Rachel Manija Brown's Blog, page 149
May 26, 2017
Welcome to Books: FMK
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melannen
has been culling her bookshelves by playing "Fuck Marry Kill" via poll. In the interests of doing the same, and also getting back to posting more book reviews, I have decided to join her. (I am doing "fling" rather than "fuck" just because my posts get transferred to Goodreads and I don't want EVERY post of mine on there littered with fucks.)How to play: Fling means I spend a single night of passion (or possibly passionate hatred) with the book, and write a review of it, or however much of it I managed to read. Marry means the book goes back on my shelves, to wait for me to get around to it. (That could be a very long time.) Kill means I should donate it without attempting to read it. You don't have to have read or previously heard of the books to vote on them.
Please feel free to explain your reasoning for your votes in comments. For this particular poll, I have never read anything by any of the authors (or if I did, I don't remember it) and except for Hoover and Lively, have never even heard of the authors other than that at some point I apparently thought their book sounded interesting enough to acquire.
View Poll: FMK: Vintage YA/children's SFF
comments
May 16, 2017
Rebel is out!
Rebel, book three of the Change series, is out now. It's a hopeful post-apocalyptic YA series co-written with Sherwood Smith.
If you haven't read any of the series, book three is not the place to start; book one, Stranger, is. If you have read the first two, I hope you enjoy this one.
Amazon ebook: Rebel (The Change Book 3)[image error]
Trade paperback: Rebel[image error]
Ebook at Book View Cafe, in all formats: Rebel
Questions or comments welcome, but please use rot13.com for any Rebel spoilers.
comments
If you haven't read any of the series, book three is not the place to start; book one, Stranger, is. If you have read the first two, I hope you enjoy this one.
Amazon ebook: Rebel (The Change Book 3)[image error]
Trade paperback: Rebel[image error]
Ebook at Book View Cafe, in all formats: Rebel
Questions or comments welcome, but please use rot13.com for any Rebel spoilers.
comments
May 14, 2017
comments
May 13, 2017
comments
May 12, 2017
comments
May 8, 2017
Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me, by Bill Hayes
An absolutely lovely memoir by Oliver Sacks' boyfriend, a love story about Sacks and New York City: each equal objects of Hayes' affections.
Hayes, a writer and photographer, moves to New York City after the unexpected death of his partner. A lifelong insomniac, he wanders the city by day and night, sometimes striking up conversations with New Yorkers and asking if he can take their picture, sometimes simply observing. As a lover of cities and being a stranger in a new city, I found this to be one of the very best books I've read for capturing this state of mind. It also made me really miss New York, which I have not visited in many years.
The other part of the book is Hayes' account of how he met Oliver Sacks (when Sacks wrote him a fan letter), how they fell in love, how they stayed in love, and how Sacks died. It's heartbreaking but a lot more about life and love than it is about death. Love stories, even true ones, often feel generic: the emotions are real but not individual. This one makes both Sacks and Hayes and the particulars of their relationship come to life. Oliver Sacks is exactly as charmingly odd in love as one might expect from reading his books; Bill Hayes is a very different type of person (and an extremely different type of writer) but they share a wholehearted delight in observation, in other people's perceptions and experiences, and in the small details of life that make it an endless source of fascination and joy.
I recommend getting this book in hardcover. It's a very beautiful physical object, with the dustcover cut away to show snippets of the image below, as if peering through apartment windows. It also contains photographs which may not show up well in e-book.
Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me[image error]
Thanks to Rydra Wong for the rec!
comments
Hayes, a writer and photographer, moves to New York City after the unexpected death of his partner. A lifelong insomniac, he wanders the city by day and night, sometimes striking up conversations with New Yorkers and asking if he can take their picture, sometimes simply observing. As a lover of cities and being a stranger in a new city, I found this to be one of the very best books I've read for capturing this state of mind. It also made me really miss New York, which I have not visited in many years.
