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The four John McPhee books I most want to read are:

  1. Oranges - From the Amazon Review: “A classic of reportage, Oranges was first conceived as a short magazine article about oranges and orange juice, but the author kept encountering so much irresistible information that he eventually found that he had in fact written a book. It contains sketches of orange growers, orange botanists, orange pickers, orange packers, early settlers on Florida’s Indian River, the first orange barons, modern concentrate makers, and a fascinating profile of Ben Hill Griffin of Frostproof, Florida who may be the last of the individual orange barons. McPhee’s astonishing book has an almost narrative progression, is immensely readable, and is frequently amusing. Louis XIV hung tapestries of oranges in the halls of Versailles, because oranges and orange trees were the symbols of his nature and his reign. This book, in a sense, is a tapestry of oranges, too—with elements in it that range from the great orangeries of European monarchs to a custom of people in the modern Caribbean who split oranges and clean floors with them, one half in each hand.” It’s a short book and it’s been recommended, and damnit, who doesn’t need to know more about oranges?
  2. La Place de la Concorde Suisse - From the Amazon Review: “Anyone who has ever traveled in Switzerland cannot help but to have remarked upon the overwhelming tranquility of the country. But this tranquility is illusory. As John McPhee writes in La Place de la Concorde Suisse, a rich journalistic study of the Swiss Army’s role in Swiss society, ‘there is scarcely a scene in Switzerland that is not ready to erupt in fire to repel an invasive war.’ With a population smaller than New Jersey’s, Switzerland has a standing army of 650,000 ready to be mobilized in less than 48 hours. The Swiss Army, known in this country chiefly for its little red pocketknives, is so quietly efficient at the arts of war that the Israelis carefully patterned their own military on the Swiss model. You’ll understand why after reading this outstanding book.” Did you know this? I didn’t know this.
  3. The Curve of Binding Energy: A Journey Into the Awesome and Alarming World of Theodore B. Taylor - From the Amazon Review: “Theodore B. Taylor was among the most ingenious engineers of the nuclear age. He created the most powerful and the smallest nuclear weapons of his time (his masterpiece, the Davy Crockett, weighed in at a svelte 50 pounds) and also spearheaded efforts to create a nuclear-powered spacecraft. But in his later years, Taylor became increasingly concerned that compact and powerful bombs could be easily built not just by nations employing experts such as himself, but by single individuals with modest technical ability and perseverance. McPhee tours American nuclear installations with Taylor, and we are treated to a grim, eye-opening account of just how close we are to witnessing terrorist attacks using homemade nuclear weaponry. The Curve of Binding Energy is compelling writing about an urgently important topic.” This was written in 1994, pre-9/11 attacks, but I think it’s probably just as relevant and eye-opening today.
  4. The Crofter and the Laird - From the book description: “When John McPhee returned to the island of his ancestors—Colonsay, twenty-five miles west of the Scottish mainland—a hundred and thirty-eight people were living there. About eighty of these, crofters and farmers, had familial histories of unbroken residence on the island for two or three hundred years; the rest, including the English laird who owned Colonsay, were “incomers.” Donald McNeill, the crofter of the title, was working out his existence in this last domain of the feudal system; the laird, the fourth Baron Strathcona, lived in Bath, appeared on Colonsay mainly in the summer, and accepted with nonchalance the fact that he was the least popular man on the island he owned. While comparing crofter and laird, McPhee gives readers a deep and rich portrait of the terrain, the history, the legends, and the people of this fragment of the Hebrides.” I’m such a sucker for Scottish history (or any UK history, really). Plus, the graphic art on the cover—tartans!—gets me.

Bonus John McPhee: I’d also like to read Pieces of the Frame and Giving Good Weight, because I’m a sucker for a good essay, and I suspect that much John McPhee might do well in short form (hello, New Yorker).

Here’s the part where I might need to confess that I haven’t read any of John McPhee’s books. But his Oranges is on my summer list because it was recommended to me and because John McPhee is so respected. And with that many books out, I have a strong urge to start a John McPhee library. (Except I’m broke.) There’s no time like the present to start reading McPhee.

Confessions of a Bad Interviewee

Lately I’ve put my job hunt (in New York! Hire me, New York!) on the backburner in order to take off for a few weeks and read books and eat Pringles covered in cheese (no lie—and no wonder why the numbers on the scale aren’t going down). All I can think about, though, is what’s going to happen when I start applying for jobs. A lot of times no one calls me. Or they call me four months too late, when I could’ve starved or could be living under a bridge by now (this could happen). Or I have horrible, horrible interviews. My top three awful interviews went like this:

