There's something new in the air...

Hmm, what is it? Oh my God! I think I know. It's...it's...it's...A NEW BLOG!

That's right, folks. June Road is going pro. From now on, go to amyjune.net to find out what's on the bookshelf. Featuring MUCH more content, including video, it's going to be so totally exciting compared with this silly old thing. (Oh, by the way, there's not much content at this very instant, but there WILL be.) Just letting you know...

Thanks!

-Amy June

Education of A Wandering Man by Louis L'Amour

In his sophomore year of high school, Louis L'Amour left school to get an education. Yes, you heard me right; he left school to get an education. It sounds counterintuitive, yet L'Amour's memoir verifies everything I have always suspected about education, which is that one does not have to go to school to get one.

Within the first few pages, he states, "No matter how much I admire our schools, I know that no university exists that can provide an education; what a university can provide is an outline, to give a learner a direction and guidance. The rest one has to do for oneself." Thus, after deciding to leave high school, L'Amour set out to pursue his own education, which he did mainly through reading and life experience.

My God, did that man read. From Nietzsche to Shakespeare, from Hemingway to Wolfe, plus every volume of history he could get his hands on, L'Amour was finishing anywhere from 100 to 120 books per year. This was no light reading, either.

In supplement to the books he read, wherever L'Amour traveled (and he traveled all over the world, working odd jobs), he sought out knowledgeable individuals who would talk to him about the vast history of the area. While others who traveled with him spent their downtime in local bars, L'Amour was busy hearing stories from locals, reading books, and ultimately learning.

His utter fascination with history is so contagious that I promise you will be thirsting for knowledge by the end of this memoir. It is a must-read, even if the only thing you glean from it is that you should read even more. Inspiring and humbling, I would unquestionably suggest this one to everyone. (How's that for a decisive recommendation, Kyle?)

Durable Goods by Elizabeth Berg

Lately I've felt a little bogged-down by my reading choices. It seems that I've been reading nothing but memoirs and classics, which are wonderful, but not always easy to get through. It's not that I want them to be easy, only that, every once in a while, I need a break. Thus, I recently turned to Elizabeth Berg for a little fluff in my life. No, I'm not talking about the popular marshmallow sandwich spread; I'm talking about a light, straightforward read. Nothing too challenging, just something that goes down smooth, but still requires some thought so as not to be a waste of time.

That's pretty much what I got with Berg's charming and thoughtful novel, Durable Goods. It's a story told through the eyes of Katie, who is a young girl on the brink of adolescence. She lives on an army base with her physically abusive, emotionally distant father, her preoccupied older sister, and the constant memory of her deceased mother. I suppose that when I lay it out like that, it all sounds quite tragic and depressing, but Katie is a resilient girl who handles her circumstances with odd poise. The pity you might feel for her is replaced with fond affection.

You can read this book in a day. The prose is simple and straightforward in a dreamy sort of way, and there's this feeling of gently slipping into the story as if it were a melody, so that before you know what's happened, you've effortlessly floated through to the last page without hardly realizing it. The perfect refresher book, it's sure to gear you up for whatever you pull down from the bookshelf next.

Disclamer: When I say "fluff," I really don't mean it as an insult. There are some novels that just make for more deep, impacting, and laborious reads than others. I admire all writers, whether they write short "fluffy" stories, thousand-page sagas, sonnets dealing with life and love, or haikus dealing with the aromatic qualities of a banana peel. Perhaps I should find a kinder word than "fluff," but until I come up with one, it'll have to do. Just understand, I don't mean it rudely.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokav

Twisted and beautiful: this is how I would sum up Nabokav's famously controversial novel, Lolita. Twisted, because the narrator is an older man who lusts after young girls, and beautiful, because Nabokav's prose is so elegant, so appealing, that one cannot help reading on in foolish fascination.

The novel follows the narrator, Humbert Humbert, on his road trips around the country with the young "nymphet" Dolores Haze, who he professes to be in love with. To the outside world, they are stepfather and stepdaughter, but behind closed doors, they are lovers, which makes for a curious and altogether disturbing relationship.

