Mind Picking : Farewell 2022

 

I have a sense that this is how a blog dies: Looking back over the past year, I don't feel like I experienced much or accomplished much — I certainly didn't read as much as in previous years; the reviews for which is the ostensible reason for this writing space — and there's sadly not much that I did record of my life as 2022 ticked by. Today is actually a few days into the new year and Dave and I are taking a week at Sauble Beach — the picture above was taken yesterday at the halfway mark of a three hour walk — and while this is the first chance that I have bothered set aside to review the year that was, I want to embrace the spirit of that picture above (out exploring with my dog and my loving husband instead of feeling like a sorry bump on a log) and take that attitude into 2023. When I look back at 2019 — the 'Year of the Grand River' and the amazing local adventures we experienced — only attitude has really prevented us (me) from having another satisfying year like that; so here's to carrying that more spirited attitude forward! And so, to the overdue roundup of the events of 2022.

I told the long story of the renter-turned-squatter who turned our lakehouse into a flophouse for meth users as part of my Halloween post last year, so while I don't want to give that sorry human being any more of my head space, I will admit that working on getting her out took pretty much all of our attention for the first five months of 2022. And once she was gone (thank the spirits that watch over us; I'm not even kidding), getting the lakehouse back into shape took much time and effort heading into summer (but it's hard to regret spending most of June at Sauble, even if that is where Dave and I both eventually got hit with [mild] Covid). We also had the privilege of spending most of September at the lakehouse, after the summer renters had left, and we enjoyed wonderful sunny beach days and many good meals on the various patios; we were even able to have Thanksgiving at Sauble with Kennedy and Zach; we were delighted that Rudy and Dan took a week at the lakehouse with friends and that Kennedy could have a weekend with her girlfriends; sharing the space with friends and family is what it's all about.

At the beginning of October, Mallory felt much of her life was in crisis: Her employer announced that she would be closing her business (despite Mallory and a couple of coworkers spending months attempting to buy her out instead); her apartment situation was becoming untenable — dealing with rats, sewer backups, and a slumlord landlord, Mallory despaired that she couldn't even afford to move because rents are undeniably out of control — and to top it off, her car died. Dave and I discussed it and decided to offer Mallory — who claims she will never want a big white wedding — the same amount of money we will be spending on her sister's 'big' wedding in 2023 as a down payment on a home for herself, and by the end of October, Mallory had bought and taken possession of a one bedroom condo for herself; no parking, but no worries, because no car anymore. Now: the only way that Mallory could afford a place at all was because the condo was really dated and dirty, but after she held a Halloween party there — at which her friends were told to not even worry about spills on the already stained carpet — Dave and I spent every spare minute of November tearing that place down to the walls and fixing it back up again. (And I need to add: Kennedy was so worried about me burning out that she took time off work, and worked from the unfinished condo on more than one occasion, to make sure I had her physical help when I needed it. I guess I have moved into the age where my adult children start to think of me as frail, despite my self-image as strong. I am grateful for Kennedy's help and concern — I literally could not have done what I did without her — even if her ultimate concerns feel premature just yet.)

                                                                  

  

Mallory was able to get a new and better job right around the corner from her new home (that seems meant to be; she doesn't really even need a car anymore), and other than concerns for her figuring out where her education should go, we feel good that we were able to make her feel settled. Settled enough to decide to share her life and her home with her new kitty, Gonzo!

