Oh. This was good. This knew right where to burrow its pincers and plant that seedling. If that even works that way.
Ten letter word for incorporeal,...more Oh. This was good. This knew right where to burrow its pincers and plant that seedling. If that even works that way.
Ten letter word for incorporeal, evanescent, imponderable, unsure.
This weed that is growing is deep in my nethers. It hurts. It reminds me that something is missing, something/one that is far away, evasive. That what I consider is true love. True: “You choose your truth and then you build your life around it.”Love: “Greater love has no man than this: to lay down his life for his friends---JOHN 15:13”
This is the true love of friendship. The one that is supposed to be there for you always and forever. Not the gooey lust thing we sometimes mistake for love, but that feeling that no matter what you do, how you do it, if you are banished for doing it, if you become a pariah for doing it, you still have that one person you know has your back. And, they will hold your hair while you puke into a dumpster.. True Love.
Here we have Hannah (“Grace”) and Zoe (“Life”).
Hannah: “You’re a half glass empty kind of girl, aren’t you? No, not really, I just like surprises, so I keep my expectations low.”
Zoe: “We hate labels, but the doctors like to call it a thing that rhymes with hi-molar schmisdorder or zanic oppression. I just think she’s more alive than the rest of us.”
Intangible Things. These are the gifts that Zoe gives Hannah and the belief in the intangible is what she gets in return. Ultimate Trust, even when you have to trust the impossible.
That is the great theme in this book, the intangible.
Zoe’s brother, Noah (“Comfort”): “Zoe’s eight-year old little brother, Noah, has some kind of Aspergery thing. He could read when he was two. He understands Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. He’s read all of Stephen Hawking’s books. He is obsessed with the cosmos and talks about it constantly without ever noticing if you’re listening to him. And yet he cannot process anything at all irrational or intangible. Emotions are elusive to him. Dreaming and imagination, foreign. To help him, and since he loves museums, Zoe created the Museum of Intangible things, for which she creates a new installation in her basement every month. September’s project was “Pride.” In the corner, Zoe created a puffed-out human chest with papier-mache and peach tempers paint. A marionette peacock walked back and forth over a gay pride rainbow, while a video montage streamed footage of a mother watching her son graduate from college, a swimmer winning a gold medal, and an actress receiving an Academy Award. She covered the walls with white paper and asked me to write about when I feel proud."
"Zoe explains that ‘Sloth-Laziness-Depression” will consist of Barbie and Ken in gray felt outfits installed in a shoebox also covered in gray felt. She found an old flowered couch with the foam bulging from the rips of the cushions and on top of it, she flopped her mannequin dressed in a Snuggie. An old TV/VCR will stream infomercials and Zoe will scatter potato chips and empty soda cans around the couch, which will also be sprinkled with cat hair.. For the interactive part of the exhibit, she filled the pockets of an old fishing vest with rocks and will ask Noah to try it on. Behind a screen in the corner of the basement, to distinguish between sloth and sadness-slash-despair, Zoe created a beating heart impaled by a kitchen knife."
"Won’t that scare him? I ask."
“Um. Duh. He doesn’t understand fear.”.
This weed… it needs to be yanked. I need to fill this space with that sort of devotion, give and take. This book reminds me of that. Acceptance...that is intangible as well. (less)
I want to be the filling in a Rachel Cohn/David Levithan sandwich. I want to be BFFx3 with them. I want to swim in their words and dance between their...more I want to be the filling in a Rachel Cohn/David Levithan sandwich. I want to be BFFx3 with them. I want to swim in their words and dance between their snarky sparring. Oh, how I wish.
This is so my kind of book. This is so my kind of thing. I have totally done this. I am this. I use my words (always use your words) because my social skills are so lacking. The written word is my vehicle. I may babble, I may be self-absorbed, I may tangent (I’m using that as a verb, just so you know) but this is the most real me that you will ever see.
My confidence is like the Vegas Strip. It’s all ‘Look here!’ ‘No, look here!’ ‘Hey, buddy! Yo!’ when I write. Here is where I thrive. But… put me in a room with people and I shrivel. I stumble and I make really bad choices. I wish I could just email people or have my own reverse Speak and Spell, custom-made for my brand of communication. We’d have to let it loose to make up words and there would have to be a ‘no grammar bullying’ allowed.
