Wow. That was harsh. No, worse than harsh, that was brutal. I am wretched, shattered, ausgespielt even. Have to give credit to the Germans for such an Wow. That was harsh. No, worse than harsh, that was brutal. I am wretched, shattered, ausgespielt even. Have to give credit to the Germans for such an onomatopoeic word for how this feels. Yay, Germans.
It’s 4:30 am, I’m on my 5th cup of coffee and trying to counteract the caffeine shakes with graham crackers, my eyes are bleary, words blurring, my jaw is clenched, throat sore and there’s a hollow space above my rib cage, I think that’s my soul.
Wow. I did not think that this was going to be like this. I thought what a sort of lovely fairy tale; my fellow goodreaders have recommended it, why not. But this, this was like a story your mom might tell you as you curl into her lap, feeling all safe and sound wrapped in a Grimm Brother’s morality lesson, then drenched in a Thomas Hardy tragedy.
Now that I’ve set the mood, let’s talk.
“The earth’s lungs, coated in green ooze and thaw, breathed out blossom-scent and sour rot and fungus-must, wet and warm and aware, where before the air had been cold and blind, remote as the moon.”
Life can be cold and blind. We all have our grievances, our wrongs, some are trivial, some truly heinous, but the emotion is there nonetheless (is that too many commas in one sentence? Whatever. Carry on.) I am not going to tell you the plot, but I’m going to relate my feelings about the events and do with it what you will, this is MY space.
I totally get the feeling of wanting to escape. The pain is too much, the work is too hard, the results are too little. I cannot blame Liga for wanting to create her own heart’s desire, her version of heaven and wanting to stay in that zone and raise her daughters free from all the harm that befell her. Yes, I say, BRING ON THE SHEEP FARM FROM BABE (without all the heavy like farm work, of course). Liga was totally screwed. Good for her. Let the boring safe life prevail. Score one for Team Liga.
And yet…. It can’t last. Right? The pumpkin returns, the apple is eaten, Heathcliff is actually an asshole. ‘There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest part, So just give me a happy middle And a very happy start.’ –Sorry Shel, we aren’t even worthy of that.
Yes, we have happy times but they are almost always dwarfed by misfortune. This book will give you so many great starts that will just devastate you. And this is why I love it. It’s real. It’s got magical worlds, and sorcery and true love and then it just tears you a new one.
“Now you are in the true world, and a great deal more is required of you. Here you must befriend real wolves, and lure real birds down from the sky. Here you must endure real people around you, and we are not uniformly kind; we are damaged and impulsive, each in our own way. It is harder. It is not safe. But it is what you were born to.”
Suck that. You know what really gets me? The give and take. It’s never equal is it? I might be speaking from not such a great place and who knows, next week I might be bitch slapping myself for writing this, but yeah, I feel like I’ve been dealt a crappy hand. I have wonderful children, I have daily laughs, not always the belly type, but still good moments, but it’s a constant struggle and why is that? Why can’t we sometimes just get a break, you know?
Liga, I get it. I wish to be your conduit. I wish to take all the injustices dealt to you and let you be truly happy. Don’t be happy for someone else, there’s a time and a place for that, I know.. but just for you. The last line of the book kills me because it just seems so unfair:
“They all looked to Liga, seated by the window with her face to the light, to the faint midsummer air, which moved the tendrils of hair at her temples. She turned and slightly smiled at them all, and titled her head most graciously, accepting the witch’s, and the woolman’s compliments, and her daughters’ pleasure in them, as no more than she deserved.”
Okay, we're back with Sophie and Robin. I admit that I had to re-read What My Mother Doesn't Know and I don't regret it for a single moment. This bookOkay, we're back with Sophie and Robin. I admit that I had to re-read What My Mother Doesn't Know and I don't regret it for a single moment. This book is from Robin's point of view and written in the same short poem style and with as much poignancy, maybe even more since you see how tortured it was to be Robin and how cruel high school can be. I think that almost everyone in high school had their own 'Murphy' to remember. I asked my husband and it took him less than a minute to remember his. I won't lie, there were times that I had to put this book down and cry. Sonya Sones, in my opinion, captures this alienation perfectly and my heart surged when he found people that were bright and mature enough to look at Robin as an equal. Bravo. ...more
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
These books are like crack. Not that I’ve tried crack, but I’ve been in enough toy stores and seen enough Breaking Bad dolls that I know I would like These books are like crack. Not that I’ve tried crack, but I’ve been in enough toy stores and seen enough Breaking Bad dolls that I know I would like it. It’s Rachel and David again. My two (unbeknownst to them) BFFs. Finishing this book made me sad. Like when you leave your best friend sad. I hate that.
