My Reading (and Fiddle Playing) Journey in First Half 2026

At the midpoint of the year (on the hottest day of the year), I'm almost halfway through my book-reading goal for the year. I might have been ahead of pace had it not been for the fiddle... and the Guinness. 🍻

Following are review, in reverse reading order:

Regime Change: Inside the Imperial Presidency of Donald Trump by Maggie Haberman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

An important work of journalism. Not a lot new here, but thorough and well-written. It will be a source for future generations. It left me despondent. 

Everything Is Tuberculosis: The History and Persistence of Our Deadliest Infection by John Green
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I admire John Green as a writer, and this short book was selected by my book club. I knew not to expect fiction, but I didn't know I'd learn so much by reading this. 

This Is Happiness by Niall Williams
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I loved this book. It took a while to get used to, since the story took its time to unfold, then took twists and turns. In the end, it was a long journey that I didn't want to end. It also explained a good bit about the sensibilities and mysterious ways of my Irish wife, which I'm grateful for! This was a lovely, life-affirming read. 

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I can't write as well as this lyrical author, but then again every page here screams, "Look at how well I can write!" Meanwhile there's the story... ostensibly a letter to his mother... which it isn't -- graphic sex, shifting POVs, flights of dense prose offset by what logo was on what t-shirt and what song was playing in the background in the author's memory of the scene.

This was another book club selection -- and I admit I'm being exposed to different authors I wouldn't normally read. Which is good. But I eventually stopped trying to read this and tried listening to it, taking the lyrical nature of the writing literally. But then I found it easier to listen to if turned the speed up to 1.2, and then 1.5. Now I can honestly say I finished the book, neither betraying my experiments in fiction nor the good intentions of the book club at my local library.


The Keeper of Lost Art by Laura Morelli
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was an uncomplicated read, and I enjoyed the insight into the art world. I kept waiting for more about the horrors of war, but this had just enough of that to keep me reading without putting the book down. I've grown so thin-skinned lately, because today's real life is so scary. Art is still a refuge, and this book reflects that nicely.

Again, this was a book club read... and I highly recommend joining a club to explore genres you might not normally read on your own.


Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The good: It's like a journey through a haunted house. Atmospheric and bewildering. It also helps if you listen to the book, since it has so many narrative voices.

The bad: I remember reading George Saunders' "A Swim in the Pond in the Rain." It was, as AI reminds me, "a masterclass on writing... focusing on the technical craft of storytelling and the connection between writer and reader." If only George (and I feel, especially after reading his vulgar passages, that we're at least on a first-name basis) had taken his own advice in writing this book. "Lincoln in the Bardo" is, I think, pretentious. It does not try to connect with the reader at all. It reminded me of being lost in a corn maze. It's a swim for survival in a murky pond through a dense fog.


Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery by Deborah Howe
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Simply charming. My grown daughter gave it to me as a Christmas gift, and I read it recently, imagining myself reading it to her as a little girl. 

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is an extremely dense read. It's hard to get through, but much better when listening to the audio version.

I understand, from reading pre-reviews, that the upcoming movie is wonderful. How this book will translate to a movie is a mystery to me... but one I am looking forward to exploring! I liked the ending of this book very much, but I kept shaking my head throughout all the other parts, thinking about politics and current events: "People aren't really this smart!"

This book could be characterized as "hard science fiction fantasy." (PS- I give the movie 5 stars!) 


The Irish Fiddler's Playbook: 50+ Easy Fiddle Tunes with Step-by-Step Fiddling Guide by Julia Termeer
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I don't think I'll ever truly "finish" this book, but I'm having a lot of fun along the way. I'm playing my grandmother's old violin... I mean, "fiddle." The difference between a violin and a fiddle? You don't spill beer on a violin!


Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A trifle disappointing because I had heard so many good things about this novella. It seemed to be set in the early 1900s, but then there are unexpected details that let you know that you are reading something set in the near present-day... which was fascinating but disconcerting all the same. There's much more to this story than the way it ends and all that leads up to it... which is also fascinating but disconcerting all the same.


The End of Drum-Time by Hanna Pylväinen
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Read this as part of a book club. I know it's been well-received and well-reviewed, but I found it hard to follow (cue the college "Ulysses" flashbacks): big blocks of type with shifting POV and many different characters. I did not find the story compelling in any way. I slogged through it because I joined the book club to read books I wouldn't normally read... which is always revelatory, but not always enjoyable.


Our Mixtapes, Ourselves: The Happy-Sad Story and Soundtrack of Generation X by David Grady
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I finally can say, in all honesty, that I started reading a book I couldn't put down -- and now my wife thinks I'm crazy because I had my iPhone at my side and kept listening to snippets of the songs written about here... without AirPods. Because I wanted her to ask me what the heck I was doing and then I could explain to her why I loved this book so much. Thank you, David Grady, and thanks for posting your brother's drum intro to "Middle of the Road" at https://thosesongs.blog/

View all my Goodreads reviews

A Visit to Gethsemane on Juneteenth

The entrance to Gethsemane Cemetery

Gethsemane is usually associated with the sacred site at the foot of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem. Christians believe that Jesus Christ prayed there, undergoing the "Agony in the Garden" prior to his crucifixion.

