Driftwood

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Portobello

There weren't any Inspector Wexford Novels available so I took Ruth Rendell's Portobello. Interesting beginning. A man has a heart attack and drops an envelop of money which another man finds. The second man decides to try to find the rightful owner of the cash by placing flyers on lamp posts around the neighborhood as one would for a lost cat, announcing he found some money and provided a phone number to be called. A con artist sees the flyer and makes the call only to be told by the finder he wishes to meet the man who says he lost the money before asking the sum of money lost. What? The first exchange has to be how much money was lost. If the sum is correct then arrange for its return in a neutral place, not in the finder's home. Then the rightful owner calls and gives the amount lost before anything else happens and the finder realizes he has a problem. The finder considers paying both the amount of money he found. What?

I can't read anymore. This is ridiculous, unbelievable and just plain stupid. Rendell is obviously an acquired taste, juts not mine. Too much suspension of disbelief for me.

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Bicycle Diaries

During my last trip to London, August 2010, I visited Foyles to find some bargains. I happened upon Bicycle Diaries by David Byrne. I read the Introduction and felt as if I were reading about me. Like Byrne, in the late 70’s and early 80’s, I lived on my old ten speed in NYC. I wasn’t new to riding in NYC. I did ride this bike here in the 60’s, too. I used it to visit girl friends, to go down to Roxy to roller skate, and to get to work. I had a lock and locked it up wherever I went. I explored NYC’s boros, exercised in Central Park, and avoided using cabs and the subway. The bike was how I kept sane in NYC. Eventually I traded it in for a mountain bike, a Rock Hopper, in 1985 when my daughter was born. The streets just tore up that poor old ten speed. Soon I put her on the back and transported her around NYC and then her brother who was born in 1993. In 2005, I eventually gave it to my twelve-year-old son when I bought a Cannondale road bike to Escape NYC into Jersey and now to Maryland. I ride constantly for exercise and to tour while doing an average 65 miles per ride in all four seasons.

I didn’t realize that the author of this book was the David Bryne of Talking Heads fame until I investigated on the Internet and it was confirmed as I read more. Bryne traded his three speed in for a folding bike so when he traveled he could take it along to get closer to the real cities he visited. The evolution of the bike since the 1980’s in America and beyond has been astronomical. With the advent of bike sharing in America and Europe and with the addition of bike lanes in many cities around the world, we are seeing more and more bikes on the road. But in 1980, there were few of us and cars and especially taxies weren’t kind as Byrne points out. As I begin this book, I find so much in common with him. He, too, grew up in a suburb of a big city. We spent our youth, in the 50’s and 60’s on bikes. As he continues his treatise, he explains how cities are built for cars, not bikes or pedestrians. It is difficult to ride in most American cities because of the number of connecting freeways. These cities were built by car companies and oil companies and by men like Robert Moses. Biking in America is not easy as Byrne tells us. Most of our roads have cars that drive too quickly with inadequate shoulders that are littered with garbage and obstacles making biking no fun at all. His trip to the amazing Niagara Falls first takes him through miles of a wasteland of chain restaurants, tacky honeymoon motels and derelict neighborhoods. This is America. On other rides such as in Rochester, NY he discovers many wonders just by accident. Riding the bike slows him down, allows him the appreciate the neighborhoods, see the shops, smell the towns and cities he is touring as a musician or as a photographer. The bike is a break for him in his otherwise busy day and life that brings him to these cities for business. These rides are cathartic for Byrne, they provide a life force to nurture his artistic side. He rides from the center of Detroit to its suburbs he is able to see the devastation of the city and its surroundings. This is similar for me as I cross bridges from Manhattan to Brooklyn and Queens.

Byrne takes on the German philosophical persona as he glides the clean and smooth streets of Berlin, circumnavigating an Evil Empire visitor to find the Stasi. On his way he enters the surreal world of art and neighborhoods hidden away by a maze of buildings. The bike allows for this adventure. The wide boulevards remind him of other cities and when he gets to the Stasi museum he gets lost in the ramblings of a political prisoner speaking of reparations, Mugabe, Nixon, Hitler, Bush and on and on until he escapes. This is what bike riding is like for me, too. For miles I am waxing poetic, philosophizing, ruminating about things, working it all out, so when I arrive home I am cleansed and refreshed. Remade anew.

In Istanbul, Byrne reminds us that bikes mean different thin gs to people in different countries. For some it is a sign of poverty, for others a mean main of transportation. In America, bikes are for many reasons: exercise, deliveries, and main mode of transport. Those using for main mode as I’m discovering here in Maryland it is either a loss of license or loss of car. Not everyone has a bike for recreation of only for recreation. The bike was always one of those things I wanted to use in an interdisciplinary course. If a class were to study the bike, one would need a math teacher, a physics teacher, a social studies teacher, a business teacher, a physical ed teacher, an English teacher, an art teacher, and a music teacher. Think about how that thematic concept could change education from what we have to what we should have. But that’s me dreaming. People certainly love their cars as witnessed in too many over populated cities around the world. As Byrne points out, he gets from point A to point B faster on his bike than in a car. Whenever he is in a car in Istanbul, he is stuck in traffic that is not moving. As he confirms, folks think riding a bike in a city like NYC is dangerous. It can be, but keep in mind the bike is probably going faster than the car and is more maneuverable. Now we are seeing a trend in “cycles for Hire” which are bikes one picks up here and rides and drops off there for a very small fee. They are cheaper than cabs and quicker and more convenient than subways or buses on their fixed routes. Istanbul is an architectural marvel of old and new, east and west and Byrne is enjoying it all as well as out of the way locations made more accessible on the bike.

