Love and Heroin

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb.
Robert Browning

In between staving the fulfillment of my two latest addictions, which is the Netflixing of Season Two of Burn Notice and Season One of True Blood (Vampire Bill being the latest boy toy of choice in my middle-aged brain), I’ve been – gasp! – writing, inspired by the fact that North Korea just may make good on their threat, a sharp reminder that life is too short to whittle away time while waiting for the Muse to strike.

So I’ve returned to my notes for Avery and Jeremy’s story, another Cakian tale, jotted ideas for some children's books, penned some eulogies, and am writing some fiction and non-fiction tales inspired by a day spent above stormy Scituate seas with my sister, also an author. (Apologies for the blatant use of alliteration, but the fact remains that I was in Scituate and the sea was stormy.) We are determined to be on Oprah and between us probably have enough stories to get us there. If only Vampire Bill would stop interfering!

Mostly, though, I’ve been on a reading marathon, which includes much spiritual based non-fiction – Caroline Myss, Eckhart Tolle, Neale Donald Walsch and Don Miguel Ruiz, plus a lot of great fiction. Of course, the Sookie Stackhouse series is included in this list and some Megan Hart, who packs emotional punches throughout her simmering tales.

But last night I finished Alice Hoffman’s The Story Sisters. Ms. Hoffman is probably my favorite modern writer. She sees life through the same glasses that I wear and manages to capture that worldview with a pen. This book particularly resonates for me as the tale is about three sisters and the blood ties between them. Fundamentally, though, this is a book about true love. Not the romantic kind, although there is that, but Ultimate Love, that which fuels the universe, and that which saves us.

And this morning I finished Grunge is Dead: An Oral History of the Seattle Music Scene, which was a rare biography/history because it wasn’t written second-hand by a biased fan or outsider. Instead, the author, Greg Plato, compiled first-hand interviews and uses these comments to compile the book’s timeline, which takes us back to the seventies and brings us up to the so-called “grunge” explosion. This is a fascinating history for music fans in general and lovers of the Seattle music scene in particular. A worthy work and it’s a shame Chris Cornell of Soundgarden fame or the remaining Nirvana members did not participate. The book reads like a novel, craft-wise, with build-up, climax, dark moment and redemption, and the last quarter of the book is riveting, as dark material always is.

Like Elv in The Story Sisters, so many of the characters in Grunge deal with heroin addiction. Unfortunately, these are real people, and while the world knows of the tragic demise of Kurt Cobain, this book delves a little deeper into the influence of the music industry and heroin on his choice to end his life. The book continues with a chronicle Layne Staley’s slow death, heroin again, through the eyes of his friends and mother. All mothers should read these chapters. The book makes it clear that drug addiction can happen to ANYONE and maybe just being prepared for such a fate can help a parent prevent it. I don’t know. Incredibly sad.

I’ll never forget Rush Limbaugh’s laughter at Kurt Cobain’s death. How he stated, “All drug users should be put to death.” I was disappointed when he became addicted to drugs himself and did not meet such an end, but perhaps he is more compassionate now as a result of his own experience. I doubt it, but one can hope.

Both books, though, leave one with the absolute certainty that love does conquer all, most obviously in Hoffman’s tale, as fiction has a way of tying themes together in a tight little bow, but Grunge finds this truth as well, culminating in the professional success and spiritual growth of many of the survivors of that time period.

On the iPod: “Season of the Witch,” Donovan.

On the Nightstand: Intrusions by Ursula Hegi

Bittersweet Symphony

So it’s been a bittersweet month in my personal world of arts and entertainment. I’m not complaining because I feel pretty lucky that artistic and literary pangs are my biggest concern in this day and age. What’s the line from Pearl Jam’s “Wishlist?" -- something like: “I wish I were as fortunate, as fortunate as me.”

My insights, then, or lack thereof:

The big show. Pearl Jam. I haven’t seen them since the early nineties when Lollapalooza and Great Woods were both cool and I was able to traipse from lawn to mosh pit just in time to help pass Eddie Vedder over the crowd. I didn’t wash my hands for two days.

Same place fifteen years later. Great Woods is now the Comcast Center and there is barely a lawn to speak of and certainly no mosh pit. My tickets were smack in the middle – too far away to see anything and as the Comcast Center probably has the worst sound stage in history, the music was blurred. Generally, it was an unpleasant experience, surrounded by very drunk ex-frat boys (and one sixty year old, brown leather skinned vodka pickled Vineyard fashion clad woman). And my husband, who wore an I-told-you-so-smirk the entire time.

And he’s right. We are spoiled here in Boston. So many clubs, so many really talented bands who go on to fame and fortune. And we just walk in and fully experience the music. Sure there are drunk guys ambling around making general nuisances of themselves somehow believing that you are there to see them and not the band, but these are mere gnats, easy to tune out. Instead, you can see and feel the passion of the music, the synergy of bands, the intricacies of fingers dancing along guitar strings.

