Fragments (From the F section of Kim’s Encyclopedia)

Fragmented things I like:

1.     Kaleidoscopes. The struggle to identify actual shapes is both frustrating and endearing.

2.     Mosaics. Especially the Cinderella one in the castle at Disney World. When my legs are not being run over by strollers, I like to stand up close to the long stretch of wall and find where the peach-colored pieces start to form Cinderella’s cheek. 

3.      The back doorway of the House of Blues, Orlando. Surrounding the door is a halo of concrete and trinkets. There are old toys, coins, pieces of beer bottles and glitter all cemented into the wall. It reminds me of Junk City from Jim Henson’s Labyrinth. Forgotten treasures packed together. I take a picture because my parent’s won’t let me stand there and ponder over it. I’m blocking the doorway, they say. People gotta eat.

Fragments things I hate:

1.      Puzzles. I already know the story.  It’s on the cover of the box. And I can never seem to finish one anyway.

2.      Sentence fragments in student papers. Yep.

I like fragments. There’s something enchanting and mysterious about them. Maybe it’s because they function like the antithesis of a novel or perhaps they are just one way I find I can relate to postmodernism.  But I’m talking about writing here. Storytelling.

So when I stumbled upon Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal, the nonfiction equivalent of this kind of fragmented storytelling, I literally gasped loud enough in the bookstore to turn heads. In her forward, Rosenthal boasts of telling the story of her life, one completely absent of shocking clichés like abusive parents, addictions, and past life speculations. This is the story of one regular woman living in the twenty-first century, albeit in the structure of an encyclopedia. No joke.

There are charts, graphs, photos and illustrations. Even the front and back flaps of the books are used to stay in-sync with the quirky humor that is Rosenthal. For instance, the back flap has five sentences, each about what a certain person is doing at the exact moment I’m reading the flap. There’s a hilariously long reader’s agreement, in which, if you sign it, you agree not to reproduce the book and agree that “on any given weekend, there are way too many mattress sales” (v).  Rosenthal does a great job grounding the reader in 21^st century living, from her Orientation Almanac, outlining anything an alien or time-traveler would need to know about this time period, to entries listed about kid’s meals on flights, parking spots, and compliments.

I got to savor each snapshot of life that Rosenthal offered. I remember being stuck on the road for an hour in the backseat and on the way to Disney World for our usual weekend trip. My parents talked quietly and I, being the diligent grad student with no traces left of motion sickness, decided to get some reading done. Be productive. About thirty pages into it, and with more than a half an hour to go before seeing the big ears, I bookmarked my page and put it away. I didn’t want to finish it too soon. I didn’t want to reach the last entry.

In the entry titled “Go,” Rosenthal writes:

“I get this weird sort of rush when an ambulance comes racing down the street, and I, along with all the other drivers, quickly pull over to let the more important vehicle pass. It’s as if us little cars on the side of the road are cheering, Go! Go! You can do it! Go, important ambulance, go! The experience invariably leaves me feeling proud and giddy”  

When reading Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, I felt at times like I was riding in an ambulance. The roads were blurry and I could only focus on one tree or blue car or bike before something entirely different would catch me attention. And yet, as the gears in my head kept turning to put it all together, I watched the story of Rosenthal’s life unfold without confusion. I feel like I’ve seen glimpses of her life that are both intimate and not embarrassing; they are little things, ordinary things. The kinds of things that you’d talk to someone about if you sat down with him or her and had coffee. Reading this book has taught me that the high-octane drama of life does not always compare to a simple story about the weather or what you ate for lunch. Ordinary stories, like pieces of a mosaic or puzzle, can be told in extraordinary ways. 

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As you're reading this, Kimberly Karalius is likely waiting in line at Disney World. There's probably a kid crying behind her, but she's too busy looking for Prince Philip to care. She writes about her magical and mostly mundane adventures in her blog, I Wear Milk Crowns. (http://kkaralius.blogspot.com/)