  1. I interviewed at a “Christian” daycare when I still considered myself a Christian. I don’t even like kids that much (though my best friend says I’m very “maternal”), but I was 25 and desperate. The woman asked me a lot of questions about where I went to church and what I believed, but my favorite was this: ”What do you think about the blood of Christ?” I had no idea what she wanted me to say, so I said, “Well…it’s essential?” She said, “But what about the blood? What’s its role?” I said, “It’s absolutely important?” Finally, she said, “Do you believe it washes us clean? That it absolves us of our sins?” And I said, “Yeah, sure.” Surprisingly, I didn’t blow the interview there. Neither did I blow the interview by bringing up David Foster Wallace’s essay, “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” when the lady said she was going on a cruise. I told her about how DFW had talked about the way cruise ships try to delay the idea of decay and death by whitewashing the rust off the side of the boat; I told her how DFW was depressed and dumped roast beef juice off the back of the boat in an attempt to attract sharks. I think the lady must’ve tuned me out, because she said something like, “That’s nice.” She even offered me the job, but I had to turn it down because I couldn’t imagine wiping noses and butts, and because I couldn’t work for a daycare that espoused the idea that people from other religions were destined for hell and not tolerated there (which the interviewer literally told me).
  2. In another moment of desperation, I had an interview post-graduation (the second one, when I had two BAs) at a Sears Portrait Studio. The girl/woman, who was younger than me, asked me, “Would you want to stay here long-term?” And I said, “Sure, if I could pay the bills.” I couldn’t even bring myself to lie; the “studio” was only offering seven dollars an hour (before the minimum wage went up ever-so-slightly), and I had both a completed photojournalism major and student loans to pay off. I suppose not surprisingly, I wasn’t offered the job, though I had more photography experience than anyone there.
  3. While I was living in France, I interviewed for the New York Teaching Fellows. It was my first time in New York, and I was terrible at hailing cabs. I hesitantly put my hand up for a cab and no one came; I put my hand down because I felt foolish; I waded into traffic and knocked on the window of cabs that were off duty, and was subjected to some harsh words and nasty stares. All of which took a lot of time and made me look extremely foolish. Eventually, I walked a block or two to a cab stand and got one, but by then, my cab driver had to hustle and as a result, I rolled around in the back of his cab while he hit on me. I got to the interview 30 minutes late, which was technically “on time” (because we were supposed to show up 30 minutes early), and I was flustered through my teaching demonstration and flustered through my interview. My interviewer asked me only the questions on her sheet and nothing else, and I didn’t get the job. Which is just as well, because I’m not sure I would’ve survived teaching at the toughest high schools in New York at that point.

I hate interviewing; I’m always too honest. And so, so nervous. In the last three or four years, I’ve gotten a lot better at interviewing, and I believe in myself a lot more. I also know I won’t be interviewing for any of the above jobs—nothing so low-paying or demoralizing or just wrong for me. But I still could always use help. Anyone have any job tips? Resume tips? Interview tips?

Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd

“I’m as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot change.”

I hate to get sentimental or sappy or foolish or whatever you get whenever you post Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” right after you say that you’re leaving Georgia in two and a half weeks, but I cannot stop myself. I can’t stop thinking about how often I move. This seemingly-brief—but in the middle, interminable—three-year stay in Georgia for graduate school is the longest I’ve been in one place since I was 22. And even then, I only spent one summer here, and the other I was in Greece and Michigan. Why do I keep moving? I don’t think it’s a bad thing except for the fact that at its heart, my moving stems from the need to keep proving myself, and the need to escape my family. (And maybe my fear of being loved.) I don’t want to be always on the run, always afraid, but I’ve said before and I’ll say again that moving back to Kentucky for anything more than a couple of weeks while I look for a job would kill me. Maybe literally.

And I don’t know how to explain this to people who don’t need to move, other than to say that I congratulate you on being able to stay put but I can’t. And I don’t think we can date. Because the guys I’ve been dating lately just don’t seem to realize that no, I’m not from Georgia and no, I don’t plan on staying. Not even if we’re dating. And maybe that’s a fear of intimacy (and probably there’s no “maybe” to it), but I’ve been alone for much/most/all? of my adult life, really alone, and I’m used to doing things my way. And my way means moving, leaving, starting over.

And so the thought of moving to New York (or Chicago, but probably New York judging from my marketable skills, etc.) terrifies me, but that terror is a comfortable place. I don’t have a job lined up, or a place to live. I don’t know how I’m going to get there. But just as Hemingway tells himself he’s done it before and he’ll do it again (writing), so I tell myself. After all, I showed up in France with two suitcases and nowhere to stay for the night, and nowhere to live. If I can do that, I can do this. Watch me.

Apparently my aunt found out today that I was upset with her for pointing her gun at me and sent me a facebook message. She said she didn’t remember pointing her pistol at me. She said it wasn’t loaded, and anyway, she thought we were close enough that I would’ve told her I was upset. Right. Because it took her four months to talk to me since Christmas, other than clicking “like” on my pictures on facebook. Right. Because I was keeping it such a big secret. Right. Because if you’re close with someone, you send them a facebook message rather than calling, or even emailing, or even text messaging. Right. Because if you’re close with someone, you point your 9mm Smith and Wesson at them—even as a joke. (My father once shot a hole in our oven because he thought he was cleaning an unloaded gun. I was standing only a couple of feet away from the oven.) Right. Because I’d want to go anywhere near an aunt who pointed her gun at my head—even if it was unloaded. Right.