This novel is unlike anything I've ever read, really. It has the unique ability to appall and to amaze, to make you hang off of Humbert's every word even while you are doubting his very sanity and trustworthiness as a narrator. Read it. Love it. Lolita.

Official Acknowledgment of Slackery

Okay, so I've slacked off. BUT, I have a really amazing excuse. You see, I was in New York City, and one can hardly focus on blogging when in New York City (perhaps that's my resistance speaking...and if you read my last post, you'd know what I am talking about). Ah, but resistance or no resistance, I have not blogged because I was be-bopping my way around the city that never sleeps, and having a grand time of it. Umm, if you want, you can see some pictures from the trip here:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/album.php?aid=2324736&id=5810472

Anyway, though I accomplished nothing tangible while in New York City, I did get a crap-ton of thinking done, and I was even able to work out the beginnings of a personal essay dealing with the subject of patience while I visited the bustling metropolis. All of this thought did not go to waste, either, because on the plane ride home, I busted out two pages of the aforementioned essay in a flurry of inspiration.

So, don't fret, dear readers (all two of you); I will be posting more book reviews and trivial tidbits, and I will be doing so on a regular basis (unless, of course, I am interrupted by another spontaneous trip to some exotic place...however, that is unlikely). Stay tuned!

The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

I was in a slump, a creative slump, and then I read The War of Art. I didn't think much of it when a friend offered to lend it to me one day. I was in the middle of, oh, four of five other books, and because I work in a book store, I buy, on average, two more books every day. Books, books, books! My life was filled with books, so this particular one slipped my mind until, one afternoon, my friend produced it from his backpack and placed it into my hands.

Folks, let me tell you, I snapped to attention at the first paragraph, and hungrily read until the last. I do not exaggerate when I say that everyone who considers themselves an artist (whether they be a painter, a writer, a musician, a playwright, etc.) should read this book, and read it now! Perhaps you, like me, have dreams of accomplishing creative projects, but you procrastinate, awaiting grand bursts of inspiration that never come. This book is for you.

Pressfield takes a no-nonsense approach to art. On the very last page of the book, he asks, "are you a born writer? Were you put on earth to be a painter, a scientist, an apostle of peace? In the end the question can only be answered by action. Do it or don't do it." And that, my friends, is the summation of this book. "Do it or don't do it." And if you choose to do it, Pressfield can point you in the right direction.

Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls by Mary Pipher

I've always had the feeling that I should read Reviving Ophelia, that perhaps I needed to read it. Not too many years ago, I was an adolescent girl with my fair share of issues, and since making it through that dreadful stage of life, I've always felt the need to process the experience, or at least try. So when I came across a cheap used copy of this book at The Dusty Bookshelf (which just so happens to be my place of employment), I snatched it right up, and I'm glad I did.

It turns out that my inklings were not far-fetched; this was an important book to read. It was like therapy for me, and I'm only exaggerating a little. Mary Pipher has had extensive experience counseling all sorts of adolescent girls, and at times, their stories hit a little close to home, their problems seemed a little too familiar. Most people, unless they have gone through it themselves, cannot fathom what the world is like for the modern adolescent girl. Our culture bombards girls with mixed signals. Be sexual, but not sexy; be smart, but not too smart; be thin, but not too thin. Television and music are filled with images of sex and violence, drugs and drinking, meanwhile adolescents are (hopefully) coached by adults to avoid these things. Yet, there is no avoiding them in daily life; they are everywhere teens are.

Mary Pipher discusses numerous past clients who have had a multitude of issues, from drug and alcohol abuse to physical abuse, from eating disorders to unhealthy sexual encounters. Her incredible insight into the strange and desperate, ever-vacillating, ever-spinning, swinging, shifting, apparently nonsensical world of adolescent girls never ceases to bore the mind.

