Not often does a book have the ability to tranform words into emotion, in a 'good' book you can get sucked in, but you still feel like a bystander, liNot often does a book have the ability to tranform words into emotion, in a 'good' book you can get sucked in, but you still feel like a bystander, listening to a story. From the start Khaled Husseini made me feel the love, jealousy, anguish, remorse, fear... that Amir speaks to us about. I avoided this book for, what a year? Why? Because I'm anti-hype---it always lets me down, so why bother? But, too many people whose opinion I respect raved about this- and i was not to be disappointed. ...more
Humans are beastly. I’m not going to get all Darwinian on you, but seriously, they really are vile, selfish, callous, treacherous varmints. And that’s
Humans are beastly. I’m not going to get all Darwinian on you, but seriously, they really are vile, selfish, callous, treacherous varmints. And that’s me being gracious.
So, what do we teach our kids? We want them to believe in a Shangri-La, we want them to find the good in people but really, who(m) are we kidding? Let us just hope that they get to the age of 10 without having their hearts broken, without realizing that life isn’t fair and you just have to deal.
Yet, I try to be the Pollyanna. I try to tell them to look for the good, to treat people the way that you want to be treated, to be accepting. And, when they come home in tears because some miscreant told them that they’re fat or ugly or stupid or whatever else their petty little minds can whip up, I hold them and go all Dr. Phil on them while I’m thinking of pouring fire ants down their pants while I stick out my tongue and belly laugh.
You know… typical Pollyanna stuff.
The Hurt was given to my 8 year old at Grief Camp this weekend. In the story, Jacob is hurt because his ‘friend’ Gabriel calls him a ‘pig faced punk.’ Gabriel is on my shit list. I am directing all my anger towards that little freak who wears huskies and will grow up to be middle management at a slaughter house. Jacob doesn’t tell anyone about this.. instead he goes home and tucks the Hurt into a ball and places it in his room. The Hurt is now his friend. The Hurt doesn’t judge or get angry or wig out. It just is. Jacob starts to shepard all his Hurt into this ball, all the hateful words, all his pain and soon the ball is too big to fit in his closet or under his bed… it’s no longer the comforting blanket it once was… it’s the elephant in the room, it’s taboo, it’s the devil on your shoulder, etcetera, etcetera…
Damn that Hurt. Why couldn’t you just channel it all in one tidy ball and let it be? Why does it gnaw away at you like one of those flesh-eating parasites? It would be so much easier to just --- not deal.
Yeah, well, this is a self-help book and in the end, Jacob realizes that talking about his hurt is the only way to make it smaller… so small that it just floats away. Yes, this is a good lesson for children… don’t hold it in… share and heal. (Because, people will continue to suck and you need to find the good ones and hold on to them and believe…. in what is for you to decide.)
Kit’s Wilderness I wonder how many times I’ve seen this title and assumed it was an American Girl book. Truly a shame… This has been out for 15 years… Kit’s Wilderness I wonder how many times I’ve seen this title and assumed it was an American Girl book. Truly a shame… This has been out for 15 years… 15 years that I could have carried Kit and his story with me.
It almost eluded me once again, when I noticed the author, David Almond, I knew that name. A sudden surge, like a warm fuzzie or a premenopausal hot flash overcame me. Skellig. Yes. Now, I remember.
David Almond has this incredible talent. His voice. He rambles, he doesn’t use paragraphs, his dialogues runs into each other, he’s got that British slang thing and he must say “Eh? Eh?” a hundred times which just reminds me of Eh? Eh!. Then I lose my train of thought and some random facebook picture of one of Eh’s dinners pop up and then I’m hungry and I have to focus focus focus.
His voice. It’s gentle, it lulls you.
“This is our world, he used to say. “Aye, there’s more than enough of darkness in it. But over everthing there’s all this joy, Kit. There’s all this lovely lovely light.”
