms, though we didn't count them.

We ambled through long musty hallways with ancient carpets, paintings from the 19th and 20th century, sconces, majestic weighty drapes, ocean-liner beds, bookshelves with classics and never-made-its.

-- C'mon, let's go in here.

-- What?

-- C'mon. Don't be scared. Let's ...

-- You kiddin'?! Really? No.

I took him by the elbow and ushered him into The Clemenceau. Cavernous. To be honest, I did not usher him; I gently persuaded him with a hand grazing his thigh, wandering into his Life Valley. I led him like a lamb, his doe eyes wide and his teenage heart racing.

We did it. More than once. I lost count. That was predictable and easy. And gales of fun. I didn't know until a year and a half later that that was his inaugural romp, his Clemenceau Originale. Father of Victory. The Tiger. My own feline conquest.

As evening fell, we strolled the other floors. On the second floor, we found a darkened room, closed the creaking door, creaked the bedsprings with our raucous youth, and fell asleep like it was nobody's business.

What could be more natural? Easy come, easy go.

Except we didn't go.

We played Stowaway.

Again and again.

First it was daring, then a habit, then a routine.

No one ever questioned us.

Housekeeping, porters, chefs, maitre d's, janitors, maintenance, painters, plumbers. front desk, back desk, security. no one.

Why would they? We were part of the family. "Always had been," they'd whisper to each other.

The first year, I took a few steps off the veranda and tripped, fell flat on my face. Road rash, bruises, and sore forearms. Thought nothing of it.

A few months later, he wanted to go out for an evening stroll, shake off cabin fever. When he put his hand on the brass door handle he was jolted by a shock so fierce he fell backward.

We experimented.

Exit by window, the old prisoner tied-sheets bit. We kept bouncing back up, as if the sheets were bungee cords. It was funny, until it wasn't.

Climb to the roof. Try the ancient rusty fire escape. Another bout of electroshock "therapy."

Burrow into the basement. Find a subterranean route to the sewer. Nope.

Nothing worked. It wasn't hard to figure out. Why frustrate ourselves? No sense succumbing to futile, impotent gestures.

I write letters.

Nearly every day.

I post them in the house mailboxes: by the lobby, the gift shop, by the elevator on each floor (the old-fashioned mail chutes).

I write to friends (though the addresses in my address book are likely obsolete; and the friends may not be alive), my parents, sisters, bothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, old classmates, even a few enemies.

I am waiting for an answer.

Just one. 

Harry and Hiro

don't do it, Harry
we have to; we must
don't do it
then surrender, Hiro
we can't
you mean, you won't
millions will die
they will, either way
think about it, the children
yes, think about it
but such a bomb . . .
you hold the key
no, you hold the key
peace
war

honor

shame

if..., then

then..., if

up in smoke

incinerated

the past

leveled

the present

scarred

the future

fallout

forever

Netflix and chill

come up and see me sometime
want to see my stamp collection
care for a cup of coffee
a nightcap
some weed
save the last dance for me
play Scrabble
arm wrestle
Gone With the Wind
use your bathroom
use your bedroom
Twister
hide and go seek
the basement tapes
vestibular balance
lost in translation
wanna hold your hand
practice salsa
take in a movie
baby, it's cold outside
life is short
do you have AC
work on that report
sand your floors
a spot of tea
read your palm
rub my neck
do yoga
study for the exam
check your cable connection
light my fire
see my vinyl
sing for my supper
taste your carrot cake
gel with gelato

