I hit a wall when I started thinking about what I would write about if I wasn't simply posting about knitting and sewing progress. Before I knew it six weeks had passed with no resolution to my writer's block.
Today, then, I am just going to write whatever nonsense and emotional drivel is channeled through my fingers and toss it out into the world unedited. There is no help for it, as I find I have become an expert at procrastination and can distract myself with all kinds of useless pursuits in order to avoid writing.
Granted, I began the year questioning the very notion of who I am and who I wish to be. Many of my prior assumptions seem no longer valid with many pursuits simply not paying off with either joy or satisfaction commensurate with the energy extended. How could I write when I didn't even know who I was? What I did know is that I don't want this blog to be a storage place for lists: books I have read, concerts I have attended, the things I have knitted, garments I have sewn. But I haven't known how to make the transition to whatever it is that this blog is becoming. It will continue on; I am not ready to give it up.
In order to get myself over the hump it seems I need to fall back onto hold habits. I attended many concerts in January and early February, two of which resonated deeply and continue to hand my memories. I also read five books in January, all of which I enjoyed, but one of which resonated deeply. I shall fall back on these things, concerts and books, and see where that gets me.
On one evening I attended an organ recital and the Mendelssohn Sonata, No 6 in D minor, brought me to tears. Not something that usually happens to me at organ recitals. They were not tears of sadness, perhaps simply of depth of feeling. I did not know the piece, but the first two movements seemed imbued with a sense of history and the weight of belief and culture, all wrapped in warm tones and beautiful playing; the fourth movement seemed transformative, as if that same sense of history was being brought into some sort altered present.
The other concert that surprised me was a chamber music concert which I almost did not attend. The concert opened with Ethel Smyth's Suite for Strings, which was followed by Jeff Midkiff's Mandolin Quintet #2 and Dvorak's Serenade for Strings. I didn't expect much from the Midkiff as I had been completely underwhelmed by the one work I had heard previously. I was surprised because I liked the first half of the concert far more than the second half. The Smyth was delightful and full of energy. It was a lovely romantic work that in places reminded me very much of Dvorak, and made me wonder if that was part of the reasoning behind its placement on the program. This was also a bit of conundrum because it was written too early to have been influenced by Dvorak's later works, and yet I felt (or imagined) a strong connection between this early Smyth and late Dvorak. Anyway, this had me wondering if there had been any Smyth music performed in the Dvorak and His World program at the Bard Music Festival decades ago. But I am terrible at remembering those things, terrible at saving papers, and was not blogging then, so I have no point of reference..
The Midkiff completely surprised me. The mandolin Quintet #2 "Gypsy" had a strong, even thrilling opening with a chromatic melody carried by the violins over an almost droning reverberation from the cellos. It was fully satisfying both intellectually and emotionally. A fiery and turbulent work, with alternating passages of "gypsy" and "folk" passages, this was a far more rewarding introduction to the composer. Dynamic and sophisticated, with complex harmonics, it completely changed my impressions of Midkiff's work, enough so that I would now seek this music out.
And that leaves reading matters.
2023 Booklist:
- The Invisible Kingdom. Meghan O'Rourke
- Everything Good will Come. Self Atta
- The Secret Servant. Daniel Silva.
- Pandemia. Alex Berenson
- Where'd You Go, Bernadette. Maria Semple.
The Invisible Kingdom and Pandemia are both non-fiction and are outside my purview for reviews. That leaves three novels.
I have been working my way through Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon novels, and read this one, number 7, in January. I thoroughly enjoyed it. The books contain enough history and historical fiction to prove both thought-provoking and compelling. They are not high-literature, nor are they for the squeamish, but I thoroughly enjoy them and I find the character of Allon fascinating and all too human.
Where'd You Go Bernadette was a reread for a book club. It is a light, effective, satire although it didn't quite hold up to a second reading. I still love Bernadette and her daughter. The first time I read the novel, this is what I wrote: "the aspect of this novel I enjoyed the most may be the way the author portrays the tyranny of those without imagination." I think I still have nothing further to add.
But the book that really captured my imagination, and which I still find cropping up in my thoughts is Nigerian author Sefi Attar's Everything Good Will Come. I rarely write reviews of the novels I read on the websites where I catalog my library and reading lists (Goodreads) and (LibraryThing), but this time I did. Even here though, I am not interested in writing a proper review, and this too is rough and unedited. A step beyond my journal notes, perhaps, I am only interested in my own impressions, and what resonated in the book with me, not some grand analysis of the book's worth or meaning.
Mardel's (rough) review from Library Thing:
Everything Good Will Come is a novel about Enitan, a child of Nigeria, a child of privilege, a child who becomes a young woman, who through the process of fulfilling one dream, the dream of becoming a mother also fulfills another dream, one that had existed, unspoken, but constantly present in her inner unrest -- the dream of becoming not just a woman, but a person who decides for herself, not just accepting the decisions others make for her -- the dream of becoming a citizen.
Much of the beginnings of the book are rooted in Enitan's childhood, in her friendship with Sheri, and in the ways she is both sheltered and privileged. In some ways the book seems like two novels, the novel of the young Enitan and Sheri, which occupies the first two sections of the novel, and a second novel about Enitan's road to self-actualization. In truth the first part is just the necessary underlayment for the second, but the reader may be surprised by the shift, and it does in fact take some time for the structure to play out, and the interleaving of thoughts, memories, stories, to coalesce.
I personally found the last portion of the novel to be the strongest but I can admit that it took some time and patience for me to grow into the rhythm of the narrative. Enitan is not always likable, but she is human, and thoughtful, and kind. She is also argumentative, and she struggles with her own demons, her thoughts often sabotaging her own happiness.
Her father always told her that people have choices. He didn't say that those choices were equal, in his world-view they were not. But Enitan also realizes that choice is a "condition of the mind" and that most of the time "I was as conscious of making choices as I was of breathing." As are most of us.
Atta takes care to show us how Enitan's thoughts and actions develop and evolve, often in small steps, often repeating and circling back upon themselves. How she struggles with her own internal dialogue about separating the personal from the political, the way that life is compartmentalized in her milieu, and her gradual realization that she cannot separate the two, that the personal and the political are one and the same.
There are flaws in the narrative, spaces where the prose shimmers with light, and other places where this reader stumbles. I can see how readers may become lost in the weeds, but through it all, I do think Sefi Atta achieves something marvelous here, and the book is well worth reading.
Favorite passage:
"When people speak of turning points in their lives it makes me wonder. I can't think of one moment that me me an advocate for woman prisoners in my country. Before this, I had opportunities to take action, only to end up behaving in ways I was accustomed; courting the same old frustrations because I was sure of what I would feel: wronged, helpless, stuck in a day when I was fourteen years old. Here it is: changes came after I made them, each one small. I walked up a stair. Easy. I took off a head wrap. Very Easy. I packed a suitcase, carried it downstairs, put it in my car. When situations became trickier my tasks became smaller. My husband asked why I was leaving him. "I have to," I replied. three words; I could say them. "What kind of woman are you?" Not a word. "Wouldn't you have tried to stop me too?" he asked. Probably, but he wouldn't have had to leave me to do what he wanted.
