I wrote this on April 5, 2007 in my long dead Live Journal. Every word still echoes true.
I’ve lived in Colorado for a month and a half now. I’ve read seven books, started two art projects, entered a writing contest, lost 8 pounds and started waking up before sunrise all on my own. I am so happy here it’s unbelievable.
Those books though… most of those seven books were not good. On my way out of Texas I went on Amazon and grabbed a bunch of free books just to have to pass the time. That right there is the murky dark side to the wonder that is e-reading. It’s hard to tell good from bad once the paid reviews and author’s friends get their two cents in. I won’t name the (mostly indy) titles here, but I sure won’t be so laissez faire with my selections in the future. Two of them were great, though, so it wasn’t a completely wasted effort. (Not that reading ever is!)
The first, The Blue Lagoon, was one i thought I’d read in high school. Apparently I got mixed up with either Island of the Blue Dolphin or The Cay, maybe both, but this book is not either by a long shot. The Blue Lagoon was written back in the early 1900s and is titled as a romance. Were that not on the title, I’d never have guessed it. I could see how the author could have used ‘romance’ in an ironic sense, but then I think I’m reaching much too far. And for a book that tells the story of a shipwreck and island life, it moved awfully slow. The first half was the best, I think; the end is shit. I swear, I did like it! It was pleasant to pick up and read a few chapters at a time, but I wasn’t hungry for it. I’m happy to have read it, but won’t read it again.
The second was The Girl and the Bomb. I admit that I was surprised by this one. The story is set in Finland and follows the lives of a group of graffiti artists, and one girl in particular. This book, while not a ‘romance’, used the theme of love as fuel for creative revenge. I read this practically overnight, I liked it so much. I finished it a few days ago and still wan to give Metro a hug. Fun bonus: Both the author, and the translator, are total hunks. I got this book for nothing, but would have gladly paid. I will definitely keep an eye out for more of Jari Järvelä’s work.
Since moving, I have a ton of free time and am trying not to waste it – I truly hope that means more books, art and writing in my very immediate future. Seven books in a month and a half, shit. Thats a pretty good start. Let’s see if I can keep the momentum going.
‘Debra Messing Space Bugs’ is the first of many failed Google searches I’ve made while trying to remember the name of this damn book. I’ve spent the past month trying to finish reading it, but the title escapes me unless I’m staring right at the cover. I know they made it into a movie, and I know Debra Messing was in it. Not according to IMDB she wasn’t! Or was it Isla Fisher? Nope, not her either. It was Dina Meyer, as it turns out, and the book itself is Starship Troopers.
One of the best things about falling in love and moving in together is all the new books! My boyfriend’s tastes are very different from mine, but when I spotted his newly unpacked copy of Starship Troopers, I could not wait to read it. The movie is one big cheese-fest explosion covered in goo, and I loved it when I first saw it in theatres. It probably should not have come as a surprise that the book was nothing like that at all.
I wasn’t expecting hologram popups and hawt alien sex, but I was hoping for something to help move things along. For a book based in space, with rocket suits and dangerous missions, I just do not care. The book isn’t awful, just incredibly dull. It reads like a long college lecture, with no excitement in the descriptions or the story itself. The main character, Rico, is entirely blank, with no discernible personality beyond Guy Who Observes Things. I like Zim, but that’s about it. Maybe all the flashbacks are what’s pulling me out of the grove, or the stilted way it plods along. Whatever the reason, I’m bored.
I refuse to believe that Robert A. Heinlein, with all his influence and accolades, just isn’t for me. Possibly it’s the genre, but that doesn’t sit well with me, either. Sci Fi is never my first choice, but I’ve read enough to know that it interests me, generally. I’m more than halfway through, and out of respect for the author, I absolutely intend to finish it. Hell, I’d even like to give another one of his books a shot. But considering I’ve finished two other novels while also working through this one, probably not any time soon.
I came back to Texas just before New Years Day, 2013. I stepped off the plane and over the next three months, watched my life fall apart. On to the next adventure, indeed.
