"Falling Through the Earth" Book Review

     “Falling Through the Earth” by Danielle Trusso is more than just her memoir, it also serves as a sort of memoir for her father, a Vietnam Veteran who served time doing one of the most dangerous jobs in the war, clearing out the tunnels. Her father brought the war back home with him, as most Vets of that war did, and this memoir deals not only with the life of Danielle, but also on how her relationship with her father suffered because of it. Trusso sets out to illustrate just how war effects not only the people involved directly, but the loved ones of the people who served too. When she takes a trip to Vietnam as a young woman, she discovers that the war still goes on in some sense. The people there certainly haven't forgotten their invaders, nor have they forgiven them.

     The story follows three main narratives, Danielle's past growing up with her father, Danielle's trip to Vietnam to better understand the war and her father, and her father's tour of duty in Vietnam. She cuts back and forth between these time lines effortlessly, and without creating any sense of confusion. The section about growing up focuses mainly on their family life, and the ways it affected her and her siblings. Her trip to Vietnam covers a wide range of experiences, from meeting other people who served, to praying in a Buddhist temple, to being chased across town by a potentially harmful man in an Iron Maiden T-shirt, to crawling through the tunnels where her father nearly died. And finally, the section that follows her father discusses his time in Vietnam, the people he served with, the tunnels he crawled through, and the things he had to do to survive. Each one of these sections is really about Trusso trying to understand her father, a quest she'd been trying to accomplish for as long as she can remember.

     Trusso does a great job of showing her father as a complicated man, full of things to both love and hate. She describes him as a man who never showed signs of weakness, and never saw a fight worth backing down from. He was hard working, and charismatic. But he was wounded, scarred emotionally from the war and a hard childhood. He was incapable of asking for help, or apologizing, and was a hard man to know. He had problems with drinking, speeding, and keeping women. Trusso's father clearly cared deeply about his family, and the daughter that stuck by him the longest and took his namesake, Danielle, he just couldn't communicate that to his children. Overall, the father seems like a sympathetic character, but is mostly unlikable. She does her best to never flat out trash any of the people in her story, but portray them as honestly as she can. Even her potential attacker in Vietnam is not fully condemned, as she actually attempts to figure out just why he does what he does.

     Trusso switches from personal vignettes, to imagined memories, to standard prose narration, and more to capture the events of her life, and the life of those around her. Her stories switches from light moments, to dark and heavy ones, to humorous ones as well. She keeps changing pace, and I think it definitely helps keep the reader engaged. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to connect at all with the author or the narrative since I know very little about Vietnam, or about growing up hard and fast in Wisconsin, but I was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to connect to both. I think that reflecting on her life, Trusso sees that she was as hard to know as her father was, and the two of them being cut from the same cloth made it hard for either one of them to talk about things. She reveals this to us by putting in plenty of stories where she was the one who hurt her father, instead of the other way around.

     The settings in Trusso's story are just as important as the people who populate them. There are three main settings that have a huge impact on the story, Vietnam, Roscoe's, and the Trussoni Court. Vietnam is obviously a crucial setting in the threads about her father and about her trip there to better understand the war and it's impact on her father, but Roscoe's and the Trussoni Court are major settings in her childhood. The former is a bar where she grew up, where her and her fathered connected, and where her father met old friends and veterans. The latter was a childhood home where most of her pleasant memories took place, until her parents got a divorce. Most of the story takes place in these three settings, and we get to know them as well as Trusso did.

     Overall, I think Trusso did a terrific job of capturing her father and her life the way they truly were, full of both good and bad moments, full of accomplishments and disappointments, full of people and places that shaped the way she was, and the way she is. Her quest to understand her father, the war, and the way they impacted each other was apparent all the way throughout the narrative.

On a Sandwich

     The end of the semester is coming up, things are getting hectic, there are papers to write, and things to be done. I've been going here and there, running all over to get things done and to see people I haven't seen for a long time. To top it all off, I'm getting ready to seriously embark on a writing project, not something for school, something for me. But with all this going on, the only thing I'm really inclined to write about, strangely enough, is a sandwich I had last night.