She “heard through the grapevine” that I was writing a “story” about it. It’s not a secret, and I refuse to feel bad about it. I don’t feel bad about uninviting her to my graduation, either. Do you know the stress of it? Do you know that since then I’ve started to feel like my family is like Oscar Wao’s family, with a fuku attached to us? I’m terrified I’ll return to Kentucky and be like them. Terrified that’s my destiny. And even more stressed out about graduating next month. I can’t return home, can’t return to anywhere near my family. Especially my aunt. So no, I don’t feel bad about writing a brevity about my aunt pointing her gun at my head.

You point your gun at my head on Christmas Day, you get to deal with the repercussions.

Well, Lorelai Gilmore’s coffee addiction certainly doesn’t help.

Well, Lorelai Gilmore’s coffee addiction certainly doesn’t help.

Guys. Continuing in my awkwardness when meeting new people, I told very famous poet Albert Goldbarth about my father’s arrest, my aunt’s gun, and the signing incident. I also told him about a New Year’s Eve in the hip-hop club Hurricanes in Nashville. I recommended poetry to him (Catie Rosemurgy’s second book, The Stranger Manual) and talked about Josh Bell—and he lightly mocked me for suggesting poetry to him. (The man’s got over 25 books of poetry out.) And was just very much myself. I’m not sure he knew what to do with me.

When I visited my dad last week, he had a Ne-Yo album on his coffee table.

“He’s got the prettiest voice I ever heard,” he said.

I countered with Birdy. He reluctantly agreed her voice was pretty, too.

“You know,” someone says, “I heard Tommy Lee’s dick is so big Pamela Anderson Lee can sign her whole name on it.” 
“You know,” he says, “I let a girl sign my dick once. Do you want to?”
——
This is just one part of an essay I’m working on about being a “Good Girl.” I gotta give mad props to Motley Crue for playing on VH1 at just the right time (“Dr. Feelgood” at that). And mad props for the idiot boy who asked me that question, because he’ll be in my manuscript/thesis, his words saved for posterity.
In other words: Publish me when I get done with this essay/manuscript. You won’t regret it.

“You know,” someone says, “I heard Tommy Lee’s dick is so big Pamela Anderson Lee can sign her whole name on it.”

“You know,” he says, “I let a girl sign my dick once. Do you want to?”

——

This is just one part of an essay I’m working on about being a “Good Girl.” I gotta give mad props to Motley Crue for playing on VH1 at just the right time (“Dr. Feelgood” at that). And mad props for the idiot boy who asked me that question, because he’ll be in my manuscript/thesis, his words saved for posterity.

In other words: Publish me when I get done with this essay/manuscript. You won’t regret it.

People do strange things. For instance, I couldn’t possibly explain to anyone passing me by at Barnes & Noble in Lexington why my feet are up in a chair, in a shorter-than-should-be dress, with a giant bruise on my arm, or why I’m eating a tomato caprese sandwich while watching the Gilmore Girls (I’m taking a break to type this). I couldn’t explain how I visited my father today to do some research for an essay on addiction I’m writing in my thesis and, because, I can’t seem to quit him. Because we used to be so close that I wouldn’t let him put a new roof on our house without going up with him, and he had to tie me to the chimney so I’d be near him (that’s in my thesis, too). I couldn’t possibly explain in one breath how I realized today that my father is one of those liars who tells you part of the truth and then, based upon your acceptance of that moral gray area, tells you the whole truth. Or how destructive he is, how he takes one bad thing and makes it worse. Or how I still love him and yet feel absolutely afraid of the parts of me that seem like him. And I also couldn’t explain that I wrote for three hours earlier today and now I am tired but my thesis is so very behind schedule (also cue my father’s arrest, and my sickness this semester) that I have to write right now, too. And I’m behind on grading. And it’s all just pretty damn hard, so I have put my feet up in this chair and I am watching the Gilmore Girls until I can make myself write again.

And I’d also like to note that several people reblogged something I posted from MSNBC about Kentucky being second on the list of “Most Miserable States” and said “bye” or something about staying to make things better. And I feel this pull towards Kentucky, feel it deep down in my bones that they’d like to decompose and become part of the ground that has always nourished and then contained my family for generations and generations, like a cycle—and fuck if this is not well written at all, not how I mean it to be. But I can’t stay here, can’t watch my whole family self-destruct, too. Because I’d be not too far behind. So yes, I’m not returning to Kentucky. I can’t.

Mlle Hazelwood

Reader & Writer, Master of Fine Arts, Collaborator on Structure and Style, a new poetry blog.

 

Gratuitous Pictures

Summer Reading 2012

Books Read in 2012

Catching Up on Classics

(What I'm) Reading.am