The story is of two boys, Kit and John, aged thirteen. Living in Stoneygate, built over an old mine that holds a power of the boys, the ghosts of children who perished down there, the fascination with death, the escape of grandfathers suffering from dementia or drunk abusive fathers… something draws them together, a story that they need to tell in order to heal.
Or something like that.
What I know is that Mr. Almond was able to lure me into a story of two pubescent boys living in a bleak town in England and hold me there, tightly, until he decided he was done with me. Cast me off into the tunnels below Stoneygate. And now I feel hollow and I’m meandering, trying to catch Silky’s eye. (You have to be in the know) ...more
Ohkaaaaaaayyyyy... Now I get it. Carrie D'Amour, if you're out there, I apologize for mocking your Sandman fascination back in 1989. And for that hairOhkaaaaaaayyyyy... Now I get it. Carrie D'Amour, if you're out there, I apologize for mocking your Sandman fascination back in 1989. And for that haircut....more
Goddamn it. I hate you, Barry Lyga. By that I mean I love you but right now you are not my favorite person. I will get to that later.
Having vented... Goddamn it. I hate you, Barry Lyga. By that I mean I love you but right now you are not my favorite person. I will get to that later.
Having vented... if you haven't read anything by Barry Lyga, you are a fool. If you consider yourself a fan of YA and haven't read him then you are an even bigger fool. Please put down your dystopian vampire love triangle and pick up something. Anything. Read Boy Toyor The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl. Read the first book in this series, I Hunt Killers. Just READ.
Because he is creepy and awesome. Creepingly awesome. I gush. I can't help it. Then I see this on his goodreads page... So help me god, put down that fantasy crap* and read him.
Now, back to my gut wrenching hatred for Mr. Lyga. How DARE you end this book this way. It is 4:20 (I'm not making that up, btw) in the morning and I just finished your second installment of Jasper Dent and now I want to throttle you. I hope that you have been chained to your computer and are furiously belting out the next book. I hope you don't sleep until it is finished. If I see you, do not think that I won't go all Annie Wilkes on your ass. In exchange, I promise that if you receive another pink slip, I will hunt down those people and end them. Billy Dent would be proud.
Now get writing.
*crap meant in the most lovingly way, of course....more
Crikey. I know I have a tendency to gush. Yeah, yeah, get over it. But, Hell on Wheels, I love this series. I’ve been trying to get friends to read itCrikey. I know I have a tendency to gush. Yeah, yeah, get over it. But, Hell on Wheels, I love this series. I’ve been trying to get friends to read it for years, but it seems like they shut down when I say ‘Have you read the Daughter of Smoke and Bone series yet?’ Is it the title? Because, puhlease… you guys have hauled around much worse and don’t say you haven’t.
Laini Taylor is freakin’ awesome. I mean, the fact that she can pull off cerise colored hair at 42 really should be enough, but the worlds that she builds in DOSAB are fanciful and impressive and goddammit her characters are KICK.ASS.
Okay, yes. I’ve fallen for the hype of other, lesser series (cough, cough) and I can totally see you brushing me off here, but you would be doing yourself an injustice. I would like to thank karen for introducing me to DOSAB with her zero cool review. I mean, yes, she usually outdoes herself but what drew me to this review was the sincerity. I love her beaver reviews and her sex addict sea monster addiction, but there was such a sweetness to this review that I knew we’d be kin.
So, now I have to ask: Would I have ever been able to admit that I fell in love with a book that had fiery hawt angels (well, yeah, not a stretch) and blue haired artists living in Prague (keep going, Kim, you’re not fooling anyone) that have this intense, unrequited love that lasts through thousands of years and maybe even a few different lifetimes?
But, then I’d have to kind of gawk at totally crushing on chimeras with hooves and batwings and horns. A little too close to bestiality for my comfort, but HERE I AM, falling for Ziri and loving Issa, "snake tail, the hood and fangs of a cobra, and clothes herself with snakes" and then there’s Brimstone, “a chimaera with a ram's head, lion haunches, raptor feet, and reptilian eyes, with the rest being like a man's” who I actually wish was MY father.