Example: I tried online dating. Yes. I admit that. And my description is rambling and filled with quotes and pop culture references and the book section is like a mile long and any of the takers that could actually get through that and not ‘hey baby’ me and mention something that relates to my essay then I will respond. This is rare. I did, however, get one taker and we had amazing spar sessions, like blow your mind kind of repertoire. Then we met, and I must have somehow related my dufus self because ‘the end’.
There, that was a mighty big confession. I can do this in writing!! I can show you my scars and scrapes and I am okay because I have Lily:
“I don’t really know how to talk to boys. In person. Which is probably why I’ve become dependent on a notebook for creative expression of a potentially romantic nature.”
So, what I’m trying to say is, I get Dash and I get Lily. I love the idea of a treasure hunt in The Strand. I love the Strand. I love the curmudgeony hipster works, I love that I sneeze a lot because of the dusty shelves, I love walking down the stairs into the basement and seeing all the colored spines of the children books.(That's where it was when I lived there... can't say for sure now..) I am so jealous.
“I was spending time in the Strand, that bastion of titillating erudition, not so much a bookstore as the collision of a hundred different bookstores with literary wreckage strewn over eighteen miles of shelves. All the clerks there saunter-slouch around distractedly in their skinny jeans and their thrift-store button downs, like older siblings who will never, ever be bothered to talk to you or care about you or even acknowledge your existence if their friends are around…which they always are.”
Yes. Absolutely yes.
This whole story is filled with quotables. I am super jealous. I wanted to be the one to write these words. I wanted to be the one to say:
“I’ve always resented Hermione, because I wanted to be her so badly and she never seemed to appreciate as much as I thought she should that she got to be her. She got to live at Hogwarts and be friends with Harry and kiss Ron, which was supposed to happen to me.”
I want to cry. These are my people. This is my world. So, why am I here? I’m pathetic. I can’t grow up. I mean, look:
“At the end of the book, when Zooey calls Franny pretending to be their brother Buddy, trying to cheer her up, there’s a line where he talks about Franny going to the phone and becoming ‘younger with each step’ as she walked, because she’s making it to the other side. She’s going to be okay. At least that’s’ what I took it to mean. I want that. The getting younger with each step, because of anticipation, in hope and belief.”
So, here’s where I want to rant and rave. I come from a generation so disillusioned, so snarly, so underwhelmed. So, why do we have such high expectations? That’s what gets us in the end, the being let down. The anti-anticipation. I hate that. Maybe it’s because we crave hope. We have to think that something better has to be out there just to get through the day. We’ve even made happiness science a thing. So sad really.
“The world was too full of wastrels and waifs, sycophants and spies—all of whom put words to the wrong use, who made everything that was said or written suspect.”
“It’s that leap, that understanding, that leads to meaning. And a lot of the time in life, we’re still just sounding things out. We know the sentences and how to say them. We know the ideas and how to present them. We know the prayers and which words to say in what order. But that’s only spelling.”
Seriously… Rachel, David… please let me in.
Do I suggest that you read this? I think that I have a few requests. 1. You can’t have lost all hope 2. Put the cynicism aside, don’t worry, it will be right where you left it. 3. Accept the words. How they are presented to you how they extract, paint, bleed, sound, whatever…because this is a gift.