This is an important book for anybody to read. Though it was published in 1994, it is still just as relevant, if not more so. Culture is growing increasingly crude and unabashed, and young people, sponges that they are, keep soaking it in. Though it has been less than ten years since I was an adolescent, I find myself appalled by some of the things children are watching and listening to now. Perhaps my awareness has been heightened since I was young, but I don't doubt that culture has changed as well. Thus, anyone who cares about the future generations and what we can do to help them should pick up a copy of this book.

OK, I Lied.

In my last post, I stated that I was no longer frightened by thunderstorms. I think, perhaps, that I had forgotten what Kansas thunderstorms are capable of, even though I spent an entire paragraph marveling at their power.

Thunderstorm number two struck Manhattan, Kansas this evening, and this was one was not pussyfooting around like that last one. Let's just say I would not have been caught pedaling through this one if my life depended on it. Uprooted trees, branches coating the streets, trash cans upended, power lines down, power outages all over town...perhaps the only upside was that, without power, there wasn't much to do at work. Thus, a night off!

The aftermath:

About Bicycling and Rain

Thunderstorms don't frighten me anymore. I'm not sure when it happened. I suppose it was a slow, inevitable process. Sometime throughout my years in Kansas they must have stopped seeming threatening and turned into something normal, second-nature, even a little comforting.

The first Kansas storm that I witnessed, back in the summer of 2007, was a complete shock to me. Let me tell you, I thought I knew thunderstorms, but I had no idea what they were capable of. The storms I experienced growing up on the coast of Maine were so much more subdued, if you can imagine a storm being described as such. The thunder is muffled, the lightning seems always to be somewhere else, though that didn't stop me from harboring an irrational fear as a child that if I so much as stepped out the door during a storm, I would instantly become the target for the next bolt of lightning.

So, I wasn't prepared, during that raucous thunderstorm back in 2007, for the golf ball-size hail, for the winds that knocked fully-intact branches from trees, for that clap of thunder that sent my heart leaping for cover and that burned my poor, unsuspecting ear drums. As you can imagine, my irrational fear was amplified. The landscape of the Flint Hills allowed me to see everything that was happening in the sky. Skeletal bolts of lightning leapt out of boiling clouds right in front of my eyes! It was so real, so immediate. Good Lord, I wouldn't even stand a chance out there!

Yes, the thunderstorms here are amazing and bizarre, and in that first year or so of my living in Kansas, they were also kind of terrifying. Yet, as often happens over time, I grew acclimated to them, and perhaps even a little impervious. They became so normal that I forgot to pay them the awe and fascination they are due...that is, until today, when I was pretty much forced to.

For the past week, I have been putting off going to the store to get some essentials that I was running rather low on (soap, shampoo, etc). It has been so STINKING hot that nothing sounded worse to me than riding my bicycle in the blazing heat, sweat sticking to my back, only to fill up my bag with heavy objects and do it all over again. Yuck.

But I finally dragged my butt out the door, and not two seconds after pulling my bike from the garage, I heard thunder. Upon looking up at the sky, it was confirmed: a storm was definitely rolling in. To the east was blue sky, but to the west a gray mass slowly moved overhead.

Had it been a few years earlier, I would have said to heck with biking anywhere, but I had the sense that this wasn't going to be too serious. What was a little thunder and rain? What was a lightning bolt here and there? I shrugged and hopped on my bicycle, hoping to at least arrive at Walgreens before the downpour began. Lucky for me, I made it just in time; an insistent sprinkle began to fall as I pedaled into the parking lot.

So I shopped around and got what I needed and, sure enough, when I stepped back out of the sliding doors, rain was falling in sheets. It was an entirely different world than the one I had left only ten minutes earlier. I sat on a lonely bench underneath the awning and watched as people ran from the shelter of their cars and into the store, back and forth, back and forth, scuttling across the sopping pavement. And the rain, how it bounced off car roofs and pounded on flimsy umbrellas.

When it finally died down a little, I took off for home, and instantly began considering the benefits of fenders. You see, in a matter of seconds, my back, legs, and shorts were drenched in muddy water that was rapidly flying off of the tires. And then another burst of rain came from the clouds, and before I knew it, I was dripping from head to toe.