missing

I got off the bus at West Genesee and West Fayette. A young mother with a toddler and an infant in a stroller struggled to navigate the steps down onto the sidewalk. I let them go and did my best neither to feel nor exude impatience. I stepped onto the sidewalk buffeted by a blast of December wind. Something on the ancient, rutted utility pole caught my eye. What? A Missing Persons poster was stapled on two sides of the pole. I moved closer. There, to my shock and horror, was an unmistakable image of me, under large block letters spelling MISSING with an exclamation point (fortunately, only one instead of the customary three). Below that was a photo of me in my Icelandic sweater, bought in Reykjavik in January 2016. It happens to be one of my favorite self images. My older glasses are bolder, my hair is longer and less gray, and I sport a sexy smirk, or so I've been told. So thanks for that. Anchoring the bottom of the poster "$5,000 Reward" is offered. How is that amount calculated? Is it based on the poster's (as in "one who posts") resources or my putative value? My name is provided. It is spelled correctly, with no middle initial. No information regarding age, reason for missinghood, potential danger to self or others is offered. The only other data provided is that I was last seen at the Solvay Post Office. Last seen, wait for it, today. Today? Is somebody trying to tell me something and what is it? I shook this off, having lingered for who knows how long at the corner absorbing all this. I proceeded west on Fayette toward home. Every utility pole, all eight, had two missing posters stapled onto it. Just me. Nobody else. I kept walking. Evening was descending, as it does so early in December. I quickened my pace. I keenly looked left and right, searching for something or someone, I didn't know what. At the end of the block, I paused and looked in back of me, where I had just traversed. Nothing. I turned left onto Williams Street, toward my apartment building. I decided I would not enter by the main door, at the lobby with the mailboxes. I somehow felt safer entering by the seldom-used back door. As I walked down the six steps to the door, key fob in hand, i halted. Another one on the door. I could have turned away. Turned away to go where? I summoned either courage or foolhardiness, waved the fob, and entered. now my heart was racing. I was sweating. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. I gingerly, and as quietly as I could, strode to apartment 312. Another poster.

found objects

Future Present Participle. Who knew? Who knew the Boys From Liverpool were so prescient? Found in an attic of Jane Asher's great-aunt, this collection of previously unknown (except for the Beatles themselves and George Martin) songs touches on themes and issues that were barely percolating in the Sixties. The offering, however, is more than an archival collection for Beatles enthusiasts. The album features ten never-heard-before compositions dating from 1964 to 1968. Asher, a former girlfriend of Paul McCartney, had no comment on the shocking event, though the LP was released under her Ashe(r) Wednesday label. "And I Loved Him," the first track, is a tender farewell ballad to Brian Epstein, the Fab Four's manager. "He Loves Me" is a raucous garage-band-sounding outright declaration of Lennon-McCartney mutual affection. "We Can't Work It Out" acidly recounts a bitter break-up, likely referring to Asher and McCartney. "Rainbow Submarine" would have been revolutionary in its time as it celebrates gender, racial, and ethnic diversity. The whimsical "Octopus's Living Room" showcases Ringo Starr's talents for children's songs, foreshadowing his Mr. Conductor role in the Shining Time Station series for kids. A polar opposite of the hit "I Feel Fine, "I Feel Fucked" uncharacteristically portrays George Harrison in a sour and vindictive mood. "Number 6 Times 6 Times 6," obviously an outtake from The White Album, denotes surrealist nihilism in its constant repetitions of six, evoking sinister demonic references. "I Want to Hold Your Gland," clearly never intended for public exposure, features Lennon and McCartney at their Joycean silliest. The origins or intention of several tracks will give critics and fans grist for the rumor mills for years to come. For example, "He's a Woman" prefigures and boldly explores gender roles and previews themes only hinted at in "Get Back." The final track of Future Present Participle, "Can Buy Me Love," is a self-satirizing parody that predicts the group's breakup. Here's your ticket to ride for a magical mystery tour simultaneously into the past and the future. The answer is in the journey. 

next kiss

Female. My age range (meaning within fifteen or twenty years my junior; within, meaning potentially one year my junior, or seven, or six months; hate my shallow chronological standard if you must). Equal to my height or shorter or taller. Equal to my weight or less than, but not 100 pounds (cf. hatred disclaimer above and modify accordingly). Lips not striated, thin, or parched. Full. Supple. Soft. Lipsticked, possibly amply and possibly boldly red. Not arid yet not slobbery. Preceded by mutual visual, olfactory, tactile, and verbal cues, signals, codes, mutually deciphered on some primitive and inescapable level. Daytime. Not morning. Initiated by me (to atone to myself and the world for a lifetime of uninitiativeness). But an element of surprise not adorned with aggression. A dollop of serendipity. Tentative. A false start. The risk of failure. And then the at-first subtle though soon sure and unmistakable reprise and reboot of First Kiss (see preceding post), the sought-for though unexpected betrayal of the rules of the universe, allowing the participants a taste of sparkling history and young wonder. Crackling of burnt dendrites.