     A friend of mine swung by last night after work and brought me a sandwich, an event which I knew was going to happen. It was a BL sandwich, more commonly known as a BLT. You see, I've got this love hate relationship with tomatoes. First of all, they lied to me. As you know, they're a fruit, but they spent my entire childhood masquerading as a vegetable, and there's an old expression saying that you're judged by the company you keep. Well, based on the company that tomatoes keep, they're totally vegetables. Other than trust issues, I hate the tomato as a whole, but love the things it turns into. I can't get enough marinara sauce, or spaghetti sauce, or pizza sauce, or ketchup, or so on, but the tomato on it's own is a vile imposter.

     The sandwich had all sorts of virtues, not the least of which was excellent timing. (Virtues for people and sandwiches are completely different in case you didn't know.) I had had almost nothing to eat all day, so when that sandwich was delivered I was starving. The sandwich was also crafted with impeccable breadsmanship. The toaster of these particular slices must have magic hands, because they were just toasted enough to not soak up the mayo, but was soft enough to not insult the roof of my mouth. Speaking of the mayo, it must have been dished out by the very same hands that crafted the clouds, because the gentle way in which that tangy spread stretched across the corners of it's floury universe was a part of some greater plan. And then of course there's the matter of the lettuce to bacon ratio. These two essential sandwich pieces came together like the sea and the shore, the very border between these two radically different things was just an estimate, an ever fluctuating boundary between the crispness of the bacon, and the wholesomeness of the lettuce.

     I could go on and on about this sandwich, speak of the angle of it's cut, the curve of it's crust, the aroma of it's parts, or the heat of it's passion. But to capture a sandwich like this in words does it a bit of a disservice, since the eye and the tongue, while often working in unison, don't always enjoy the same things. A treat for one might be an inconvenience for the other. So feel free to stop reading now and indulge the fancies of both the eye and the tongue in whatever way you feel fit.

The Shield

     Why does nobody I know watch the FX original series “The Shield”? It's probably my third favorite show of all-time, and has won numerous awards, including a Golden Globe for Best Television Series (Drama) in 2003, and Micheal Chiklis took home an Emmy for Outstanding Actor in a Television Series in 2002, and a Golden Globe for the same thing 2003. It had seven successful seasons, and a very well received series finale, but no one watches it. It makes no sense. It offers a lot more than most “cop dramas”, and should appeal to most television viewers. Yet, when someone asks me to suggest something for them to watch, they immediately shoot down “The Shield” as if its trash.

     I've been thinking about this as I'm almost finished watching the entire series for the third time. There aren't many things that make me look away, or cringe in anticipation, but the Season Five finale, the Series Finale, and most of the episodes leading right up to it fill me with a strange sense of anticipation and dread, because the drama and betrayal is so thick and real that you feel like you're the one losing team members or friends. The characters are, for the most part, well done and diverse, and they play off each other so well as the show goes on and we grow with them. I don't know, I don't wanna give a series recap because that would just take way too long, but the whole tragic series is highly underrated by anyone who's never seen it, and to anyone who reads this that has time to kill, I'd suggest watching it.

My Beard

     If you don't already know, I have a beard. I suppose it would be more accurate to call the particular portion I'm referring to as a goatee. This section of my beard is quite large; you could even call it iconic in a way. By this I mean that I'm known for it. My friends have invented wild stories about my beard, about the things it's done, and the things it does. If half of these stories were true, my beard would be twice the man I'll ever be. It has a persona all it's own, and honestly, it's got me jealous. It's the first thing most people notice about me, and is the source of about the only thing a stranger will ask me or say to me. I field beard compliments and questions from all sorts of people. There are some who are curious as to how long it's grown, or how it feels, or how I maintain it. There are some who are impressed by it; these are the folks who can't grow one. There are some who are repulsed by it; these folks lack “Y” chromosomes. The point is that my beard is all sorts of things to all sorts of people, including me.

     It lives on for any number of reasons. For starters, I suppose it's a distraction. If people ask me about my beard, they're not asking about me, and I can remain comfortably anonymous. It's also an icebreaker. It's really very effective at starting conversations. Let's not forget that it's memorable. Who could remember poor, boring Cecil? Not nearly as many as could remember that guy from that place whose beard was so long he could eat it. More than that, it's about control. The longer it grew, the longer I felt some pathetic sort of power. It's one of those things that you either love or hate; you're forced to pick a side. And whether you were pro-beard or anti-beard, I controlled what happened. It's more than that too, but it's main function has been the divide it creates between me and the rest of the world.