Those two big events (getting the renter out of the lakehouse and getting Mallory into a condo) feel, in retrospect, to be the only two things that happened in 2022, and as work got crazy busy for me leading up to and over Christmas, I'm left, at the end of the year, feeling like I didn't do much at all. I ended last year commenting that my book club didn't seem to have noticed that I had quit them, and indeed, I never did go back (and only one member ever reached out to ask me what was up; it was saddening, but ultimately unsurprising, to conclude that these were never really my friends). I grew less than enchanted with my boot camp buddies, too: Early in the year I read the book Cultish (about how American corporations — and especially those in the health and fitness industries — use the language of cults to reinforce loyalty to their brands), and although the book itself didn't make it to my best of 2022 lists (see below), it did seem to describe what feels false in my relationships at the gym. Also: I had planned to do the Mud Girl Run again this year (it was certainly fun when we did it as a group in 2019), but I was less enthusiastic when Rudy told me that she was planning a girls' weekend with Jenny and Debbie that would begin as soon as the run was over (these are her friends, even if they have included me in their plans a couple of times, but my nose was a bit out of joint thinking that I'd be driving myself there and back home alone so they could all travel together). So when I got Covid and couldn't go anyway, I just felt even more disconnected from the entire group, but also kind of relieved; these aren't really my friends, either. What a change from the happy, connected year I had in 2019. On the other hand, Kennedy started coming to the gym with me in November and that has been wonderful: nothing better than seeing that smiling face early every morning (and even the coaches have commented on the happy, energetic vibe she brings to the space; it's good to remember what ties really matter in the end.)

I guess I can still blame Covid for acting like a recluse this year — even though Dave resumed international travel for work wihout incident, we didn't go any further than the lakehouse together this year (not even down to Nova Scotia to see Mum and Dad, but I'm still bitter about Dad not coming to Kennedy's backyard wedding last year, so we'll see what will entice me to go back down there again) — but beyond enjoying some sunny patio dinners around home this year, I can only remember going out a total of three times: Kennedy and I went to Stratford in October to see Death and the King's Horseman (written about here), and we were unsurprised (maybe even relieved) that the audience wore masks throughout the performance.

Preshow dinner

The family took me out to dinner and a movie for my birthday (for some reason choosing the Christmas-themed dark comedy Violent Night, which was bad enough to make me laugh throughout, so, well chosen I guess, lol), and that was the first movie I've been to in forever. And later in December, Dave and I went to see Barenaked Ladies (for something like the tenth time?) for their Hometown Holidays show (fantastic time, as ever!).

And, as we do every year, we end with the holidays and the whole family coming over for a Christmas Eve get together. And although it is so much work — and particularly when it's in the middle of my exhaustion from a retail job — when my kids, separately, gave me a hug and thanked me for all I do to make Christmas special, it's all worth it and I will happily do it over and over again.

That's the year that was, and now, as in previous years, I present my top reads (because, again, this is the ostensible reason I am here) in no particular order.

                                                       Top Ten New Fiction

 The Colony

This would have been my pick for the Booker this year: between the powerful sentences and the overall message about the effects of colonialism, I simply loved it.

Liberation Day : Stories What can I say? George Saunders fires up my brain.  The Night Ship I love Jess Kidd's voice, always look forward to reading her books, and this one did not disappoint: sweet, sweet words telling a fascinating tale.   The Passenger      Stella Maris  I can't not include the two new Cormac McCarthys on this list: as I wrote in my reviews of these, they may not hang completely satisfactorily on their own as novels, but as a capstone to McCarthy's writing career, they feel destined to be classics. In contrast to the above established authors, I found so many new-to-me indie writers who moved me this year:  Immortal North Combining my favourite elements of a northern setting and relatable human drama, this certainly did reach my 'jaded heart'.  Compass Another tale from the Canadian north, everything about this worked for me.   Chouette Such a strange and moving tale of motherhood's unexpected challenges; loved every bit of it.  Motherthing As I wrote in my review, this is 'crisp and fizzy and so, so dark', and what's not to love about that?  One's Company From absurd to sublime, I think I was exactly the right audience for this retro feminist manifesto.                                  Top Ten Nonfiction Books Read in 2022 These can be grouped into the most interesting memoirs:    Run Towards the Danger: Confrontations with a Body of Memory    I'm Glad My Mom Died     Jennie's Boy: A Newfoundland Childhood My favourite social/hostorical commentary:  Butts: A Backstory   Laughing with the Trickster: On Sex, Death, and Accordions   Rogues: True Stories of Grifters, Killers, Rebels and Crooks   Muppets in Moscow With honourable mentions in this category to: Which as You Know Means Violence; Hanged in Medicine Hat; Culture: The Story of Us; The Revolt Against Humanity; and This is Assisted Dying. My favourite literary commentary:   The Curse of the Marquis de Sade  Super-Infinite: The Transformations of John Donne  The Jane Austen Remedy (This last was the impetus for me to finally read [probably reread? I know I picked up some Austen in my youth] Pride and Prejudice; The Colony [above] prompted me to read The Moon and Sixpence; and simply because it was available on NetGalley, I read The Easy Life; all wonderful classics and I hope to read more in the upcoming year.) Honourable mentions in this category: Six Walks; And a Dog Called Fig; and The Fairy Tellers.) Maybe it's not a total surprise that I seem more engaged with nonfiction —  I kind of feel like I've read all the possible permutations with fictional plots by now and it takes a weird angle to fire my brain with a novel — and  I should also note something rather extraordinary: The end of 2022 marks the end of my initial 'ten year project' ( to read and review a hundred books a year, and hopefully [it seemed like such a bold reach at the time!] to eventually be able to point at a thousand examples of what I thought of something.) So over the course of these past ten years, I have actually read and reviewed 1322 books (slightly more than that as I have reviewed a couple here that I didn't bother putting onto goodreads), and that is something I'm proud of; and especially as these reviews have made me feel like I have left a mark in the void. Okay, so obviously, this is not the death of this blog just yet. I reckon building on that review count will keep me engaged for a while yet. Not to mention that Dave and I are planning another big adventure this year, and I really need to remember how satisfying it was when we engaged in so many local adventures back in 2019, so I know there will be things to memorialise here, if only to aid my future memory. Also while on our walk yesterday, I sent this picture of a 'fairy ring of snow' to my girls from that halfway point. It enchanted me and I need to remember to keep my eyes open to enchantments. Here's to 2023: it will be what I make of it! (Why is that always so hard to remember year after year?)