Bedtime Story, Act I

Can you give me a lift? I can pay you for gas.
Where to?
Over to the West Side, just over the city line.
People still hitchhike? And at your age?
You don't know my age.
Just saying. It was a Sixties and Seventies thing. But frowned upon. Because . . .
You gonna give me a ride or not?
Yeah, yeah. Calm down. Sure. How much for gas?
Ten.
Make it twelve.
Why twelve?
Cosmic.
Deal.
I need it now. Because, you know. Ya never know.
What's next, a "request" for a blowjob or get out and walk?
Too predictable.
True.
Let's dispense with the basic formalities. I'm Raoul. And you are . . .
Lefty.
Lefty? Not very feminine.
Not very feminine? Who the fuck are you to say?
No one. No one at all. "Fuck" ain't so feminine either, but I guess that depends on what you mean by "fuck" and what I mean by "feminine."
Here's twelve singles, one is a little ripped.
We're all damaged. Thank you. Appreciate it.
No prob.
What street we going to?
Hawthorne.
I prefer Emerson or Thoreau, with a dash of Melville.
Aren't you clever. 
I am that. What block?
1200 Hawthorne.
Got it. I hope this is nothing illegal.
Why do you say that, Raul?
Raoul. The French spelling.
Are you French?
I am not. Are you?
No, sir, if I may be so formal.
I like your voice. It's soothing. The voice a kid wants to hear for a bedtime story.
Do people still do that?
What? Speak with voices instead of texts?
No, tell bedtime stories.
Yes, I'm sure.
It's getting dark.
It's not dark yet but it's getting there.
Bob Dylan.
Excellent.
You're the second person in two days to talk about my voice.
Really? In a good way?
Yeah, what's your bedtime story?
What are you wearing?
What do you mean? That sounds naughty, especially for a so-called bedtime so-called story.
You know. Scent.
Chance. By Chanel.
As in, don't take chances?
The bedtime story, please.
Once upon a time...
Please.
Once upon a time an elderly man without any visible tattoos, a courtly fellow with a slight British accent, posh, wearing Tom Ford Ombre Leather, glided his 1957 Thunderbird convertible to a gentle stop on Strait Street as he saw a hitchhiker, an anomaly of the age, her thumb out, corny, as in an old movie, slightly sullen, not smiling but catching the driver's eye. The car stopped, but not the driver's mental ruminations. She was in her forties, likely, cut-off frayed blue jeans, hot August evening, Versace (maybe) shades atop her dirty blonde hair, tall, willowy, statuesque. Stately. Green eyes, but possibly blue or hazel from this distance. This spelled danger. Something out of a film noir that the film's backers chickened out on as a lousy financial risk. He rolled down the passenger-side window electronically. (The windows up on the convertible helped his hearing and didn't mess up his hair.) As he began to call out to her, he found himself yawning. She yawned.
Hey, it's right here. Stop. Here it is. 1200. Hawthorne.
I guess this is it.
I guess it is.
I guess so. 
See you.
Maybe see you again.
Thanks. Yeah. See ya.