Everything changed. Everything. I was living that old trope of looking into the mirror and not recognizing the eyes staring back. I felt as if every wonderful sparkling quality that made up my personality starting blinking and fading away. And for over a year, I couldn’t write. My muse, and the voice that came with it, just disappeared. No more husband, no more career. All my goals were gone. No more out of the blue story ideas in the shower, or long weekends reading books in bed. I dropped all my hobbies, and the houseplants slowly died. Even surrounded by all my new friends and suitors, I had nothing much to say. It was the loneliest time of my life.
Things got better, of course. It wasn’t easy, especially at first, but it did end up being full of interesting lessons, and surprisingly fun. And although I recognize that I am better for having been through it, I see a hard edge to my personality that wasn’t there before. The wide-eyed joy has been tempered down to something more realistic and suited to survival. I still drink more than I probably should.
But I’m in love, and I feel more complete now than I ever have, just two short months away from turning 30. And I am happy, even working a job I don’t really like, living in a city I swore I’d never come back to. It’s looking like I will get my happily ever after, after all.
Of course, I can’t properly sing this redemption song without saving a verse for the one grip of sanity that, through it all, kept me from falling completely into some dark and scary place. Can’t stay in bed when there’s mouths to feed and a litter box to freshen up. Her Majesty, the Queen:
My voice is slowly returning; a little raspy from disuse, but popping up more frequently. It is my hope that in writing this, more and more words will come. Even if nobody’s reading, this is my therapy.
The last time I remember having a $50 bill, I got it from my Uncle John. He came to visit me at work when I was 15, showing up unannounced on a Saturday afternoon after years of no contact. I was beside myself with excitement; we always had a special bond and I was crazy about my dad’s oldest brother.
That money meant so much to me. For weeks I agonized over what to buy, not wanting to waste such a precious gift. It wasn’t just money – this money had meaning. I eventually spent it on jeans, and I wore them until they started to shred.
Two years later he killed himself, and when I think of him now I think of that afternoon, our last one forever, feeling like the most important girl in the world.
I have a $50 bill in my wallet now, from selling my almost-new tablet to a very polite gentleman on Craigslist. This Saturday, my husband is organizing a yard sale and packing our things. With any luck, we’ll have a couple more $50 bills by the end of that so he’ll have cash on hand for the 16 hour drive back to Texas, where we will start our lives over, all over again. Everything must go.
Welcome to life! You will be betrayed; marriages end, families divide and secrets come out; loved ones die, by choice or by chance. People grow old and fat, and tired of trying. Life is wonderful and full of joy, but it isn’t easy and there are no real breaks for you to stop and catch your breath. As my sister once told me, “Life happens, and you have to keep up. If you’re not keeping up, you’re falling behind.”
Not everyone is up for the chase, and some of us just aren’t built for fighting. I am.
I hate poetry. This is not an amazing revelation: as far back as I remember, I have always hated poetry. I’ve read a lot of it, written some of my own (my 1999 classic Cereal deserves its own matting and frame) but never, ever took a liking to it. I have a very smart friend, Drew, my only writer friend. He introduced me to Abuelito rum, Ernest Hemingway’s short stories, and a cute little bar in Denton, Tx with a bathroom made up as a library. I love him, but not his poetry. I will admit to liking parts of poems – I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life! – but only the parts, not the sum.
Poetry is heavy on suggestion, but light on content. You don’t get a whole story, only bits of feelings and things, with the rest up for interpretation. I hate it.
I like books.
There is one exception, however. The Hollow Men, written in 1925 by T.S. Eliot. It was meant to be primarily a comment on the War, Guy Fawkes and other political matters, but I don’t read it that way. My reading of it is the disillusion in mundane life and the constant seeking that is our nature, never satisfied, together yet alone. First impressions are hard to shake. (Fun fact: On The Beach by Nevil Shute, the single most powerful novel I’ve ever read, borrows from that poem for its title.) Every time I read it, I get chills.
I wish I knew why, and what it is about it that moves me so much, so that I can find more like it and fall in love with poetry. I’ve been looking and waiting, but so far there’s just the one. I hope I get lucky again, and find more of it that speaks to me. I like feelings and things, generally.