But Gethsemane also exists close to home in Bergen County, on an acre of land on a hill off Route 46 in Little Ferry. It's a county historic site with the graves of over 500 souls, stipulated in the 1800s for use as a "cemetery for the colored population of the Village of Hackensack."

On this Juneteenth, the Bergen County Parks Department opened the site to visitors, thanks to the efforts of the county's Division of Cultural & Historic Affairs, whose representatives handed out detailed guides and provided links to even more online resources about the historic final resting place for the area's Black community.

The handout, a PDF guide, is available online here. And a YouTube video tour is available here. 

Following are a half dozen photos of gravesites, along with information provided by the county.

Left: "In Memory of Sarah, wife of John Layton, who died on October 26, 1838. Aged 17 Years, 9 Months and 11 Days." Right: The headstones of wife and husband, Elizabeth (1818-1899) and Edward (1836-1909) Jackson.

Left: Richard R. Mattison, Died November 27, 2892, Aged 23 Years, 10 Months and 29 Days. Richard was a railroad porter who died of the effects of diabetes. Right: Henry White, Died May 25, 1911, Aged 25 Years. His granite tombstone had been buried in the ground, face up, for more than 30 years, until it was reset on its base in 2007.

Left: In Memory of Harry Jones, Died April 24, 1888, Aged 87 Years... a headstone that, according to county's guide, "was vandalized and broken after the original cemetery restoration in the 1980s. It was repaired and resent on a new base in spring 2007." Right: "Cora Oblenus, who died of acute bronchitis just before her 15th birthday." Her stone is "carved in the shape of a tree stump, symbolizing a young life that was cut short."

It's Never Too Hot for Poetry in Teaneck

Poet Scott Pleasants

I was excited to learn that Scott Pleasants, the poet laureate of Teaneck, NJ, was planning a new poetry series so close to home this past Sunday. It's being held in a small garden adjacent to the town's recently renovated library, and it includes an open mic.

I woke up Sunday to a sudden burst of mid-summer weather and decided to write a poem for the occasion. I normally struggle for days/weeks/months/years/decades to write a single poem, but I didn't have anything appropriate at the ready.

The result is below, a poem I read on Sunday afternoon that didn't exist on Sunday morning. It's set in Teaneck and based on current celestial events.

I arrived early and commented to Scott, "What weather! It's too hot for poetry!" Which, he assured me, is never the case.

More than two dozen people showed up in the shade, including Chris Rockwell, founder and editor of SOUP CAN magazine, and two local poets I've participated in recent workshops with, Tara Temprano and Tammy Smith. Scott's next event at the garden? Sunday afternoon at 2, on May 31. And here's my less-than-day-old poem (PS- with slight revisions in June):

When Venus and Jupiter Converge Over Teaneck

 

At the onset of June, 2026,

the recent blue moon has begun

to sweep past Venus and Jupiter,

as the two brightest planets visible on earth

slowly converge

in the early evening sky.

Merging tail lights on Route 4

summon my gaze

that, lifted by fireflies,

beholds a revelation: the same sight

that, more than 2,000 years ago,

evoked the Star of Bethlehem.

I take refuge in art:

This prophetic verse

at the conjunction

of passion and spiritual growth…

A celestial fever dream.

A feather of hope.

I believe that at dusk on June 9, 2026,

a new Messiah was born in Teaneck, NJ,

in a two-family house with thin walls:

Because thin places

are the closest between Heaven and Earth;

because tiny houses

make the loudest memories.

 

Holy and anointed,

welcomed by Venus and Jupiter’s cosmic kiss,

heralded by a murmuration of starlings,

descended from aurochs and angels,

She is a golden goddess without a statue.

She will be revered by all faiths.

She will change the world forever:

End all wars, redistribute wealth,

protect our sons and daughters.

She will share her immortality,

and save us with humility.

She will dispel self-serving myths

we have chosen to believe.

She will inspire our epic poetry.

Scott's "Ode to Teaneck," displayed in the library garden

Poetry Month Revisited in New Jersey

Among the poems I wrote each day during National Poetry Month in April is the following trilogy poem set... where else?... in New Jersey. I consider this my "retirement poem," as I wander the state these days without any 9-to-5 commitments:

My Days as an Idle King (A Trilogy)

Part 1. Odyssey in Rural New Jersey

 

I begin a 10-hour journey

Past the intersection

Where my first girlfriend lived.

 

I recall, decades ago,

How my heart would skip a beat

At the magical right at the light.

 

Today, a half-man guards

The driveway of a neglected shop.

He wears protective goggles,

 

Under a logoless baseball cap,

His hands buried in the pockets

Of worn and baggy black clothes.