burying the dead, and others

this interment no death dirt tossed the blue yellow butterfly flowers curlicued on the tabled urn her hard-earned urn beside the appointed Book of Common Prayer petitions we recite in common we mouth to the wind her uncommon age virtues demeanor generosity laughter tears we leave these severed maternal ashes for others for strangers to plant no not ashes cremains into the ground it is not her and it is not the ground yet the table the surrogate altar and it is not her here not quite do not look here said the angels at the tomb the gardener a simple hole in the ground a pale rose on the table an alstroemeria bouquet on the gravestone ashes to ashes burying the dead burying this dead engraving her memory what remains

let the dead bury the dead let the dead bury their own dead Jesus snapped hurried harried not my problem as if to say more urgent matters burn at hand such as now and the living above the dirt those of us still born still breathing

bury as in hide conceal protect shelter preserve

others

as for others entomb their reckless ecstasies those exalted maelstroms we loved to call love singing o happy fault o happy day night

bury it all bury it cheap or dear bury it deep

where every singed seed 

stalks the grave ground's readiness

where watered ripeness raves

book list

I used to list the books I had read at the end of every year. I still do, handwritten, but I haven't posted such lists here in a while.

So, here goes. My 2018 reading list, sotto voce, in ejaculatio praecox form, if you will:

1.  Debriefing: Collected Stories by Susan Sontag, edited by Benjamin Taylor
2. Andrew's Brain by E.L. Doctorow 
3. Norse Mythology by Neil Gaiman
4.  Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine
5. A Live Coal in the Sea by Madeleine L'Engle
6. A Legacy of Spies by John le Carre
7. Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet's Journey by Stephen Kuusisto
8. The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden
9. Does It Fart? The Definitive Guide to Animal Flatulence by Nick Caruso and Dani Rabaiotti; illustrated by Ethan Kocak
10. The Informer by Craig Nova
11. While I Was Gone by Sue Miller
12. The Professor of Desire by Philip Roth
13. The Fig Eater by Jody Shields
14. My Ex-Life by Stephen McCauley
15. Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose
16. This Is It by Alan Watts
17. Haiku: This Other World by Richard Wright
18. The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser
19. The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life by John le Carre

... and counting.

what shall I read?

What shall I read while en route to or in Iceland? Today I will finish "1954," a fine book by Bill Madden about that year and baseball and integration and other stuff. It will have been the thirteenth book I read in 2015. When I told my coffee-shop friend Bill B. that I was going to Iceland, right away he told me he had read two books by Icelander Halldor Laxness, who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1955. Bill is admirably well read. I bow before him. So today I went to the DeWitt branch of the Onondaga County Public Library with the hope of securing a Laxness tome. No such luck. Instead, I came away with Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov and Mr. Bones by Paul Theroux. I was inspired to pick up the Nabokov because I had just finished an article in The New Yorker about his letters to his wife, Vera. I chose Theroux because he is such an acclaimed travel writer, though this is a collection of twenty short stories (fiction). I will begin one of these books tonight, Deo volente, and will likely continue one of these books on my flight to Reykjavik. Come to think of it, it will make much more sense to buy a Laxness volume in Reykjavik, maybe in his native tongue or maybe in English. I cherish in advance a lovely bookstore in the world's most northern capital city. There's a selfish motive involved here: imagine how impressed the lovely woman sitting across from me at the cafe will be when I breezily mention Laxness or if she sees me reading one of his works (if it's the Icelandic version I will be faking it; but they say "fake it till you make it").

p.s. Thank you, Wikipedia, for the aural pronunciation of the author of Lolita. iIve had it mostly right all these years, while other pronunciations I've heard over the years were not quite on the mark, which is fine. 

Kokonuts vs. Kokonuts

I have just read about Daniel Bejar and Daniel Bejar in The New Yorker. One is a musician, another an artist. The artist has made himself look like the musician and as an "art" project in real time in real life is playing on the same-name identity. His project is called Googleganger, with those two dots over the a.

All of which got me thinking.

Who, after all, is Pawlie Kokonuts?

And if I used my real name, would it really be me?

Who is me?

This is what employers and education officials don't seem to get. They warn people to be careful about their online identity and online representations, but who is who? And what is what? What is real? Why can't anything online be considered the mere fictional fabrications of a virtual persona?

This is nothing new in literature, going back to Truman Capote's non-fiction novel "In Cold Blood," and the same with many works by Norman Mailer. Frederick Exley wrote "fictional memoirs," featuring a character named Frederick Exley. But he wasn't Frederick Exley the author, was he?

So, who is who? And what's what?