It’s a stretch.
But, it works and that’s what you have to love about this series. Laini, my(unbeknownst to her) BFF crafts these great parallel universes and each book is better than the last. Akiva and Karou. Zuzana and Mik. Ziri and Liraz. Who needs Bogie and Bacall (too soon?)? I love these characters and I will admit that I cried when it ended. Laini states that series readers are the best readers. I can see that, because we are INVESTED. (Yeah, all you Game of Thrones fans.. you be nodding). I was invested in the misbegotten seraphim and the chimera. I wanted Eretz to survive, I cried for Loramendi. I hated the Stelians until I didn’t.
I know that none of this means anything to those who haven’t read this. I’m hoping that you sense the excitement and the passion that I have for these books and decide to visit these characters and these realms, because if not, you are SO missing out.
Here's a taste: "Liraz had heard it said that there was only one emotion which, in recollection, was capable of resurrecting the full immediacy and power of the original - one emotion that time could never fade, and that would drag you back any number of years into the pure, undiluted feeling, as if you were living it anew. It wasn't love - not that she had any experience of that one - and it wasn't hate, or anger, or happiness, or even grief. Memories of those were but echoes of the true feeling. It was shame. Shame never faded, and Liraz realized only now that this was the baseline of her emotions - her bitter, curdled "normal" - and that her soul was poisoned soil in which nothing good could grow."
Holy wow. That’s it… I am now and forever TEAM GOLDMAN
I want to have this man’s baby. Okay… he’s like 80 and I’m fixed but I would totally untie my t Holy wow. That’s it… I am now and forever TEAM GOLDMAN
I want to have this man’s baby. Okay… he’s like 80 and I’m fixed but I would totally untie my tubes for this man. 80 year-olds can still have children, right? How old was Jerry Lewis?… Quick, Google that. Okay, some 94 year old sired a kid. We’ve got time. I fell hard during the Introduction to the 30th edition… and I do NOT read introductions… what’s the point? It was true love during the introduction to the 25th anniversary and I was clearly imagining replacing Helen and Jason with my much more appreciative family a la Fatal Attraction tactics. Then pages 1-32 was my epiphany. We were soulmates. We were Bogie and Bacall, Jamie and Claire, Bella and Edward. He would be mine.
The Princess Bride, the movie, has long been a favorite of mine. Yes, I can quote it. Yes every time I see Wallace Shawn I yell ‘INCONCEIVABLE!’ even when I’m watching My Dinner with Andre (much to the dismay of my film folk friends.) I didn’t think that I really needed to read the book because, well..this is a rare occasion where I thought it might not be as good. STUPID. OHMYGOD. Slap-my-knee-turn-me-blue-stick-my-head-in-a-milk jug. This book must be read.
So, I want to talk about it. I really really do. But, I’m actually going to do one of those spoiler things. Because, well, I believe in surprises. I have often been told about this guilded cage that I supposedly live in and I don’t know, I’m quite comfortable. Take a timely example… Christmas… when I was little, I padded down the basement stairs in my holly hobby footsie pjs and found my parents stash of gifts and looked through EVERYTHING. Let me tell you, that was THE MOST disappointing Christmas ever. From then on, I promised that I would always ALWAYS appreciate a surprise. I would relish in it. So, if you’ve read The Princess Bride, then please continue. I really want to talk to you about this. If you have not… what the fuck are you waiting for?
(view spoiler)[ By now you’ve figured out that yes, I am one of those that totally believed that S. Morgenstern was real. I went to add his books to my ‘to read’ list and couldn’t find him so I just assumed it was out of print and I would have to hunt it down. I got to page 179 and put the book down and began to compose my letter to the publisher requesting the Reunion Scene. Then I had the bright idea to google it. Maybe someone posted it online. The interweb is a beautiful thing. I could plan my trip to Florin… to see the Cliffs of Insanity… to go to the museum!!!!