The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida

 

Please do not get lost. If you haven’t had an Ear Check, don’t come here. Level Forty-Two will be open tomorrow. Come back then. Remember you have seven moons. You must reach The Light before the last one rises.

I just barely squeaked in reading 2022’s winner of the Booker Prize (it took so long to be released here in Canada), and while I can see how the themes and writing in The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida would have appealed to the Booker judges (and especially as its mordant tone in describing horrific political reality appears in other novels on this year’s shortlist), it wasn’t my personal favourite of this year’s list, nor even my favourite novel exploring Sri Lanka’s long years of deadly internal conflict (for that see Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost). It might be unfair to author Shehan Karunatilaka for me to rate this fine novel in comparison to others instead of solely on its own merits, but that was the experience its winning the Booker imposed on me, so all this is simply meant to explain why my reaction might be a bit muted. Seven Moons is undeniably good, probably not great, and four stars is a rounding up

Lankans can’t queue. Unless you define a queue as an amorphous curve with multiple entry points. This appears to be a gathering point for those with questions about their death. There are multiple counters and irate customers clamour over grills to shout abuse at the few behind the bars. The afterlife is a tax office and everyone wants their rebate.

The year is 1990 and Sri Lankan war photographer Maali Almeida learns he is dead when he finds himself in the chaos of a bureaucratic office with only one sandal on his feet and his camera lens cracked and filled with mud. From a Helper, he learns that he has seven moons (days) to make his way to the Light or risk being trapped in the In Between forever. As he finds his bearings, Maali is determined to get a message to his roommates — his best friend Jaki and her male cousin DD; Maali’s secret gay lover — and have them release a stash of photographs that would have been too dangerous for him to share while still alive. There’s a mystery/thriller vibe to this novel as Maali strains to remember the details that led to his death, and while the clock ticks down those seven moons, Maali finds himself torn between obeying the Helper who is encouraging him to go the the Light and a more nebulous creature who promises Maali revenge upon those who had hurt him (and the country as a whole) in life if he remains in the In Between.