Byrne’s stop in Buenos Aires is reminiscent of other cities, bikeless. But this trip brings him to even more remote places, more interesting cemeteries, and unique historical venues. Here he is encountering more language, more music, and is in a true city that never sleeps. BA is a party town and reminds me of Reykjavik. Again he meanders into the realm of politics and how America influenced the dictatorships of South America and he is there in a post 911 times with the recent election of Obama. America is an enigma to them with the reelection of W as much as it is to Byrne. He witnesses the power of the World Cup while in BA. Being in a country, whose country is currently playing in the World Cup, the experience is unlike anything any American can ever know, not even on Super Bowl Sunday.  Like many of us, the departing experience is strange as we are captured o a plane filled with Americans returning home. It is sad.

After reading the chapter on Manila, I definitely don’t find anything compelling about this place. The little biking he did do was uninspiring.

Byrne begins his Sydney chapter with terrifying accounts of the deadly insects. Then he slowly turns it into a very romantic and lovely trip. Some biking but the part that most intrigues me is when he rents a 4 wheel drive and ventures into the middle of Australia and to Ayers Rock. This I must do. I also wish to get to Tasmania, sorry he neglected it. His adventure to the Rock reminded me of Iceland, a place Byrne would relish, I’m sure.

I’m not sure I’d like to ride in London. The other riders are very competitive as I noticed and the number of lights and mishmash of roads makes it impossible for good sightseeing. The bus system there is superb and one can disembark often to do a proper our. Also London is so expansive that biking might be unreasonable. If I lived there as I did in NYC, yes, I’d live on my bike, but as a short term visitor trying to get as much packed in a short time, the bus is my preferred mode of transport, then the tube for large expanses of distance. London is also a good walking city as is NYC and Paris. Bikes for visitors, maybe on a lark, for residences, definitely.  Yes, London is an interesting view of class as Byrne points out. He of course is on a different level than I am. In all his travels, I’m sorry he isn’t a football fan. He would have loved it in Istanbul, Buenos Aires, and London. He missed a true look at the people through these eyes. Again, I couldn’t be in more agreement with him about the horror of reentry into the USA. It is the effect of having so much water separating us from Europe and Asia. America is a classic example for Burroughs’ idea “that the oppressed become the oppressors.” It’s not just Israelis, but also Americans. America is made up of oppressed people fleeing their oppressors to become the oppressors. The melting pot.

David Byrne the artist is visiting San Francisco for the art. This is a terrifying city in which to ride a bike let alone walk. The hills are killer, Psycho Killer, haha. I was lucky to have been able to spend a couple of summers in Palo Alto in 1999 and 2000. I had a bike then. I took it into SF once to enjoy the city and some of the hills. It wasn’t that bad. I have an artist friend who lives in SF and has a studio in Sausalito. He takes his bike up into the hills of Marin County and finds remote beaches. He sends me pics of his rides. I send him pics of my rides on the eastern shore of Maryland.

Byrne concludes with a chapter on NYC a city in which I lived for fifty years and lived on a bike. Riding a bike in the 60’s in NYC was a trip. In the 70’s without brakes and clubbing was numbing. Then I became a parent and more responsible just as the city became more responsible to bike riding. Now it is so civilized, bikes are ubiquitous in NYC. I once got a ticket for going through a red light on Riverside. Yikes, time to lite out for the territory, which I did.

I would have loved to see a chapter on his bike and how he maintains it on the road. I would have liked a geeky chapter on the bike, his tools, what he took as spares, and about how many flats he got. Also has he been to some real bike cities in the lowlands?

I had fun with the Bicycle Diaries and enjoyed the ramblings that go on inside our heads when we ride for miles and miles.

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Voices

Erlendur has developed a sense of humor. In the third installment in this detective series, he is joking with his colleagues now in Arnaldur Indriðason's Voices. It is Christmas time in Iceland and the hotels are filling up with tourists. Santa has been killed and Erlendur has taken up residence in the hotel, where the murder took place. He seems to be developing a friendship with a woman that has lifted the gloom from him. His daughter is clean and has a job. Who would have thunk I would be chuckling about a murder and its peculiarities in Iceland in the dead of winter. It is Erlandur's fault. Santa slain in his cave wearing a condom.