     This beard has always been anti-establishment. This beard has always resisted compromise. This beard has always loved metal tunes, saucy foods, cigarette smoke, Phillip Seymour Hoffman films, windy days, computer games, and good times. But this beard has always been separating me from everyone else. Has always been holding me back, and holding me up. It's always told the world that I refused to join the nameless, faceless void. As long as I had the beard I could boldly claim to be a man apart. I'm certainly not a rebel, I've got no cause to fight for, and sorry James Dean, but rebellion without a cause is conformity. No, it just says that I wanna see how far I can make it doing it my own way.

    Lately, I've been considering shaving. I'd be plunging head first into a swirling mass of rule-followers and order-takers. People with sensible priorities, more than two pairs of jeans, resumes, favorite colors, collectibles, and formal socks. I won't go so far as to say I'll fully emulate them. I won't put on a tie, and I'll never ever opt for a seat in the non-smoking section. Perhaps my incorruptible and unchanging view of how the world should work should focus a bit more on how it actually does. It's not that I've changed my mind on anything, but it's awful lonely up here on my indefensibly high moral ground. I've been so pissed lately that I have to clench my jaws all day in fear that this knot of rage squirming in my throat will turn into a brood of vipers, and escape as I exhale, and rain down on all the people I stand unfairly in judgment of. So, maybe if I eliminate everything that stands between me and the rest of humanity I'll get somewhere.

Writer's Block (Workshop Essay)

     Day One: I suppose it began as an over-passionate thought burned through and fizzled out before I could ever put fingers to keyboard. An overwhelming motivation to create the perfect piece for public presentation and consumption. I think I stepped out of the car after my trip to the movies ready to write up a storm; to churn up the unseasonably warm waters of imagination and creativity. But other mundane duties got in my way, such as cooking dinner. By time I could actually get my hands on my keyboard, I was too tired. I had no energy left to write. Looking back on it, I can appreciate the irony of how it began.

     Day Two: I wasn't really symptomatic yet, just a minor bout of memory loss, and a growing sense of impending doom. I had all but forgotten the images of the once flaming phrases turned to ash in my head. “It's Tuesday” I thought, “Will I get this paper in on time?” I thought I had the gist of it down, but come Tuesday night, my fingers failed to sew the seeds of thought, and the paper became an issue for Wednesday.

     Day Three: By Wednesday, it was full blown writer's block. The essay loomed like a lonely, vinegar-filled rain cloud over my day, soaking everything I touched with a sort of sourness. While things like depression and boredom began to stir, anger and a full-body irritation were the two most prevalent symptoms. The deadline for getting the essay in on time had already passed, which, compounded with my writer's block, made me irritable all day. Wednesday night came along and I tried the Essay once more, and once more a failure. I went to bed with a bleak outlook for Thursday.

     Day Four: Thursday greeted me with what seemed like relief from some of my symptoms. I was up and about, going to class and being productive. I had completely placed my Essay on the back burner because other things of import had to be done. But as my productivity waned, my symptoms came back to me stronger than before. The depressive feeling of the unfinished work returned, and by time I sat down to write again, my symptoms included paralysis and blindness. My fingers couldn't move across the keyboard. They were cramped up swimmers who couldn't kick their legs to stay afloat in a sea of untyped words. And as hard as I would stare at that computer screen, I couldn't see a word. Not one word typed, or even a threat of a word anywhere on the horizon.

     Day Five: Friday came with a frenzied feeling of desperation. Everything I looked at, or everything that happened was taken in by me through a sort of filter. Before I could really process any information, I first asked myself, “Can I blog about this?” Everything from my trip to Wal-Mart, to the massive collection of junk that sits around my laptop under went this same scrutiny. Unlike days past, my limbs seemed to come to life, a second wind of sorts. I went into a scavenging mode, trying to salvage parts of ideas from everything and anything. By now I had been sitting in front of my computer for so long I was experiencing lower back pain. Friday night came and I began to dry heave. My body tried to purge itself of all of the ideas jumbled up within, but nothing came out. I couldn't regurgitate a single idea onto paper. I Fell asleep Friday night without a single word typed.

     Day Six: Saturday began right where Friday left off, but it appeared as if I had passed through the worst of it. As the day crept on I began to feel idea flare-ups. Thoughts would come in clusters, “Write about this, Blog about that.” My mind flung out ideas like clay pigeons, only to shoot them all down, one by one, at the apex of their flight, but this was at least progress. I'm still in the throws of writer's block, but instead of those feelings of desperation or inertness, I began to feel relief. I hadn't cured what ailed me, but I started to treat the symptoms. It was the simplest, but only available solution to my problem: To write about how I had nothing to write about. I had used this before to treat my writer's block, so I decided to turn to it again. Writer's block could probably be considered an an auto-immune disease, where your mind attacks it's own ideas, crippling itself.