Throughout, Maali’s remembered experiences as a photojournalist in the ‘80s — one who was willing to work for any of the alphabet soup of factions who paid the best in the moment — allows Karunatilaka to describe horrific scenes from Sri Lanka’s Civil War; and as Maali was a resident of the capital city, Colombo, Karunatilaka is able to immerse us in its unsettled setting of systemic corruption, massive income disparity, and rolling curfews. I appreciated that Maali’s afterlife is populated with unfamiliar-to-me creatures from Sri Lankan lore and details pulled from Buddhist belief. All of this was good stuff. On the other hand, I didn’t much care for the character of Maali himself: A gambling addict with Mommy issues and a self-described “slut”, I didn’t understand all the scenes of him being pleasured by pretty young men while holding conversations with other guys (not only was this meant to be blatantly provocative at the height of the AIDS scare while Maali assured DD that he was always faithful while on assignments, but as Karunatilaka thanked his wife during his Booker acceptance speech, I don’t think this was based on lived experience, and it kind of shows). Others have noted that this feels too long, and at nearly 400 pages, it really does; there is much repetition, and I don’t think it needed the gambling or Maali’s dramatic family of origin subplots. And as for the satiric tone, the vibe is more resigned than humourous:

• The Afterlife is as confusing as the Before Death, the In Between is as arbitrary as the Down There. So we make up stories because we’re afraid of the dark.

• You hover above him, more like a mosquito than angel. The mosquitoes are said to have killed half of everyone who has ever lived. A lot more than angels have saved.

• You used to make cracks about death when you considered it an unlikely event, as we all do, until we don’t.

• Magic isn’t evil or good. Or black or white. It is like the universe, like every missing God. Powerful and supremely indifferent.

• All stories are recycled and all stories are unfair. Many get luck, and many get misery. Many are born to homes with books, many grow up in the swamps of war. In the end, all becomes dust. All stories conclude with a fade to black.

Ultimately, this does feel like an important read: any light shone on a government controlling and killing its own people deserves to be amplified and I appreciate the craft and passion that Karunatilaka brought to this project. I am happy to have squeaked this in before the end of the year, if only to end it contemplating the following:

You think of dead lakes overflowing with corpses, of police stations where the rich lock up the poor, of palaces where those who follow orders torture those who refuse to. You think of distraught lovers, abandoned friends and absent parents. Of lapsed treaties and photographs that are seen and forgotten, regardless of the walls they hang on. How the world will go on without you and will forget you were even here. You think of the mother, the old man and the dog, of the things you did, or failed to do, for the ones you loved. You think about evil causes and about worthy ones. That the chances of violence ending violence are one in nothing, one in nada, one in squat.

 

The 2022 Booker Shortlist

The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida by Shehan Karunatilaka (the winner)

Oh William! by Elizabeth Strout

The Trees by Percival Everett 

Treacle Walker by Alan Garner

Glory by NoViolet Bulawayo

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

I found I didn't really have the interest to read the rest of this year's longlist, but I did read:

The Colony by Audrey Magee (my favourite overall)

After Sappho by Naomi Alderman

Nightcrawling by Lelia Mottley

Booth by Karen Joy Fowler

A Dangerous Business

 

Everyone knows this is a dangerous business, but, between you and me, being a woman is a dangerous business, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Oh, those men would talk about how they fight Indians and wrestle cattle and climb the masts and look for justice, and indeed they do, but they do it for themselves, if you ask me. And what they want of women, they want for themselves, too.

The best part of A Dangerous Business is the historical setting — 1851 Monterey — and Jane Smiley masterfully captures the landscape and the buildings and the weather; peopling the town with all sorts of interesting carpetbaggers and fortune-seekers. The weaker (and more dominant) part of the book is a rather uncompelling murder mystery, from the perspective of a naive (absolutely uneducated and unworldly) young woman who stumbles into sex work (which she finds acceptable and liberating) after the death of her awful husband. The tone — for a detective story set in the lawless West of saloons, ranchos, and brothels — is weirdly sedate, and the mystery itself didn’t satisfy me, but I can appreciate that Smiley was going for something beyond genre fiction here; it just didn’t add up to much for me. (Note: I read an ARC and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)

When the first of “the girls” disappeared, no one thought a thing of it. Folks disappeared from Monterey all the time, mostly because there was more going on in San Francisco, or even San Jose. Or people took their families and moved down the coast because they thought they would find better hunting there, or some land with more rain. If they were lucky, they came back, gave up on the idea of owning their own farms or ranches, and went to work the way everyone else worked. In fact, Eliza knew that her mother would say that she had disappeared, and that thought was a bit of a prickle to her conscience, but not enough to get her to answer those letters her mother had sent. She thought there was a lot to be said for disappearing, and so she didn’t think much of the disappearance of that girl, except to note the day, May 14, her very own birthday. Twenty-one now, and wasn’t that strange?