That was not a smart move. That is when the doubting began. I quickly closed the browser and kept on reading. I laughed, then laughed, then fell deeper into my pit of devotion for William. Lines such as:
"The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dimdoomed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys. " (which, by the way, describes all males except William… and maybe Westley… )
“This was their thirty-third spat of the day—this was long after spats—and he was behind, thirteen to twenty, but he had made up a lot of distance since lunch, when it was seventeen to two against him.”
“He was seventy-five minutes away from his first female murder, and he wondered if he could get his fingers to her throat before even the start of a scream. He had been practicing on giant sausages all the afternoon and had the movements down pretty pat, but then, giant sausages weren’t necks and all the wishing in the world wouldn’t make them so.”
The book is perfect… mostly because I knew all the lines (except the parenthesis lines, which OMG, don’t EVEN get me started.) I have a few odd thoughts…
1. Why make Buttercup so dense? She isn’t vain, but she isn’t exactly Indira Ghandi. I was almost perturbed by that—the leftover of some feminism bug, I think. 2. Why not include Fezzik and Inigo’s Game of Death like adventure into the Zoo of Death. I loved that part!
I think that’s my only real gripe. I believe that this may become my most favoritest book of all time.
And, you know how it all ends. No, not the white horses and Andre the Giant. No, not even the whole teaser in Buttercup’s Baby. But my knowledge that there is no S. Morgenstern. There is no museum or six fingered sword. There is no Helen the bitchy shrink or Jason the fat/not fat son. It was all made up.
But, I believed.
I believed way past when I should have… I am not as ‘Duhhhhh’ as Buttercup, honest. It’s just such a perfect story. (hide spoiler)]
P.S. Mr. Goldman? I am skilled in Home Health Services if you need a live in caretaker. Really. I can be there tomorrow. Say the word. ["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
I was introduced to Weetzie in college during my children's writing class and it was the best return on investment of those college loans. Never thinkI was introduced to Weetzie in college during my children's writing class and it was the best return on investment of those college loans. Never thinking that I would be a fan of L.A., and never really caring... I completely fell for Francesca's version of it. Not just in these books, but also in her others... I think using Houdini's mansion is wonderful. This changed how I approached my own writing. I know that they label it as young adult, but I feel that anyone with this mindset could fall in love with these books. ...more
This was like walking in on the final act of some grand production. Walking in on Romeo dooming himself as Juliet awakes. The last cries of ‘Jack! RosThis was like walking in on the final act of some grand production. Walking in on Romeo dooming himself as Juliet awakes. The last cries of ‘Jack! Rose!’ as the Leocicle drops into the icy Atlantic...hearing the last notes of ‘Hiding All Away’ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
Yeah. Like that.
By now you know that I’m not the deepest well in the field. I spent my twenties reading Weetzie Bat and bopping around to King Missile. I know, I should have been studying the NYTBR or listening to Ira Glass wax poetic. It was misspent youth. I get it.
So, walking in on Dorothy pointing to her farmer friends saying ‘and you were there and you and you’… Yes, that is how I felt reading this book. I knew the name Christopher Hitchens… vaguely. (yes, you can drop me as a friend, I totally understand.) I am sure that I have read SOMETHING by him, right? I mean, I did have that subscription to the Atlantic in my thirties and I remember my husband buying this Vanity Fair so maybe there was something there… (besides sad substitutes for Lohan porn). But, I don’t KNOW Christopher Hitchens and I feel lesser because of that.
Maybe I wouldn’t like him. Maybe I would think he was another blowhard. I don’t know.. but when you are writing on your death bed and you can sound this eloquent… well, slap my knee and call me sally, I’m on board. Okay, Okay… writing about the Big C, suicide, AIDS... the death of a loved one tends to get props just on subject alone. The endurance, the courage, the tragedy of it all. It sells, I know this. It is especially jarring when you have experienced the loss of someone . You relate and you feel like you are in the know. It’s actually sort of selfish though, I mean.. YOU didn’t go through this.. you weren’t the one having toxins pumped into you, having your body, your mind, become your enemy. You just stood by and watched it happen, rubber-necking, gawking, throwing out clichés by the dozen (ha!).