In truth, I was pretty annoyed. I was soaked and dirty and people were speeding by in their convenient little cars, spraying me mercilessly, and blah blah blah, woe is me...and that's when I looked up at the sky. Ah, the sky. Abruptly, my inner monologue of complaints went hush. The sky was doing all sorts of weird things. Half of its vast expanse was gloomy and dark, and the other half was a powdery blue, with fluffy clouds and sun peering down, and on the ground trees glistened, and then the thunder rumbled and rolled around like some majestic beast. And just like that, I never wanted the bicycle ride to end, no matter if my cell phone was ruined or not, no matter if my clothes became so overwhelmed with mud that they would never be wearable again. The rain suddenly felt wonderfully silly, skating down my arms and dripping from my forehead. I wanted to laugh, but there was nobody to share it with.

Oh, of all the things I worried about on a daily basis, how I rushed to and fro so easily overlooking moments like these, and all the stunning sounds and smells they were filled with. But at that precise moment, there I was, living and active, quite marvelously awake.

So I listened to the thunder and I tasted the rain and for a little while thought of nothing else.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

At first I didn't understand why Joan Didion titled this book the way she did. The Year of Magical Thinking. What is so magical about your husband of almost forty years dying? I thought it more than a little bizarre.

As I made my way deeper into the memoir, though, I began to understand what she meant by the term "magical thinking." There is something that happens when your life changes in a big way, when someone that used to be there every day is no longer. There arrives an acute awareness of the world around you, of the places you used to go, the things you used to do. Along with this awareness comes a lilting sadness, a quiet chaos, and in Didion's case, a certain inability to accept the missing person's absence. Though it is not a happy feeling, there exists something oddly, well, magical about it.

To add to the devastating situation, at the time of her husband's death, Didion's daughter, Quintana, happened to be lying unconscious in the ICU. Thus, instead of mourning, Didion was fretting over her only child, terrified of the possibility that she might lose her as well.

This memoir by Joan Didion is a journey, beginning at the moment of her husband's death and ending a year later. At the start is a woman clinging to memories and moments and maybes, and nearing the end, a woman who can, perhaps, go on.

In short, it was a powerful book, moving me to feel grateful for what has thus far been a pretty wonderful life. I have heard it described as "detached" and "cold," but I think these people are misinterpreting Didion's openly frank style of writing. What we have here is a most intimate account of grief, written by someone who couldn't have done it any other way. I will openly admit that I feel humbled for having read it as it has reminded me of the intense fragility of life, temporary at best, and subject to change at any given moment.

Travels With Charley: In Search of America by John Steinbeck

In the fall of 1960, with his french poodle, Charley, John Steinbeck set out on a journey across America. His reason: "In America I live in New York, or dip into Chicago or San Francisco. But New York is no more America than Paris is France or London is England. Thus I discovered that I did not know my own country. I, an American writer, writing about America, was working from memory...In short, I was writing of something I did not know about, and it seems to me that in a so-called writer this is criminal."

Thus, Travels With Charley came to be. The trip was made in a three-quarter-ton pick-up truck that had been rigged with a well-equipped camper top on the back. Steinbeck named the large contraption "Rocinante" after Don Quixote's horse in the classic Cervantes novel. (Side note: Rocinante now resides at the Steinbeck Center in Salinas, CA). Starting from his home in Long Island, New York, Steinbeck first headed for Deer Isle, Maine, where he visited with some friends for a few days, before cranking that great beast of a vehicle west. Across upstate New York, Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Minnesota, Wisconsin, North Dakota, Montana, Washington, he drove, becoming something of a sponge as he soaked up the country's details and slowly digested them.

Perhaps the most thoughtful account of the country I have yet encountered, Steinbeck's memoir is not the light read I was expecting. His observations were at times hilarious, at times depressing, at times heartwarming, but always so acute, so careful and complete. With startling depth and magnetic prose, Steinbeck managed to leave me feeling altogether bizarre every time I set the book down. I was uplifted, yet I was melancholy; the world appeared beautiful to me, and it also appeared sad.