Beyond the mystery, Erlendur explores relationships. Fathers and sons. Family. Love. He reflects on his own father and brother. He struggles with his own daughter and absent son. He is dissecting the dead man, former choirboy, and his demanding father and what became of them after the accidents. Even Elinborg’s case of the abusive father with a son who broke a Drambuie bottle invades Erlandur’s space. And then there is his new female interest skirting the perimeter looking for a way in. Another important theme is HOME. Gulli sneaking back into his home at night without making contact with his father or sister until she accidently discovers him. Erlendur doesn’t go to his home and instead he stays in the hotel. Images of HOME from Clockwork Orange and Thomas Wolfe’s posthumous treatise come to mind as I sit comfortably in my new home. Throughout, Erlendur is probing his own psyche and allowing his daughter to open him up. In spite of the dark and dreary aspects of murder and Iceland at Christmas time, Voices is uplifting and redemptive.

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Snow On the Beach

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The Women

I’ve returned to an old friend when I picked up The Women by TC Boyle at the library. I haven’t read anything but short stories of his since finishing Inner Circle which completed my diet of Boyle’s novels to that point. Now I have picked up from where I left and will resume the Boyle diet. His prose is ambrosia, his plots surprising and sustaining. His quirkiness always makes me chuckle, sometimes laugh out loud.

The book is about Wright’s women. Women and relationship abound. Often I have to stop and reminisce about my own relationships. A book like this does cause self-reflection and when it comes to relationships, well this one is a great stimulus to the reader’s mind.  It is a heartwarming tale actually as I ramble through the saga on these frigid days, in the 20’s, in front of the fireplace in constant use providing the necessary heat to make me comfortable while snow outside reminds me why I want to stay inside and hunker down in my self imposed solitude. I say saga because of the humorous way Boyle uses one of those frequent footnotes, as seen in non-fiction, to share a moment when Wright is meeting one future Mrs Wright who is 45 and adjusting her hair and juxtaposing this scene with another future Mrs Wright now of 15 probably asleep with her hair spread out on her pillow in her Georgia, Russia bed. It’s always about the women. This tale reminds me that I know I have made the right choice as I saunter through Wright’s life and burdens. His curse was he needed someone to look after him. Young’s plaintive cry, A Man needs a Maid. Probably the wrong path as one considers a relationship. The women are lovers, mothers, apprentices, daughters, maids; they are all there to serve Wright. “Never.” Never say “never” Frank. Yes, we all have had a Miriam in our loves. “Sex was the curse of life, “ been there done that, haven’t we all.

The story is the classic one of man rising from the ashes over and over again, the perpetual phoenix. Taliesin is the metaphor for Wrieto-San, the moniker given by our narrator, a Japanese architect apprentice. Taliesin is Wrieto-San’s Wisconsin home that goes through many iterations, I, II, III, following fires brought on by his sins, so it isn’t a coincidence that the last three letters of the name of the house spell ‘sin.’ The image of ‘fire’ is so dominant in this book. Certainly the fires at Taliesin stand out. The fires in Tokyo after an devastating earthquake and of course the atomic bomb fires, the ‘sin’ of letting the fires die in Taliesin fireplaces to make the drafting rooms as cold as meat lockers, the fires that consume the dreaded hard pencils so that Wright must remind them that the ‘eraser’ is the most valuable tool to the architect (in his work and in his life), the ritualistic and symbolic fire at Stuffy’s, and most importantly the fires of the heartand how Wrieto-San always rises from the fires.

I am most taken by the use of footnotes and the use of referencing one footnote from another. A neat trick  by Boyle. Another important character in the novel is the newspaper or more precisely the newspaper reporters who doggedly hound Wrieto-San everywhere and are even used by other characters to harass Wrieto-San and to help keep track of him, the poor man, the poor poor man.

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The Monster in the Box

I stumbled upon my first Inspector Wexford Novel by accident even serendipitously. I was looking for another title and when I was looking for it, The Monster in the Box by Ruth Rendell fell to the floor.  I’ve always been intrigued by these instances in my life when a book falls into my hands, so to speak. I’ve always found those instances fortuitous. So I kept it and checked it out with another book I had come for.

Back in England again and back and forth between two times in the life of the inspector.  An early question keeps reoccurring if things are better now than then. Wexford and his pal Burden explore this idea often and Wexford even examines his buddie’s second marriage in that way, too.

“You’re saying things were better then?” Burden raised his eyebrows.

“Yes and no. In some ways and in some ways not. I expect that’s true whenever you contrast one period of time with another period of time.” Wexford continues to speak of forensics and DNA and the mobile phone as examples.

We are talking about Wexford’s first murder that may have occurred in the 60’s maybe 70’s. He has stumbled upon the man who he had a gut feeling was the murderer, but was too young and green and was new to say anything especially without any evidence or even a motive. But now he is reawakened and with experience to revisit this first case. He continues his tale with weird and strange encounters with Targo, the suspect, over the years in odd places and at interesting points in other murders by strangling. Coincidences are building and that raises the red flags for Wexford who unburdens himself to Burden. We are Burden right now.

So many incidents from the past are coming back now to be closed or to be revisited; former female interactions, an acquaintance for whom he was best man remind us of how he was so convinced about something and didn’t say anything unlike his colleague, Hannah, who is pursuing a hunch. So is it better then or now? Wexford simply goes inside and closes the door not wanting to hear or see anymore.

I need to read some more of this series.

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