I don’t recommend reading all three of these books at once. It’s best to spread them out. Like Hal Hartley films or candy corn binges. It’s not good for your health and it might lower your love and expectations because yes, there is definitely a pattern, but what happens within that pattern is bewitching.
I wonder who writes what parts? Does David always write the boy’s POV and Rachel always the girl’s? Did they switch it up? Do they write a chapter at a time and give it to the other and say ‘GO!’? And the other has no idea what the first has written until that moment? I’m sure I could look this up, but I don’t want to. I need to stay in this Rachel/me/David bubble. It gives me my castles in the air.
“How can you spend hours every day trying in small ways to figure out who you are, then have a near-stranger give you a sentence of yourself that says it better than you ever could?”
Yes, Rachid? How? I could never ever ever (one more and I’ve got a Taylor song) hang out with Naomi and Ely. They are too pretty, too witty, too close. I would always feel inferior. It would crush any self worth that’s still dust bunnying up the corners of my soul. I’m more like the side side character, Girl-Robin:
"I am the Velma. I am the girl with the bowl haircut and the sensible sweater-the investigator, not the cause of the investigation. I am not the thinnest, the prettiest, the coolest or the loudest. I blend in easily as should a girl from Schenectady….I don’t bother with dating. There is the problem of no one actually asking me on a date, but I choose not to think of that problem as a problem. It’s a solution. The Velmas of the world do not intern at CNN, hope to be accepted at Columbia J-School after graduating NYU with honors and go on to with Pulitzer Prized by getting bogged down in a relationship drama. That's a problem for the Daphnes of the world. Daphne, you bitch, you can't even drive the damn van."
I don’t even think I have that much going for me. Though I certainly know a lot of Daphnes. But, it makes me smile. What doesn’t make me smile is that I sort of feel like a fool. These books are not written for 40-something moms who need an escape, like Twilight or Outlander. These books are meant for the ones that are young and just beginning and to inspire them to be more than just boring. So, yeah… pie on my face me living in my fool’s paradise.
This is a sad story in the way that most people actually can understand. It's learning that what you thought could happen, just won’t. That things change, people change, that you can’t make plans and live comfortably in them until you are old and gray. Life gets in the way. And when this happens, it breaks you. I know it did me. Like innocence lost, like no santa at christmas, like Charlie before the glass elevator.
It fucking sucks.
“The complexity embedded in the different levels of meaning that go along with the words "I love you" ought to be a whole mindfuck of a video game”
Exactly Dachel. Naomi and Ely. Naomi thinks that they are meant for eachother. Ely thinks that too. But he knows better. And that realization of ‘knowing’… that’s the ball buster. It breaks everything. Your whole conception of ‘being’ is shifted and now you have to think of life without the other person and you’ve never done that before and that’s scary as fuck.
“Maybe your history just repeats and repeats until it batters you enough to snap the seams that hold you together”
It’s not pretty when the seams rip. It’s goddamn awful. A hurt so deep that the thought of just feeling despair is a mood lifter.
“We always see the worst in our selves. Our most vulnerable selves. We need someone to get close enough to tell us that we're wrong. Someone we trust.”
I want to be worthy of these writers. I know that they aren’t like the Hemingways or the Austins, or the Franzens of the world. Which is awesome actually having just finished reading Zadie Smith and not at ALL having this warm fuzzy that Naomi and Ely provided. It shows me that even if my tastes are thought to be par with Hungry Mans, my feelings are still like gelato in Florence.
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
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
This book is even more poignant the second time around. Much like Sonya Sones, Jerry Spinelli can capture the neurosis and angst of high school and thThis book is even more poignant the second time around. Much like Sonya Sones, Jerry Spinelli can capture the neurosis and angst of high school and the ability to fear and love the strange. Stargirl is most definitely a free spirit that you don't really get to understand until you read Love, Stargirl, but I needed to revisit this first and just as I thought, it hit me just as hard. Sad to say, this brought more memories of my own Hilary Kimble than anything but justified my own uniqueness. ...more
So, I have this Dunkin Donuts receipt that I was using for a place-mark for this book. It’s from March 14th and it’s for 3 iced coffees… and now it’sSo, I have this Dunkin Donuts receipt that I was using for a place-mark for this book. It’s from March 14th and it’s for 3 iced coffees… and now it’s torn and there’s a gaping hole right over the total, it looks like it got wet at some point. There are numbers written all over it, some circled, some underlined, some with exclamation points. There’s something sticky on the edge. I was number 750.
I sort of feel like that right now. It did a really good job holding my spot (twss) and it didn’t complain or get lost or anything. I ran out of space to write on it so I had to switch to a cleaner note pad piece of paper and yet it stuck with me because it knew that I would need it someday.