Deep questions.

holiday malaise, take 1

so the protagonist of the story or movie doesn't do any consumer stuff at all doesn't shop doesn't make macaroni art doesn't participate just drops out and on the morning of December 25 with all the others partaking of the unwrapping binge he or she just sits there in a bathrobe and takes it all in even lets them hurl the epithet solipsist! but does open presents given to him or her but there's no give in the give-and-take or is that take-and-not-give? well anyway just awkward silences or what what else happens how else to complete the story or what do they call it now text how to continue with the text?

"Rabbit Remembered"

I finished the novella "Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike and found it rewarding if for no other reason than the light it shone on familial denial and the persistence of genetic traits. Oddly, this time (I had read this work years ago but in my old age or sleep-time reading of it forgot much) brought to mind some comparisons with Tony Soprano. Both Tony Soprano and Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom are pathological in their solipsism -- and yet, and yet, we somehow root for them, at least some of the time. Then we shake our heads and wonder how or why. And both the Soprano and Angstrom clans collectively collaborate in the pathological relationships that interweave; sometimes we even see glimmers of hope, new beginnings seemingly free of the tired strands of misery. And then those strands get restrung and interwoven once again. (Which is not to say the others, the lives that these people touch, are any better; often worse.)

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this is the very first instance of someone showing similarities between Tony Soprano and Rabbit Angstrom. Calling all academics! Here's a great topic for a dissertation!

I like to dog-ear the pages of a book as I am reading it, to remember juicy quotes. (In this case, I have to de-canine-ear the marked pages, since it is a library book.)

Some tidbits from John Updike's "Rabbit Remembered":

Nobody wants war but men don't want only peace either.

If society is the prison, families are the cells, with no time off for good behavior. Good behavior in fact tends to lengthen the sentence.

At thirty-nine, everybody's their own problem.

A grin is held on his face like a firecracker ready to go off.

Being adult, it seems, consists of not paying much attention.

Fiction Begins Here

My ol' Baltimore Catechism declared that a sacrament is "an outward sign of God's love." Something along those lines. Correct me, Mark, if you know better. Speaking of signs, of God's love or otherwise, I saw this sign at the Central Library branch of the Onondaga County Public Libraries, in downtown Syracuse, on the fourth floor:

FICTION BEGINS HERE

Hmmmmm. Well, at least the sign wasn't on the non-fiction floor. How mystifying. "Fiction begins here." We can all use such overt warnings now and then. I mean, we don't always get such explicit declarations. For example, many folks entering a marriage or other such relationship would welcome such a disclaimer. At least you'd know what you were in for. "Fiction Begins Here." That would also work on the boss's door. Or even on the top of the annual so-called performance evaluation form in bold italic underscore all uppercase. Or maybe it should be the standard crawl on the bottom of the television screen when certain public officials are speaking (for my money, you know I'd reserve it for jowly, white-shirted, obstructionist Republicans). "Fiction Begins Here." It's a handy sign, and of course the library fiction department is a swell place to have such a sign, sacramental or otherwise.

Incidentally, not far from FICTION BEGINS HERE, I saw this sign in the library:

FICTION

Right below that sign, immediately below it, maybe even taped to it, was this:

Notice:
Security Cameras Are In Use


So, does that mean the security cameras are or are not in use? Fiction? Or fact?

Non-fiction fiction ends here, for now.

Book 'em: We Are Listing, But Not Listless

In what has become an annual rite, here is my list of books read in 2008, in the order of my having read them. I know the year is not over, but I won't finish Netherland by Joseph O'Neill until sometime in 2009. You are invited to share lists of your own, publicly or privately.

1. The Lay of the Land. Richard Ford. Fiction. I place it in the top ranks of any year. A journey through the modern American landscape, especially the interior landscape of the older American white male. Yes, he has a soul.