One last quote:
“We are reading the story of our lives. As though we were in it. As though we had written it.” (less)
This book is so far out of my comfort zone. I mean like it’s the Andromeda to my Milky Way. Granted, in space terms that’s not so far, but it is a mer...moreThis book is so far out of my comfort zone. I mean like it’s the Andromeda to my Milky Way. Granted, in space terms that’s not so far, but it is a mere speck to me. Here is your chance to judge: I don’t read books that deal with or written in areas between Europe and Australia I know, it’s a vast area and there are AMAZING stories out there and I HAVE tried (Cutting for Stone, The Kite Runner, Dance Dance Dance) but on the whole.. I avoid the middle east/Africa/Japan area. Go ahead and judge because when I finally admitted that to myself and to my book clubbers, I totally judged me. Am I some sort of racist? What about this whole scene is it that keeps me away? I have run through it a hundred times. I could give you a hundred reasons, excuses and I’m still not redeemed. It’s my fault, my loss, my burden to carry. It just doesn’t interest me. And that shows me how truly self-centered I am. So, with that, I will tell you what I thought of this book. Continue to judge. I thought Amanda Lindhout was a bratty, self centered, braggy little girl. Granted, she wasn’t born privileged and didn’t do the whole early 20s backpacking the way that hipsters do, but she was still annoying to me. I don’t know how much of the responsibility lies with her co-writer, but reading this story did not give me a sense of whatever it is I should have had a sense of. So, I’m a bitch. I know this because really? Amanda Lindhout went through HELL. Like 9th circle type hell. So, why was I thinking that this was sort of her own fault? (Again, I am an ignorant bitch, I am not arguing with you so please refrain from posting some horrible comment) 1. She is white. 2. She is female. 3. She went to Somalia. WTF? She mentions how many times she was warned not to go there. So many people told her that she was pretty much a beacon for kidnappers, that her head ALONE would be worth a million. She even talked about kidnappings that she had heard about, beheadings that made it on the news. Situations that we over here in privilege land only hear snippets about between Kardashian feuds. Why did she go? Was it really because she wanted to experience the suffering for herself or was it so that she could brag that she went to Somalia and took photos and saw the plight of the country? Because that is what was going through my cynical bitchy head. Did she not see Black Hawk Down? They don’t fuck around down there. I saw her journey there as a reason for profit and it was hard to snap out of that mindset. Then again… There are passages where she herself condemns her self indulgence so that made me warm up a bit to it. God, I seriously sound like the biggest bitch. I am sorry. I just can’t relate to this. A 25 year old white woman freely goes into Somalia? Then, I get even more cynical with the book. She wrote a book about it. She got famous because of this. If you google her name her very pretty face is EVERYWHERE. Again, argue with me that she is just trying to make the story public of how terrifying life in Somalia is and to bring the humane part out. I appreciate that. I do, and starting a foundation that helps educate Somalians is awesome. Until those schoolgirls are kidnapped and sold to prove some fundamentalist idea that women should not be educated. Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t interfere if we can’t make the promises that we can protect them? I really hate myself for writing this. I sound like a horrible person. I AM a horrible person. Of course the humane thing to do is help. We, privileged folk, we try to help all the time and yes, by buying Toms and applauding these courageous people who spend their lives doing this humanitarian work we feel that we are helping… and I don’t know of a solution and would never feign to but I think that sometimes by helping we are hurting these people even more. We are cocky and we are forcing our ways onto them and they are resentful and who wouldn’t blame them? It’s like what we did to Hawaii… what we try to do in Iran, Iraq. Our way is better… but is it? Ok, that rant was off topic. I cannot imagine the hell that Amanda Lindhout went through. Even after reading 400 pages of it. It still doesn’t feel real. I can’t imagine how she sleeps at night. Richard Phillips lives like 2 towns over and I can’t fathom how he can even function. This is some serious serious shit. And Amanda is right to feel for her torturers because what if, what if life had given them a different path. What if they didn’t have to watch their families be murdered or always fear mortar attacks. Would they not have had to resort to extortion? I am glad that she acknowledged this. I hope that she is well and I hope the same for Nigel and for their captors (some of them) and for Somalia, I wish it peace and I feel guilty for everything that I have. I truly do. But words don’t make a difference. Not in this case. (less)
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…...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… 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) (less)
The worst thing in the world would be to pretend t know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.
Le...moreThe worst thing in the world would be to pretend t know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.
Levithan is revisiting A, the character he introduced us to in Every Day. I suppose this is a prequel that needs to be read as a sequel so you understand A, you can see, be, the six different people that A has chosen you to glimpse.
Again, such beauty. One day does not ever seem enough and to stay detached, to try to not disrupt, to always have to be thinking of the person you are squatting in and not yourself... I don't envy A.
"It's the secret smile you get from knowing that, somewhere, there is someone who is yours. Not in the sense that you own her, or control her. She is yours because you can say anything to her."
Too often we realize this too late.
"The desire to be heard is as deepply seeded as the desire to be loved. So much of the technology we spend our time on is geared toward this. For some people, it doesn't matter who's on the other end."
I want to hug David Levithan. I have since I met A, Nick, Nora... and now I want to meet all of his creations. I may even go back and find which Baby Sitter's Club books he wrote.
I'm a geek.. I'm nerd... I have no life.. but if not living means I can throw myself in a Levithan world, then I'm okay with that. I feel lighter after one of his reads.