Time to Eat

     Time is not so innocuous or inconspicuous as it boasts. This crafty chrono-criminal is accredited as possessing an uncanny ability to both creep along so slow that it lulls you to sleep, and to take flight so suddenly that it leaves you clueless as to where it's gone. The hands of Time may be a dexterous pair, but they leave tiny fingerprints on everything they touch: Dust. Dust, like bruises or scars, marks not the presence of a thing, but the former presence. Dust is the evidence that Time has acted on us and the things around us. It collects on our floors, behind our electronics, on the surface of the Moon, in the depths of the sea, and in the belly of our vacuum cleaners (one of the great devourers of our Time!) But to me, it's presence is the most telling in those places void of life. If dust is made up of particles of atmosphere, traces of soil, remains of dead skin, volcanic eruptions, pollution, textile fibers, animal hairs, and so on, then the massive compilation of it in a shed you've not entered for two years becomes much more telling. It's been tagged, as if Time is a part of some gang marking it's territory. But it's not so much the dust itself that interests me, it's the dust mites.

     On the surface, the fact that the term “Mite” is an anagram of “Time” is intriguing to me, but only in relation to the mite's relationship with Time's chief crop, dust. The dust mite lives all over, and there are actually three species of this intriguing critter, all of which live off of dust. When I think about all the dust mites eating the remnants of Time, I think about the past, and how it would be impossible to go back, since the mites have devoured it. I can't go back to this or that mistake, because the mites have devoured it. I can't return to this or that opportunity, because the mites have devoured it. Mites, just like the dust they sustain themselves on, are agents of Time. It's difficult to put into words the strange connection I feel between mites and Time, but there's something oddly wonderful about several species thriving on our past.

Cease and Desist

     There comes a time when bat signals, conch shells, fire alarms, and rape whistles just won't do. We're in trouble, and in light of this fact, I've decided to start a new segment on my blog. An ongoing list, because I really love lists, of things that need to stop, or I just generally find to be ridiculous or possibly harmful. We'll call this list “Cease and Desist”. It's pretty simple, in the courtroom of my blog, I'll hand down completely official Cease and Desist orders to these harmful practices, or ideas. Sort of a catch-all for everything I dislike. I'll start with a few today, and add more as we go.

     To the people who put words on clothing: You've officially been ordered to Cease and Desist. A friend and I walked into a nearby Bill Gray's restaurant to enjoy some delicious hamburgers and some riveting conversation when we were encountered by an intriguing site. The young lady in front of us had on a particularly short pair of shorts with the word “Relentless” scrawled across the back. My friend turns to me, having confirmed that I too have spotted this odd adjective and says, “Not exactly the most flattering word to describe that part of the body.” Of course, he probably said something along those lines, and not those exact words, but I'm not a historian, and in my courtroom, paraphrasals are as good as quotes. We couldn't let the conversation rest there though, we had to pursue it, relentlessly you might even say. We prophesied that in the coming years we'd see these textile-titles on all parts of clothing that pertained to body parts. Each shirt would come with adjectives on the sleeves describing the wearer's arms, while the front boldly proclaimed something about the chest, and the back of the shirt suggested to it's readers some unique quality about the back, and so on. So, in order to save us from this heinous fate, I hereby decree that this practice must Cease and Desist.

     To Black Holes: You've officially been ordered to Cease and Desist. You may or may not be out there. You may or may not be inescapable. You may or may not change the very principles of matter and physics and so on. But one thing you certainly are not is relevant to me. You make no sense to me, since as far as I'm concerned, you're just the creation of scientists who now claim that you break the rules of science that have called you into being. I demand, Black Holes, that you tell me just why people even talk about you? You are unmeasurable, incalculable, and unreachable. Yet, people, educated people, sit around and discuss you. There is just no way that you'll ever be relevant to me, and if somehow, you really do manage to break all the rules and swallow me up like Pac-man devours those little white dots, I'd be ripped apart by the forces within you before I ever knew what happened. At least, theoretically. So Black Holes, I hereby decree that you must Cease and Desist.