The other part of the book is Hayes' account of how he met Oliver Sacks (when Sacks wrote him a fan letter), how they fell in love, how they stayed in love, and how Sacks died. It's heartbreaking but a lot more about life and love than it is about death. Love stories, even true ones, often feel generic: the emotions are real but not individual. This one makes both Sacks and Hayes and the particulars of their relationship come to life. Oliver Sacks is exactly as charmingly odd in love as one might expect from reading his books; Bill Hayes is a very different type of person (and an extremely different type of writer) but they share a wholehearted delight in observation, in other people's perceptions and experiences, and in the small details of life that make it an endless source of fascination and joy.
I recommend getting this book in hardcover. It's a very beautiful physical object, with the dustcover cut away to show snippets of the image below, as if peering through apartment windows. It also contains photographs which may not show up well in e-book.
Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me[image error]
Thanks to Rydra Wong for the rec!
comments
May 7, 2017
comments
May 6, 2017
Guess Who's Back?
Spoiler: For the first time in two years, I have good news!
I hesitated over how to write this, partly out of superstition (if I say I’m better, I will immediately relapse) and partly because I wasn’t sure how many details to give (no matter how much I say I don’t want advice, if I give any details whatsoever, I get advice).
So please: NO ADVICE. If you find yourself writing, “I know you said you don’t want advice, but I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t advise you to…” delete the goddamn message. I have gotten hundreds of them, and 100% are 100% useless. Unless I’ve asked you for your advice, I DON’T WANT ADVICE.
As some of you know, since July 2015 I’ve had a horrific mystery illness that made it extremely difficult and often impossible to work, have fun, socialize, enjoy life, or do any normal life activities. I lost more than a quarter of my bodyweight, could barely leave my apartment, and looked like I’d just gotten out of a POW camp. I started out thinking it would be cured at any moment, then thinking that it was permanent but treatable. By the end of the year I thought I was probably going to die. Then I hoped I was going to die.
I am not giving details to avoid advice, but I will say that while the illness was legitimately mysterious, it was not bizarre in any way. There was nothing about it that should have provoked the reaction it did from doctors, which was to call me a liar, say it was all in my head, and accuse me of being a drug addict. I don’t mean that they implied those things. They outright stated them. Here are some verbatim things doctors told me:
“You’re a liar and I want nothing to do with you.”
“You’re just looking for drugs.”
“There’s nothing I can do for you. See a psychiatrist.” [I got this and the variations below at least 30 times.]
“This is caused by anxiety.”
“This is caused by stress.”
“See a therapist.” [I was already seeing a therapist.]
“Your story doesn’t add up.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re not underweight. Your BMI is normal.” [I got this multiple times when I said that I’d lost over a quarter of my body weight. This shows the problem with using the BMI as if it's some kind of Word of God, with zero reference to the individual patient. In my case, I am on the muscular side and so I could lose that much and still squeak into a "normal" range if you don't consider any fucking context whatsoever.]
“My diagnosis is based on the fact that you’re female and in your forties, and this illness is common in people in that demographic.” [I got this at least three times, from doctors who presented a diagnosis after I’d said about two sentences about my symptoms, in response to me asking what the diagnosis was based on. You cannot, in fact, diagnose based solely on demographics.]
“No, I’m not going to treat you. No one can treat you without a diagnosis. There’s an 80% chance you’ll never be diagnosed in your lifetime.”
“Maybe you thought you were happy, but you were in denial of some deep emotional issues.” [This was a surgeon who had met me for the first time five minutes ago. Five minutes later, he told me that he was involved in a love triangle and advised me to study the Kabbalah with Madonna’s rabbi. He was one of the more amusing of the terrible doctors I encountered, but was otherwise typical in his unprofessionalism and total lack of helpfulness.]
“There’s nothing wrong with you other than that you’re worrying about being sick. See a psychiatrist.”
I did see a psychiatrist. He said that anyone in my situation would be anxious and depressed, and that it would be abnormal if I wasn’t, and advised me to see a good diagnostician. (They do not appear to exist in the US.)
In short, hysteria is alive and well as a diagnosis in modern America. I had both good insurance and plenty of savings to spend on medical expenses, and my medical “care” was still absolutely abysmal. I am not at all surprised by America’s wretched statistics on health. My only surprise is that I thought that was due to poverty, lack of good medical care for poor and uninsured or underinsured people, and racism. It turns out that it is additionally caused by sexism and the prevalence of absolutely terrible doctors.