Hitchens is full frontal here, he is witty and he is honest and clever and his whole take on ‘living dyingly’ makes the journey more personal. He is a master at his craft, of including you in the story, you are not bored or even sympathetic in that false sense that you think you know what he is going through. He makes you laugh as he talks about reading reactions to his illness, how the zealots actually relish: “Who else feels that Christopher Hitchens getting terminal throat cancer (sic) was God’s revenge for him using his voice to blaspheme him? Atheists like to ignore FACTS. They like to act like everything is a “coincidence”. Really? It’s just a “coincidence” (that) out of any part of his body, Christopher Hitchens got cancer in the one part of his body he used for blasphemy? Yeah, keep believing that, Atheists,. He’s going to writhe in agony and pain and wither away to nothing and then die a horrible agonizing death, and THEN comes the real fun, when he’s sent to HELFIRE forever to be tortured and set afire.”
And his first response? Which mere primate is so damn sure that he can know the mind of god?
(I do apologize for the use of gifs...there's no real excuse...carpe diem, folks.)
I really like this guy. I wish I had known him pre posthumously. Mortality is not long. (Yes, I get it.) But, it packs that punch. He is eloquent and it feels authentic, not dramatic. I believe this struggle.
“worst of all is chemo-brain. Dull stuporous. What if the protracted, lavish torture is only prelude to a gruesome execution.”
“Also ordinary expressions like ‘expiration date’.. will I outlive my Amex? My driver’s license?”
“Nose-hairs gone: runny nostrils. Constipation and diarrhea alternating.”
“ Brave? Hah! Save it for a fight you can’t run away from.”
“Banality of cancer. Entire pest-house of side-effects. Special of the day.”
I appreciate this because it knocked me on my ass. Death made me an orphan, a widow---what I might have thought a victim, but death was not kind to my loved ones and I need to see that and I need to see the struggles that they made to make sure that I didn’t see it then.
I am a horrible person (ME.ME.ME.ME.ME.ME). I am worse than a horrible person. I am a killer. I am worse than a killer. I am a killer of dreams.
My dau I am a horrible person (ME.ME.ME.ME.ME.ME). I am worse than a horrible person. I am a killer. I am worse than a killer. I am a killer of dreams.
My daughter, Marley, was about 3 when she introduced me to Hartluv. At first I thought that there were some hippy parents who subjected their child to this moniker. Maybe someone in her pre-school class but then I thought, we live in Manchester, NH. No one is that bright or weird in Manchester, NH. (we were planning our escape). It went like this:
Marley: Mom, Hartluv wants to go to the park. Me: Wha? Marley: Hartluv.wants.to.go.to.the.park. Me: Harley? Marley: (rolls eyes) Heart. Love. Me: Is that a person? Marley: She is my friend. Me: From school? Marley: (sighs) No. She lives with us. She’s right here. Me: (blank face)
Okay. I handled it well from there on. I played a long with Hartluv. I let her swing on the swings; I made a cake for her birthday, ½ birthday, sad day, etc… Hartluv told Marley she was a superhero, so Marley would introduce herself as Marley Doubleday, MD, Superhero. (she wanted to be a doctor, it was a compromise). Hartluv was a constant for about 2 years. Marley actually had 101 imaginary friends, including PianoTalk, Treeko (her stuffed animal but very prominent) . Then, one day I was upset/bad day/tired/stressed—typical mom stuff—and I didn’t set a place for Hartluv at dinner. Marley was upset and I couldn’t take it..
“Hartluv is NOT REAL!”