 

A sign overhead heralds

My arrival to “DENT WIZ”

In block red letters,

 

Except for a faded shadow

In shape of the fallen letter “N.”

Part 2. Sussex County

Past neglected farm buildings

To the north and west

Stands an abandoned church.

 

Surrounded by abandoned graves,

And a traffic sign:

Thou shalt not park here.

 

Past “here,” I cross a one-lane bridge

Leading to Fairy Tail Forest,

Theme Park and Venue,

 

Shuttered until Memorial Day,

With only one other car,

A Cadillac for sale, in the lot.

 

I continue travels on Route 206,

Past the now-gated stone ruins

Of St. Paul’s Abbey.

 

To Yetter’s Diner,

Which serves breakfast all day.

Eggs over easy, bacon, rye toast.

 

What Dad would have ordered,

If he were alive.

Part 3. Ulysses, Made Weak by Time

 

Returning home,

My cats don’t acknowledge me.

 

Stretching and yawning

In the dying slivers of sunshine

 

Where they passed their day,

And warmly ignore me. 

 

Until their stomachs remember

It’s time to eat.

 

I have no suitors to slay,

I am only a hero

 

To the tiny mouths I feed,

With only one-way bridges before me.

"My Days as an Idle King" refers to the opening lines of Tennyson's "Ulysses." This isn't my first attempt at a poetic trilogy set in the Garden State. Nor is it my first swing at a pretentious title or subtitle.

I've played with and re-edited the following poem over the years... in the spirit of French poet and philosopher Paul Valery, who famously said, "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."

The subtitle of "New Jersey Trilogy" really belongs to "Lolita," a favorite book... before I had daughters. I plead "maturity," both in having another view of the book these days and in shamelessly using its subtitle. T.S. Eliot once wrote, "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." Or, as interpreted by Steve Jobs years later: "Good artists copy; great artists steal."

The final stanzas below are set in a favorite place, overlooking a favorite city, immortalized by a favorite poet, William Carlos Williams, who remains a favorite poet as I "grow old and grey and full of sleep."

New Jersey Trilogy, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male

 

    1.  Thunder Road Revisited

THE SCENE

Annabel, my wife of 35 years, scans People magazine after sunset in our suburban living room. A song begins: six verses and a bridge.

 

A screen door slams in the distance,

while, under the spotlight of a table lamp,

Annabel sprawls across her favorite chair.

 

Her right leg hangs over the armrest,

like Hyman Roth in “The Godfather: Part 2,”

a movie we saw long ago when we lived across the river.

 

On this night, Annabel is reading

that Julia Roberts’ favorite lyrics

are from a Springsteen song.

 

Show a little faith,

There’s magic in the night.

You ain’t a beauty but, hey, you’re alright.

 

“He could only have written that

when he was young,” says Annabel.

“It’s filled with...” she pauses... “irrational passion.”

 

So I look her in the eye,

cross the room to her side and turn out the light,

revealing an ordinary night.

 

Annabel raises a curious brow.

I bow to steal a kiss... and take her by the hand.

 “Baby,” I say, “let’s go for a drive.”

 

 

    2.  Gatsby in Paramus

 

A year later, after Annabel died,

I wait alone for my eye exam in the showroom

of Cohen’s Fashion Optical at the mall.

 

Surrounded by 100 sets of spectacles,

I begin to write a poem

about my life and my bride.

 

When a man with a blood-stained hole in his back

materializes from behind me,

sits right beside me, and spies my draft.

 

“It’s about my darling Annabel,” I explain.

“I know,” the man replies, his breath stinking of death,

“But I wouldn’t ask too much of her…”

 

He gestures toward a flickering spectral shade

under a fluorescent green Ray-Ban display.

“I’ve learned, Old Sport, that you can’t repeat the past.”

 

“Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can,”

I cry, incredulous and defiant,

in the face of 200 vacant billboard eyes.

 

Why, I possess the power to conjure

when I write.

When I write,

when I write,

 

Annabel’s ghost can be revived.

    3.  Scenic Overlook at Garret Mountain

 

This is a dangerous place to stand:

Cliffside in Paterson, in the descending dusk.

 

Past the highway at my feet, across the Hudson,

a dizzying view materializes in the Emerald City skyline:

 

I see… a housefly… alight…

on my Annabel’s thigh.

 

It’s 18 miles and 40 years ago,

yet through the window of memory,

I clearly see my bride languidly napping in the bedroom

of our old apartment in New York.

The fly rubs its hands, obsessed, plotting its next move,

until shooed in a flash by a dismissive twitch of her flesh.

 

Decades disappear, just as fast,

as cars on Route 80 flee to the West.

I show a little faith.

I face to the East.

Blinding orgastic lights cast shadows

on that fresh green breast of the New World.

 

I catch my breath on this precipice,

with wounds dark and deep.

 

40 years later,

filled with irrational passion for Annabel.

 

I still watch her while she sleeps.