I spent 50% of my total income – out of pocket – on medical expenses last year. Nearly all of it was completely useless, and two-thirds was literally me paying to be verbally and emotionally abused.
In the meantime, I was deluged with useless, obnoxious advice from people who did want to help me, but were unwilling to do what I told them would be helpful (that would be anything but giving me medical advice.) I got advised to jump on a trampoline, pray to gods I don’t believe in, take about a billion different supplements, eat nothing but bone broth, not eat anything heated in a microwave, go on every bizarre diet in existence, (all of this when they knew I was drastically underweight), and see a quack doctor in Mexico who treats AIDS by shoving magnets up your ass. (Fucking magnets, how do they work? Cancer in its malignant form is caused by the infection with the leprosy bacteria. By placing magnets that eliminate the pathogens, Dr. Goiz claims that cancers should resolve by themselves.) I am not making any of this up.
However, I also had people who were actually helpful. This is a long story which I may tell at some point, but with a little help from my friends—okay, a lot of help—I travelled to Bulgaria where I stayed with Egelantier and had tests and surgery performed, gave the results to several other friends who did research for me, obtained medication in shall we say various ways, and had another friend impersonate my fiancee. (Yes. There was fake dating.)
As a result, I am now feeling much better, am working and eating and exercising again, and most importantly, am actually enjoying life again. Photo proof!
The price of this is a medication which costs $100/week and is not covered by insurance. However, since I can now write again and so make money again, I should be able to keep taking it indefinitely. Mildred of Midgard found it by researching medical journals—only part of literally hundreds of hours of research she did on my behalf—and probably deserves another doctorate for it. I don't want to give the actual probable diagnosis because of the advice issue, so I'll just say that it's a physical, non-psychological, non-psychosomatic illness which was not caused or affected by any psychological issue whatsoever.
To everyone who helped me, whether in those concrete ways or just by respecting what I said about what would and would not be helpful, I am forever grateful.
Meanwhile, since I had no fun for the last two years and feel like I need a year-long vacation, I am going to Las Vegas this weekend! I haven’t gone in over ten years, but am certain that I will have much-needed fun and relaxation.
Once again: NO ADVICE. Unless it’s advice on what I should do in Las Vegas or do for fun in general. I don’t have any restrictions on diet or activities. Any unasked-for diet advice will be killed with fire. That’s “diet” as in “restrictive and/or supposedly healthy diet.” Advice on delicious things I ought to eat for enjoyment would be welcome.
Maybe later I will come up with something deep to say about the whole experience. Mostly I’m extremely angry at the medical system, individual doctors, and the toxic social beliefs which made an incredibly awful experience even worse by blaming me.
But for now, all I really have to say is that I didn’t think I’d live another year (and definitely hoped I wouldn’t), and now I’m hiking and seeing plays and going to Vegas.
So have a poem instead. It’s “The Moment,” by Patricia Hampl.
Standing by the parking-ramp elevator
a week ago, sunk, stupid with sadness.
Black slush puddled on the cement floor,
the place painted a killer-pastel
as in an asylum.
A numeral 1, big as a person,
was stenciled on the cinderblock:
Remember your level.
The toneless bell sounded:
Doors opened, nobody inside.
Then, who knows why, a rod of light
at the base of my skull flashed
to every outpost of my far-flung body—
I’ve got my life back.
It was nothing, just the present moment
occurring for the first time in months.
My head translated light,
my eyes spiked with tears.
The awful green walls, I could have stroked them.
The dirt, the moving cube I stepped into—
it was all beautiful,
everything that took me up
comments
I hesitated over how to write this, partly out of superstition (if I say I’m better, I will immediately relapse) and partly because I wasn’t sure how many details to give (no matter how much I say I don’t want advice, if I give any details whatsoever, I get advice).
So please: NO ADVICE. If you find yourself writing, “I know you said you don’t want advice, but I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t advise you to…” delete the goddamn message. I have gotten hundreds of them, and 100% are 100% useless. Unless I’ve asked you for your advice, I DON’T WANT ADVICE.