And don't we all have some half-born idea of carrying out a feat such as this? To leave our own lives behind and see our country, I mean really see it? To experience the changing landscapes, to hear the thoughts of our people, their visionary ideas and clashing dreams? This book is a window into what that would be like. It is not presumptuous or self-important; it knows, humbly, that it is only one man's journey. Had it been anyone else's, well, it would have been entirely different. So read with pleasure, read with care, for this book is worth your undivided attention.

Isolation

At present, I am sitting in the Bluestem Bistro, and to be quite honest, I'm having some serious difficulty putting the way I feel into words. I've been staring at this blank page for going on ten minutes, and now that something has finally appeared here, I'm disappointed to find that it is mere filler, fat, blubber, only confirming my inability to form a cohesive thought and put it on the page. I know, I know...feeling unable to express one's self is not uncommon by any means, but nevertheless, there it is, taunting me.

I guess if I had to give what I'm feeling a name, I'd call it isolation. Loneliness. Isn't it so bizarre how it creeps up on you? For the couple weeks after I moved out of my ex-boyfriend's place, I was feeling mighty fine. My life was busy and full, packed with jobs and kids and dogs and friends and hardly any downtime, hardly any time to allow myself to feel something about my situation, hardly any time to relax, to think.

I had no idea, though, that during this entire period of blissful avoidance, those inevitable feelings were creeping up on me, always lurking somewhere just out of sight. And then when they suddenly hit me like a wave one day, I was forced to acknowledge the wide, gaping hole that was left, that gaping hole that only appears when someone you've spent so much time with abruptly drops out of your life. Yes, I finally noticed that ugly emptiness, and now that I've noticed it, there's no simple remedy for making it go away.

Suddenly, I find myself clinging to the other significant people in my life, craving a kind word or a warm pat on the back, an exciting conversation or a spontaneous excursion that will keep my mind from straying to that wretched black hole that has now attached itself to my hip. Yet, in my desire to be close to others, I realize just how far from them I have gotten. And, at last, with this latest thought, my feelings, which I have been trying to get hold of all morning, have finally presented themselves in a clear manner.

The reason I am even writing this entry at all is because I received an email from my dad this morning. It was funny and poignant and made me feel loved. Perhaps I was really needing something like that. Regardless, the email all at once exemplified for me that, living out here in Kansas, I have isolated myself from my family, and from my parents especially. I have not let them into my life, and I've used the physical distance as a way to further separate myself from them, as an excuse for not sharing my thoughts and feelings.

In fact, I think I've isolated myself from a lot of friends and family over the past few years in this way. Perhaps I had forgotten the importance of staying in touch with them, of making an effort to be close, despite the physical distance between us. And I suppose it's at times like these, when your life changes and you find yourself suddenly needing those people, that this truth becomes apparent.

So now I have something to admit, people. I feel as though I should end this post with some sort of moral to the story, some further explanation of a lesson learned, but quite frankly, I have exhausted myself of being thoughtful and reflective. It took me so long to finally get something on the page, to extricate my thoughts from the rifts of my mind, and now the process of further analyzing what I've written sounds tedious and perhaps even a little redundant. The reason for the post, the lesson, if you will, is obvious.

Therefore, as I am bored with being heartfelt, I'm going to end with the dumbest elementary school joke that I can possibly find on the internet...

...searching....

...searching....

...searching...

...searching...

Okay, okay, okay, here we go, people. What's the difference between a mosquito and a fly? Well, I'll tell you. A mosquito can fly, but a fly can't mosquito.

Heh. I like it. Maybe not the dumbest, but it's up there.


P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BIG SISTER, COLBY!!

My Life Just Got Interesting

Well, for those of you who know me, you may know that my life has changed a bit over the past month. Actually...it's changed a lot. A brief overview would be this: I broke up with my boyfriend of three years, moved out of his house and into a home a few blocks over, and now live with two children (who I nanny in exchange for room and board), as well as two dogs (as if two boys are not enough). That's the short of it. The long of it is far too laborious to undertake, but I'm sure other details will find themselves slipping in here and there over the next few weeks, whether I like it or not.