2. The Quick of It. Eamon Grennan. Poetry.

3. Born Standing Up. Steve Martin. Autobiography.

4. Returning to Earth. Jim Harrison. Fiction.

5. A Three Dog Life. Abigail Thomas. Memoir. (Yes, Mark Murphy, I would have added a hyphen to the title.)

6. What the Gospels Meant. Garry Wills. Nonfiction. Erudite and excellent. Readable.

7. Three Days to Never. Tim Powers. Fiction. (Powers is one of son's favorites.)

8. Then We Came to the End. Joshua Ferris. Fiction. Bought in paperback at a fine bookstore in Potsdam, Germany. Catch-22 goes to the office. A book about people losing their jobs, the right book at the right time, for me.

9. God's Secretaries: The Making of the King James Bible. Adam Nicolson. Nonfiction. Scholarly and hugely entertaining.

10. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. Kate Di Camillo. Fiction. It can be rewarding to share reading with your children (which is also true for numbers 7 and 3; or with one's spouse, number 5).

11. The Unknown Terrorist. Richard Flanagan. Fiction.

12. Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. Roddy Doyle. Fiction. Touching, and unbearably sad.

13. The Hidden Assassins. Robert Wilson. Fiction.

14. Once Upon a Fastball. Bob Mitchell. Fiction. Rewarding.

15. After Dark. Haruki Murakami. Fiction. Murakami. What else to say? (Read first by my daughter, who has become a fan.)

16. Skin Deep. E.M. Crane. Fiction.

17. Yes! 50 Scientifically Proven Ways to Be Persuasive. Noah J. Goldstein, Steve J. Martin, and Robert B. Cialdini. Nonfiction.

18. A Step From Death. Larry Woiwode. Memoir.

19. One Good Turn. Kate Atkinson. Fiction.

20. Supreme Courtship. Christopher Buckley. Fiction. I met his dad, William F. Buckley Jr., when "Christo" was around 12, at his home. He surely does not remember.

21. What Jesus Meant. Garry Wills. Again, Wills is so great. Unconventional and intelligent.

22. Holidays on Ice. David Sedaris. Fiction (some say nonfiction, but depends on the piece). Fresh after seeing him and meeting him at the Landmark Theatre, Syracuse. My kind of humor, for the most part.

The Year in Review, Literarily

Well, here's the year in review. Literally.

Or should I say "literarily"? (Yes, I should.) Anyway, what I mean to say is, here's a list of my reading matter (i.e., books) for the year 2006. (Incidentally, do you say "two thousand six" or "twenty-oh-six"? I hear the former, though I wish the latter took hold. I heard "twenty-oh-six" on BBC World Service last night.) The Irish Independent (seen here being perused by an erudite if slightly effeminate-looking Laughorist en route from Malahide to Dublin, last October) doesn't count. Just books.

Do people read actual real books anymore? I fear not too many do. That does not make me better or worse. I'm a slow reader, one who savors a book. Yes, I read magazines and newspapers too -- hard copy -- but I am most faithful to books. I need to read a book before falling asleep (yes, even after THAT). I know, I'm so retro.

Here's my rather short list, unadorned with editorial comment.

1. On Beauty by Zadie Smith (novel)

2. The Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster (novel)

3. Attention.Deficit.Disorder by Brad Listi (novel)

4. Blue Angel by Francine Prose (novel)

5. Delights & Shadows by Ted Kooser (poetry; former U.S. Poet Laureate; I shook his hand)

6. McCarthy's Bar by Pete McCarthy (travel; humor)

7. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (novel)

8. Born to Be Mild by Dave Armitage (novel)

9. The Beast God Forgot to Invent by Jim Harrison (three novellas)

10. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf (novel)

11. The Pornographer by John McGahern (novel)

12. Praying Like Jesus by James Mulholland (spiritual commentary)

13. A Year to Live by Stephen Levine (psychology/meditation)

14. The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami (novel) (about 40 pages and I'll be done; I promise, I'll finish by December 31 -- Deo volente).

(Addendum: OK. I did finish it, last night, on December 30. Can I start and finish something short in one day? Perhaps Steve Martin's The Pleasure of My Company?)

Name one of your books of 2006. Just one.

Please?

Thank you.

Happy and peaceful and healthy and blessed 2007. One day at a time.