At 18, Eliza Ripple was married off to an older man by her Congregationalist parents (if only to prevent her from running off with the handsome Irish labourer she was making eyes at), and after carrying her off to California in search of his fortune (and spending the brief months of their marriage demanding much of her in both the kitchen and the bedroom), this Peter was shot in a barroom brawl and Eliza spent no time mourning his death. When a local Madam offered her employment, Eliza shrugged and set to work, and as she describes it here, it was not unpleasant to spent time with one or two men each evening, knowing that the customers were vetted in advance by Mrs Parks and that Carlos the bouncer sat on a chair outside her ajar door; these men were certainly nicer, cleaner, and less demanding than Peter had been and the money that Eliza earned afforded her perfect independence. In her free time, Eliza liked to stroll the streets of Monterey, and eventually, she made the acquaintance of another free-spirited sex worker, Jean: a cross-dressing lesbian who worked at an establishment that catered only to women (and that did kind of blow my mind: did such a place really exist in 1851 Monterey? At any rate, I appreciated the way that Eliza wasn’t shocked to learn of it; why wouldn’t an overworked housewife want a place to go for gentle comfort and release?) What started with Jean sharing and discussing books with Eliza (and in particular, the writings of Edgar Allen Poe) led to the two friends employing the detective skills described in "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" when fellow sex workers start to go missing and the local Sheriff doesn’t seem to care.

That’s pretty much the set up, which was fine, but the execution didn’t do much for me. On the one hand, I essentially liked that the characters talked about books (if one doesn’t mind them giving away the endings to Poe’s stories), but on the other, it irked me that once Jean corrected Eliza’s French pronunciation of the detective’s name (Dupin is pronounced DuPANN not DuPINN), every time Eliza wonders what the detective would make of something the name she says or thinks is written “DuPANN”. Like, beyond irked every time I saw it. And so many threads just went nowhere: Jean can see ghosts, but they don’t affect anything; Eliza is obsessed by horses (always asking to see someone’s horse or peeking through a fence at horses or wondering whatever happened to a dead woman’s horses), but that doesn’t have any relevance to the plot; Eliza sometimes feels bad about losing contact with her parents, but it doesn’t ultimately matter; Eliza notes this man’s unusual appearance, had an unsettling experience at that man’s house, holds a suspicion that Mrs Parks knows more than she's letting on, and none of it matters or even rises to the level of a red herring — there are simply skeins of loose threads that don’t get tied up. And Eliza’s unworldliness (but eagerness to learn) was more annoying than charming to me: She has one of her seafaring customers explain to her what the equator is (and later makes a connection when another client is talking about degrees of latitude); she asks a gentleman if he believes there really will be a (Civil) war, and his answer (most certainly) isn’t very edifying (to her or to me); she agrees with her employer that women agitating for the vote are probably wasting their time — historical details felt tacked on instead of enriching. And when the climax to the mystery came, it was neither surprising or exciting.

Brutes! As soon as a man sees a rule, he strives to flout it, whether he sees it in the Bible or a constitution. That prohibition runs around in his head, and he can’t stop it. Then there he is, transgressing, and you ask him why, and he says that something was unfair or he was provoked, but what he really means is that he kept having thoughts, and then those had to turn into action, and he could not stop them.

The idea of a serial killer targeting sex workers in nineteenth century Monterey, while other sex workers try to find and stop the murderer, is an intriguing concept, and this last passage about men’s justification for brutality — whether a husband abusing his wife, a killer presumably “cleansing” the streets of immorality, or plantation owners enslaving others — captures the underlying philosophy of the book: life at the time was a dangerous business, and especially for women, but women working together could mitigate some of that danger. There’s an interesting morsel to chew over at the heart of that, so while I did find this an often quiet, sometimes irksome, read in the details, the overall experience wasn’t entirely without merit. Three noncommittal stars.