So stadium shows just don’t cut it at all unless you are of the mentality that you are one with the crowd, one with your idol up there on stage, voices mimicking, arms waving. Blech. This is mob mentality, not creativity, not community. It feels dangerous and creepy.

Community is sitting in a circle at my son’s toddler playgroup singing songs and dancing. It is humbling and bonding and promises burgeoning creativity. A beginning. I can’t explain it. The Pearl Jam crowd felt like mass failure – armchair athletes. An end. We left early.

That said, here’s the sweet. Pearl Jam was incredible. The performance, the music, the energy – they give the audience back what they paid in tickets and gas and then some. And no-one can create a feeling of community like Eddie Vedder. In fact, in those fleeting moments between songs, when he spoke to the crowd, I felt truly part of a community of hope, as if we were sitting around the fire taking turns telling stories.

Now, the members of Pearl Jam are heavy on the activism and support many charities. This is easy to do when you have power and money, right? Many fans won’t argue what their rock gods utter, never bothering to reason to discover their own opinions. And charity? The rest of us can barely afford tickets to their shows so how are we supposed to give money or time to charity, right?

Wrong.

You don’t need money to be kind, to train yourself to think outside of yourself, to find ways to improve the lot of those around you, even if it’s just bestowing a smile. And hurray! Pearl Jam exemplifies this, which was evident by its frontman’s converstion. He wished us well – not the “Hey, how y’all doing in [fill in city of choice]?” banter that most bands spout in an attempt to show that they care about their fans, and if you ask me how Mr. Vedder was any different, I can’t pinpoint it. He just was.

Part of it was his choice of topics such as the one about the little local boy who, learning to play guitar, had just figured out his first chords to a Pearl Jam tune. The band dedicated a song to him, even bothered to remember his name. They took the time to give hope to one kid. An average kid, not a gifted one, not one dying of cancer. Just a plain ole kid. Doesn’t take money or time to do that. Just kindness.

The Big Screen. Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. Left the theater with a smile on my face, mainly because I wanted to like the movie so I did, even though it boasted some lazy writing: a clichéd plot that seemed to steal from a plethora of other movies, including its own ancestors. But Harrison Ford slips into Indiana as if no time has passed, the glimpses of old characters and quarry pleased the palate, and Marion is front and center in Indy’s life, as she should be. Best is Mutt, Indy’s son in every way, but not yet quite ready to fill the old man’s shoes. Don’t expect the high quality of writing that distinguished Raiders and you’ll leave with more sweets on your brain than bitters.

The book. Alice Hoffman’s Third Angel. I borrowed this from the library on a speed-read loan so I caught the gist but really didn’t take the time to delve into symbolism and themes as the book deserves. So I might be wrong in my interpretation.

As usual, Hoffman doesn’t disappoint, although this novel drags the reader into hopelessness most of the way through, leaving one melancholy at the close of each chapter. There are no villians or heroes – just humans.

The characters, despite their privileged social standing, suffer so much sadness, especially Lucy, who, at the start of the novel, is the mother of two daughters. Lucy’s cancer left them motherless for a time and the repercussions of her disease infect their adult lives.

Later in the book, we read about Lucy’s childhood. Life really should not have thrown her cancer in her adult life. It’s really not fair at all. But isn’t that the nature of earthly living?

Yet Hoffman, at the last, saves her reader from despair. She gives us hope via a character that has no hope (although, he too, later finds it), Lucy’s third angel. Hoffman, as the author, is ours.

THE book. Finally finished the Harry Potter series and I’m bummed that it’s over, but what a perfect little symphony JK Rowling has created. I cheered (Mrs. Weasley, Luna, Neville, and, what ho, Kreacher!), was bummed by all the losses, and was surprised by the lasting sadness for Severus Snape. He was cheated. He did not get his due.

The last book completed the first, and proves that character is fate. Upon further reflection of Snape, he probably did get the justice he deserved. His character certainly wasn’t stellar, despite his bravery and loyalty.

I do agree, however, with some critics who believe the epilogue was not necessary. The last sentence of the last chapter was as good as it gets. Still, the epilogue offered the romance novel ending that’s packed with peanuts and more shows that Harry paid public homage to one of the truest heroes of the tales.

On the horizon: The entertainment gods have heard my woes. Eddie Vedder, solo, small stage (so the Opera House isn’t exactly Toad, but it far beats the Comcast Center), providing an intimate evening with banjos, mandolin, and his lovely baritone. I'm selling my husband for tickets. He's pretty hot and he cooks. Anyone, anyone?

On the iPod: Do you really need a hint?