So, yes, my life has changed. I already had two jobs before the big split, and now I've added a third to my repertoire (the nannying, if you hadn't caught on). Thus, I've gone from having a pretty lazy, apathetic existence, to being on-the-go almost all of the time. And for as much as I complain about this busy schedule of mine, don't be fooled people; I love love loooove it! In fact, I have found that I thrive on a busy schedule because when I actually have free time, I tend to really make the most of it.

That reminds me, I have found out a lot of things about myself over the past month. In fact, I think I've learned more about life and love and people and relationships and personal identity and God and philosophy and politics in the past month than I ever thought was possible (okay, maybe I got a little carried away there with the God and philosophy and politics bits...guess I was just feeling the moment). My mind is exploding and nearly on the verge of being overwhelmed with all of these personal discoveries. I have to tell you, people, that aside from the sporadic pangs of sadness that are to be expected after breaking up with someone I was with for so long, I really don't know if I've ever felt better. Ironic, but true nonetheless.

Well, chew on that for a while, people. There's more to come, but for now I'm getting groggy, so I'm going to bury myself in a pair of headphones and fill my ears with Abbey Road, and I expect that I'll eventually drift off into some sweet Golden Slumbers...

Bonne nuit!

Close Up: Lawrence in April

"Missing You in My Own Way"

You're off to Texas
and normally I would feel relief (even secret joy)
at all the space and time and solitude
allotted to me,
the girlfriend left behind.

But there's a quiet mistake
when I go to the usual places,
the coffee shop
the bookstore
the park;
something is brilliantly wrong
with my empty demitasse.

And the house!
A freakish dream
of ghosts and shadows
that arrived the day you left,
reducing me to a nervous widow
confiding in the dog.

These are placid, long days
with you off to Texas
and me in our lonely house
trying to keep up the garden
and dishes and clutter control,
my mind cramping with books
and useless television.

Drifting and wondering
about inane things,
suspended in a blackhole
two mere feet off the ground,
lost in a feeling
without a name.

When you call at 9am,
asking 'how are you'
and 'what are you up to'
I can't push out the words
that I hate your absence.

I'm just drifting and wondering,
lost in a feeling,
fiddling with poems
and notes on the keyboard,
and missing you
in my own way.

"Driving Alone at Night"

How strange
to be driving alone at night,

arriving, alone,
at darkened windows.

Snoring relatives
in their separate bedrooms,
soft, sinless eyelids
shutting out dark,

and I'll have to say
goodbye someday.

How strange,
turning off the engine,
creeping up unsteady stairs,
I hear their rising falling chests,

and someday our divide
will deepen,
breaths will rest
without understanding why.

Swallowed,
as they breathe
and dream,

strange,
like driving alone
at night.

"My Mane"

Curling, long, crunching ripples.
Twists and spirals,
a tripping pirouette
that catches itself
in a nest of tangles.

The swirling spins
and bedhead angles,
the thick mop
of baubles and bangles,
tickling my skin
in a whirl of twirl.

Crazy
kinky
frizzy
crinkly...

A mess of waves,
a sweep of swing,
wagging my hair
in the new fresh spring.

"The City"

the city is stars.

strolling in her streets one night,
she shook me up like a double-shot espresso
just posing there like Grace Kelly
all draped in evening gowns.

when it snowed the glamorous girls looked better,
stumbling through her high-heeled streets
and the city twinkling and reflecting
in their painted kissers.

she was cussing and crashing,
applying smoke and cooking oil
like swanky perfume,
and I just missed getting sprayed.

she was dizzy and bright,
with potholes like buttons.

and she, the city, all but got me one night,
her summer music clinging
to my sleeve, catching
in my curls,

her neon notes
making streetlamps
glow brighter in my wide
glitter crazed eyes.

she all but got me one night
until home called my name,

and the city is stars,
the city is stars
but i don't want
to live in the stars.