As some of you know, since July 2015 I’ve had a horrific mystery illness that made it extremely difficult and often impossible to work, have fun, socialize, enjoy life, or do any normal life activities. I lost more than a quarter of my bodyweight, could barely leave my apartment, and looked like I’d just gotten out of a POW camp. I started out thinking it would be cured at any moment, then thinking that it was permanent but treatable. By the end of the year I thought I was probably going to die. Then I hoped I was going to die.
I am not giving details to avoid advice, but I will say that while the illness was legitimately mysterious, it was not bizarre in any way. There was nothing about it that should have provoked the reaction it did from doctors, which was to call me a liar, say it was all in my head, and accuse me of being a drug addict. I don’t mean that they implied those things. They outright stated them. Here are some verbatim things doctors told me:
“You’re a liar and I want nothing to do with you.”
“You’re just looking for drugs.”
“There’s nothing I can do for you. See a psychiatrist.” [I got this and the variations below at least 30 times.]
“This is caused by anxiety.”
“This is caused by stress.”
“See a therapist.” [I was already seeing a therapist.]
“Your story doesn’t add up.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re not underweight. Your BMI is normal.” [I got this multiple times when I said that I’d lost over a quarter of my body weight. This shows the problem with using the BMI as if it's some kind of Word of God, with zero reference to the individual patient. In my case, I am on the muscular side and so I could lose that much and still squeak into a "normal" range if you don't consider any fucking context whatsoever.]
“My diagnosis is based on the fact that you’re female and in your forties, and this illness is common in people in that demographic.” [I got this at least three times, from doctors who presented a diagnosis after I’d said about two sentences about my symptoms, in response to me asking what the diagnosis was based on. You cannot, in fact, diagnose based solely on demographics.]
“No, I’m not going to treat you. No one can treat you without a diagnosis. There’s an 80% chance you’ll never be diagnosed in your lifetime.”
“Maybe you thought you were happy, but you were in denial of some deep emotional issues.” [This was a surgeon who had met me for the first time five minutes ago. Five minutes later, he told me that he was involved in a love triangle and advised me to study the Kabbalah with Madonna’s rabbi. He was one of the more amusing of the terrible doctors I encountered, but was otherwise typical in his unprofessionalism and total lack of helpfulness.]
“There’s nothing wrong with you other than that you’re worrying about being sick. See a psychiatrist.”
I did see a psychiatrist. He said that anyone in my situation would be anxious and depressed, and that it would be abnormal if I wasn’t, and advised me to see a good diagnostician. (They do not appear to exist in the US.)
In short, hysteria is alive and well as a diagnosis in modern America. I had both good insurance and plenty of savings to spend on medical expenses, and my medical “care” was still absolutely abysmal. I am not at all surprised by America’s wretched statistics on health. My only surprise is that I thought that was due to poverty, lack of good medical care for poor and uninsured or underinsured people, and racism. It turns out that it is additionally caused by sexism and the prevalence of absolutely terrible doctors.
I spent 50% of my total income – out of pocket – on medical expenses last year. Nearly all of it was completely useless, and two-thirds was literally me paying to be verbally and emotionally abused.
In the meantime, I was deluged with useless, obnoxious advice from people who did want to help me, but were unwilling to do what I told them would be helpful (that would be anything but giving me medical advice.) I got advised to jump on a trampoline, pray to gods I don’t believe in, take about a billion different supplements, eat nothing but bone broth, not eat anything heated in a microwave, go on every bizarre diet in existence, (all of this when they knew I was drastically underweight), and see a quack doctor in Mexico who treats AIDS by shoving magnets up your ass. (Fucking magnets, how do they work? Cancer in its malignant form is caused by the infection with the leprosy bacteria. By placing magnets that eliminate the pathogens, Dr. Goiz claims that cancers should resolve by themselves.) I am not making any of this up.
However, I also had people who were actually helpful. This is a long story which I may tell at some point, but with a little help from my friends—okay, a lot of help—I travelled to Bulgaria where I stayed with Egelantier and had tests and surgery performed, gave the results to several other friends who did research for me, obtained medication in shall we say various ways, and had another friend impersonate my fiancee. (Yes. There was fake dating.)
As a result, I am now feeling much better, am working and eating and exercising again, and most importantly, am actually enjoying life again. Photo proof!