Let’s start at the first number… 25:
“I reread Stop-Time because Frank Conroy is so eloquent and moving about books and their power at the end of Stone Reader. I don’t reread books very often; I’m too conscious of both my ignorance and my mortality. …But when I tried to recall anything about it other than its excellence, I failed. Maybe there was something about a peculiar stepfather? Or was that This Boy’s Life? And I realized that, as this is true of just about every book I consumed between the ages of say fifteen and forty, I haven’t even read the books I think I’ve read. I can’t tell you how depressing this is. What’s the fucking point?”
Well said, Nick. This is why we are soul mates. You may not know that right now. You may sit in your flat in London listening to music and reading emails and such, drinking tea and watching your children play. Maybe you should close your drapes in case someone is watching? You are oblivious that I am the one for you. I am the Annie Wilkes to your Paul Sheldon. (You dirty dirty bird.)
Nick used to write a column for something called The Believer. It sounds like a magazine or something, I don’t care. He writes about books that he’s purchased and books that he’s read each month. Hmmm… sounds somewhat familiar. (except, like, he gets paid for it) How many reviews have I read over my 3 ½ years here on GR? What did I do before GR? Scan the NYTBR? Not really. Okay, sometimes… but, this--- this beautiful community has expanded my vistas… I have 409 books on my to-read shelf. How awesome is that? I know that GR gets a lot of flack, mainly from within… too many vote whores, too many silly reviews that have nothing to do with the book, too many pictures, too many cliques, yadda yadda yadda… As Steppenwolf once sang “Nothing is like it used to be.” So what? It is what it is (Lifehouse) and I like it. I am guilty of many of the aforementioned grumblings and I don’t care. And I really like that Nick Hornby likes to do it (heh) too. (Oh forgive me Paul for prattling away and making everything all oogy )
I recently wrote a review for Julie Orringer’s How to Breathe Underwater--a collection of short stories. I stammered and driveled throughout it. Nick read it too and this little summary: "Orringer writes about things that everyone writes about--youth, friendship, death, grief, etc.---but her narrative settings are fresh and wonderfully knotty. So, while her themes are as solid and recognizable as oak trees, the stuff growing on the bark you’ve never seen before.” BAM! (God, I love you.)
This, by the way, is the only book he reviews that I’ve read. I’m such a lacking stalker.
Next number: 58 “One of the reasons I wanted to write this column, I think, is that because I assumed that the cultural highlight of my month would arrive in book form, and that’s true, for probably eleven months of the year. Books are, let’s face it, better than everything else. If we played Cultural Fantasy Boxing League, and made books go fifteen rounds in the ring against the best that any other art form had to offer, then book would win pretty much every time. Go on, try it. “The Magic Flute” v. Middlemarch? Middlemarch in six. “ The Last Supper” v. Crime and Punishment? Fyodor on points. See? I mean, I don’t know how scientific this is, but it feels like the novels are walking it.”
(MISERY IS ALIVE!! MISERY IS ALIVE!!! Oh, this whole house is going to be full of romance! Oooooh! I’M GOING TO GO PUT ON MY LIBERACE RECORDS!)
Don’t fight it, Nick. It’s like the fates have spoken, my love.
“I am, I think, a relatively passive reader, when it comes to fiction. If a novelist tells me that something happened, then I tend to believe him, as a rule. In his memoir Experience, Martin Amis recalls his father, Kingley, saying that he found Virginia Woolf’s fictional world “wholly contrived: when reading her he found that he kept interpolating hostile negatives, murmuring ‘Oh no she didn’t’ or Oh no he hadn’t’ or ‘Oh no it wasn’t’ after each and every authorial proposition”; I only do that when I’m reading something laughably bad.”
Ok, there’s a difference between passive and passion. I only passionately throw books against walls and yell at characters who do stupid things. It’s because I CARE. This is why I love this site, because people write with enthusiasm and it’s not all textbooky and crap. This is what I love about this collection. The ranting about football and why finishing David Copperfield left you feeling bereft. There’s always MORE to the story because we are self centered narcissists. And that’s okay.
125 “I don’t have the wall space or the money for all the art I would want, and my house is a shabby mess, ruined by children…But with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not. Maybe that’s not worth the thirty-odd quid I blew on those collections of letters, admittedly, but it’s got to be worth something, right?”
I don’t feel so guilty that I have a whole bookcase of un-read books or that I haven’t read Dickens yet or that I still go to the library every week and I still look forward to sharing my thoughts with this wacky ass community on GR. Wow, this was as rewarding as a shrink session. The weight has been lifted, Nick! Grumblers grumble on. I’ve been vindicated, time to get another iced coffee. ...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