Quiet. Even Emily, the older sister who always made fun of Hartluv stopped. Marley looked at me and started to cry. Great. I suck. I tried to make it up to her, but Marley didn’t talk about Hartluv very much anymore, I know she was still around because I would hear Marley playing with her, but she didn’t mention her. When Marley was 7, I asked her about Hartluv. “She’s gone.” Then walked away. I asked her about Hartluv when she was 13 and she rolled her eyes. I killed Hartluv.
I don’t think I had an imaginary friend. I kinda hate myself for that. Was I not imaginative enough? Did I have one and forget? I feel like I missed out. Matthew Dicks takes this concept and molds it in a being, Budo, who is an imaginary friend to Max, who is autistic. Budo helps Max live on the outside, when all Max wants is to live inside. He helps him choose what color shirt to wear, what kind of soup to eat; he helps him fall asleep at night. Budo is as real as Max, he was imagined smart, he looks human, and he can walk through doors and windows because Max wants him to. Some imaginary friends that Budo meets are not so human. Wooly is a paper doll, Teeny is a fairy, Klute is a bobblehead. Spoon is a spoon. But they are real to their imaginers and to each other and they die. They are not needed anymore and they begin to fade away and then they die. I freakin’ cried buckets each time one was lost. I think that everyone should have an imaginary friend forever so they can live and help you and guard you and tell you what to wear. I want my own Hartluv.
I want my own Budo, Klute, Oswald, Graham, Teeny, Spoon, Summer, Puppy. I want Blu.
I want them to be remembered always, to love ‘em and hold ‘em and squeeze and never stop.
I love this story. I love the way it speaks, the way it holds you, the beauty of the friendships.
First page, first poem. Makes me smile But also makes me kinda Sad. Do words in poem form Make yoI don’t want to
Don’t write poetry.
First page, first poem. Makes me smile But also makes me kinda Sad. Do words in poem form Make you sad? I hope not but I Understand, if it does.
Love That Dog takes less than 3 minutes to read. Okay, maybe a bit more if you’re on your 4th glass of Sangria (but who’s counting) and you linger on phrases. Phrases like:
‘and jumping on me his shaggy straggly paws on my chest like he was trying to hug the inside right out of me’
Poems, PO-EMS. They are not so easy to write. They look easy but try putting a whole bunch of words in short sentences and make them make someone else feel something. Go on. But, remember that people will REALLY judge you because poetry can be pretentious and there’s extra pressure on you to be all like ‘she walks in beauty like the night’ or ‘I want a love like me thinking of you thinking of me thinking of you type love..’
I am scared. I couldn’t do it Even this attempt Is lame.
But, I was lucky to know a poet, and was lucky to read his words. His voice had the right cadence, the exact urgency , the strength to leave you breathless and make you ache.
All alone in triplets I think about her laugh, even if I’m sad All alone I justify our secret world and could tell the nay sayers to Leave her alone i am no monster
In prayers i disbelieve i asked for you to come
Maybe my or god’s will
Maybe a cessation of thinking when it comes to the enemy when i hide In my foxhole would be a good idea
Jack is lucky to have a Miss Stretchberry. Everyone should have their very own. One that can give them worlds created by Frost and Blake and also William Carlos Williams among other amazing poets. Thank you, Sharon Creech, for giving us Jack. I used to always ask my poet ‘but what does it mean?’ and he used to say ‘it doesn’t really matter does it? How do you feel?’
It takes an fierce will and a tremendous heart to be a poet. This book has both. ...more
It was one of those days. The kids flooded the bathroom, the cat vomited on my carpet, a toothbrush got lodged down the drain. One of those days. It wIt was one of those days. The kids flooded the bathroom, the cat vomited on my carpet, a toothbrush got lodged down the drain. One of those days. It was not a day to start a Sarah Vowell book about the beginnings of Hawaii… No, not today. Today, I grabbed the bottle of Sangria and sat down with this.
Again, I have to thank Goodreads for introducing me to Bells (shout out to Bells! Woot! Woot!) who introduced me to Pablo. Imagine living my whole life and not knowing Pablo!! The horror!