The price of this is a medication which costs $100/week and is not covered by insurance. However, since I can now write again and so make money again, I should be able to keep taking it indefinitely. Mildred of Midgard found it by researching medical journals—only part of literally hundreds of hours of research she did on my behalf—and probably deserves another doctorate for it. I don't want to give the actual probable diagnosis because of the advice issue, so I'll just say that it's a physical, non-psychological, non-psychosomatic illness which was not caused or affected by any psychological issue whatsoever.
To everyone who helped me, whether in those concrete ways or just by respecting what I said about what would and would not be helpful, I am forever grateful.
Meanwhile, since I had no fun for the last two years and feel like I need a year-long vacation, I am going to Las Vegas this weekend! I haven’t gone in over ten years, but am certain that I will have much-needed fun and relaxation.
Once again: NO ADVICE. Unless it’s advice on what I should do in Las Vegas or do for fun in general. I don’t have any restrictions on diet or activities. Any unasked-for diet advice will be killed with fire. That’s “diet” as in “restrictive and/or supposedly healthy diet.” Advice on delicious things I ought to eat for enjoyment would be welcome.
Maybe later I will come up with something deep to say about the whole experience. Mostly I’m extremely angry at the medical system, individual doctors, and the toxic social beliefs which made an incredibly awful experience even worse by blaming me.
But for now, all I really have to say is that I didn’t think I’d live another year (and definitely hoped I wouldn’t), and now I’m hiking and seeing plays and going to Vegas.
So have a poem instead. It’s “The Moment,” by Patricia Hampl.
Standing by the parking-ramp elevator
a week ago, sunk, stupid with sadness.
Black slush puddled on the cement floor,
the place painted a killer-pastel
as in an asylum.
A numeral 1, big as a person,
was stenciled on the cinderblock:
Remember your level.
The toneless bell sounded:
Doors opened, nobody inside.
Then, who knows why, a rod of light
at the base of my skull flashed
to every outpost of my far-flung body—
I’ve got my life back.
It was nothing, just the present moment
occurring for the first time in months.
My head translated light,
my eyes spiked with tears.
The awful green walls, I could have stroked them.
The dirt, the moving cube I stepped into—
it was all beautiful,
everything that took me up
comments
May 1, 2017
Not throwing away my shot
I waited in line for nine hours yesterday, starting at 6:00 AM, and emerged triumphantly with Hamilton tickets... for my birthday, no less. (October 29.) I hadn't intended that, but couldn't resist when I finally got to the end of the line and saw that it was one of the available dates.
It was a surprisingly non-annoying experience. I was luckily standing with a very cool person, with whom I ended up exchanging phone numbers, a former aerialist who shared my taste for youtube videos of cute animals. We spent some time screening videos of sugar gliders, bats, hedgehogs, etc, until we realized that we were going to be in line for longer than we had thought and had to save our batteries, as we were also trying to get tickets online in case they ran out by the time we got to the head of the line.
While in line, I read Red Havoc Rebel (Red Havoc Panthers Book 2)[image error], a paranormal romance by T. S. Joyce (enjoyable but would recommend her hilariously titled and covered but actually quite good Lumberjack Werebear (Saw Bears Series Book 1)[image error] over it) and Gail Calwell's New Life, No Instructions: A Memoir[image error] (well-written and interesting memoir about having a hip replacement after having polio as a child, but I'd recommend her outstanding first memoir, Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship[image error], about her friendship with another writer, Caroline Knapp, over it). And then my Kindle ran out of battery and that was it for reading. (I did have a backup paper book, The Other Ones[image error] by Jean Thesman, about psychic kids, but went back to chatting in line after a chapter or so.)
It soon got very hot (90 degrees) and they moved the line inside the theatre, where they had air conditioning and were playing the soundtrack. When we got inside it was at "The Election of 1800," and by the time we left the audible area it had played all the way through, stopped for a while, then begun again by popular request and was on "Guns and Ships."
I also chatted for a while with a guy who was in line for his eleven-year-old daughter. Who knows, but that might be an experience she remembers fondly for the rest of her life. I told him how I'd somewhat randomly decided to go on a school field trip to see Shakespeare at Ashland, Oregon, and it changed my life. I went in intending to be a biology major and become a veterinarian, and I left intending to be a theatre major. I've never regretted it.
I then went to Thai Town and grabbed take-out Thai food for me and Sherwood (pad se-ew (stir-fried rice noodles with dark soy, egg, and greens), rice with ground pork and dried olives, and greens with crispy pork), and for just me, sticky rice with coconut milk and fresh mango and Corvette-flavored cupcakes (rice flour cupcakes in three somewhat mysterious floral flavors, the color of a pink Corvette (probably rose), a green leaf (probably pandan) and yellow (God knows.) Then Sherwood and I saw Baahubali 2, which was amazing and epic and amazingly epic. I highly recommend it. Here's her review and here's the trailer.
Me in line, 6:00 AM.
comments
It was a surprisingly non-annoying experience. I was luckily standing with a very cool person, with whom I ended up exchanging phone numbers, a former aerialist who shared my taste for youtube videos of cute animals. We spent some time screening videos of sugar gliders, bats, hedgehogs, etc, until we realized that we were going to be in line for longer than we had thought and had to save our batteries, as we were also trying to get tickets online in case they ran out by the time we got to the head of the line.
While in line, I read Red Havoc Rebel (Red Havoc Panthers Book 2)[image error], a paranormal romance by T. S. Joyce (enjoyable but would recommend her hilariously titled and covered but actually quite good Lumberjack Werebear (Saw Bears Series Book 1)[image error] over it) and Gail Calwell's New Life, No Instructions: A Memoir[image error] (well-written and interesting memoir about having a hip replacement after having polio as a child, but I'd recommend her outstanding first memoir, Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship[image error], about her friendship with another writer, Caroline Knapp, over it). And then my Kindle ran out of battery and that was it for reading. (I did have a backup paper book, The Other Ones[image error] by Jean Thesman, about psychic kids, but went back to chatting in line after a chapter or so.)
It soon got very hot (90 degrees) and they moved the line inside the theatre, where they had air conditioning and were playing the soundtrack. When we got inside it was at "The Election of 1800," and by the time we left the audible area it had played all the way through, stopped for a while, then begun again by popular request and was on "Guns and Ships."
I also chatted for a while with a guy who was in line for his eleven-year-old daughter. Who knows, but that might be an experience she remembers fondly for the rest of her life. I told him how I'd somewhat randomly decided to go on a school field trip to see Shakespeare at Ashland, Oregon, and it changed my life. I went in intending to be a biology major and become a veterinarian, and I left intending to be a theatre major. I've never regretted it.
I then went to Thai Town and grabbed take-out Thai food for me and Sherwood (pad se-ew (stir-fried rice noodles with dark soy, egg, and greens), rice with ground pork and dried olives, and greens with crispy pork), and for just me, sticky rice with coconut milk and fresh mango and Corvette-flavored cupcakes (rice flour cupcakes in three somewhat mysterious floral flavors, the color of a pink Corvette (probably rose), a green leaf (probably pandan) and yellow (God knows.) Then Sherwood and I saw Baahubali 2, which was amazing and epic and amazingly epic. I highly recommend it. Here's her review and here's the trailer.
Me in line, 6:00 AM.
comments
April 20, 2017
Department of No Shit Department
The opening paragraphs of the introduction by a psychologist with an alphabet soup of credentials, for Survivors[image error].
This is a book about survivors, that is to say, those who continue to live when others have died. Looked at from one point of view this is very positive, in the sense that anyone who has a brush with death is lucky to survive. However, looked at from another point of view it is profoundly negative, in that one need not have had a brush with tragedy anyway.
It reminds me of the immortal Suicide by Cop: Committing Suicide by Provoking Police to Shoot You.
comments
This is a book about survivors, that is to say, those who continue to live when others have died. Looked at from one point of view this is very positive, in the sense that anyone who has a brush with death is lucky to survive. However, looked at from another point of view it is profoundly negative, in that one need not have had a brush with tragedy anyway.
It reminds me of the immortal Suicide by Cop: Committing Suicide by Provoking Police to Shoot You.
comments