There is a reason that middle aged women find abstinent shiny vampires attractive. We are tired. We have lost the inspiration and cling to the notion of everlasting love like spanx. We are what we are. I will admit that I was duped by that Edward. With all his “Do you truly believe that you care more for me than I do for you?" crap? Yes, we are faulty. We want to hear that stuff. We also want to hear that you loved Duran Duran and that Say Anything was your favorite movie of all time. We clear? Good.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, pouring another glass of Sangria and talking about Pablo. Okay, Pablo with his baldness and his Alfred Hitchcockian body… Pablo would take Edward down. No stake needed, my friend.
Oh, my dearest, I could not love you so! But when I hold you I hold everything that is--- Sand, time, the tree of the rain,
Everything is alive so that I can be alive Without moving I can see it all In your life I see everything that lives.
Hellz to the Yeah! That’s the stuff! Whoo!! Pablo Pablo he’s our man! Okay, he’s Matilda Uruttia’s man, but eh… semantics. Imagine! 100 love sonnets! For one woman! Swoon. And, it’s not like you have to look for lines like the one above. It’s every-frickin’-page. I just fall deeper and deeper. I drink more and my eyes water.
"Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroin."
Oh, Eddie… silly you. Give it up. Go away.
This is part of Pablo's dedication: "When I set this task for myself, I knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, or crystal, or cannon fire. But--with great humility--I made these sonnets out of wood: I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and this is how they should reach your ears. … Now that I have declared the foundations of my life, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.”
Can you imagine living with that? We all crave that crazy new found love feeling, right? Be honest.. There’s nothing like that rush… but imagine a full grown, fleshed out, downright dedication of life. Suddenly, it’s not about the adrenaline… it’s about the stamina.
Pablo divides his sonnets into four sections: Morning, Afternoon, Evening, and Night. And isn’t that the kicker.. The words so powerful that you feel each time, you age with him, you are his day. Lucky, lucky woman, that Matilda.
Morning: I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Afternoon: So that I am like a scorched rock that suddenly sings when you are near, because it drinks the water you carry from the forest, in your voice
Evening: I need the light of your energy, I looked around, devouring hope. I watched the void without you that is like a house, nothing left but tragic windows.
Night: No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams, you will go, We will go together, over the waters of time. No one else will travel through the shadows with me, Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.
Your hands have already opened their delicate fists And let their soft drifting signs drop away; Your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move
After, following the folding water you carry, that carries Me away. The night, the word, the wind spin out their destiny. Without you , I am your dream, only that, and that is all.
It’s hard to write a review of Pablo without totally quoting Pablo. You have to experience him, I feel like I’m cheating with this one. I will end with just this: I hope everyone finds their Pablo… I hope everyone opens their eyes and sees their Pablo.
Okay, You’re probably wondering what's a white girl from Vermont doing reading this? Oh, and she’s also… French Canadian. (shudder)
I know, I was too.Okay, You’re probably wondering what's a white girl from Vermont doing reading this? Oh, and she’s also… French Canadian. (shudder)
I know, I was too. I mean, I really have nothing in common with Saul Williams, I grew up in suburban NH where the ‘hood’ was a mile long strip mall and it was considered dangerous to hit TJ Maxx on a Friday night.
This being said, I was mesmerized. Granted, I had to have whole parts translated to me, but it was beautiful. I want to be a Saul Williams groupie. I want to follow him around and bask in his teachings.
Fireplace is in the heart Water places the art ‘round the islands of desiring where most primitives stalk, sacrificing their daughters. These primordial waters carry a feminine agenda that no man ever taught us.
False idols, false Gods. Revering false titles. Peep dude with platinum cross. He floss bibles. Check vitals. Revivals. Father, son in denial. Throw mama from the train and derail every child.
Do I pretend to know what he’s seeing? No. I just go along with the ride and sigh.
It’s best seen though, I found this over the weekend. Enjoy. ...more